The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 1 Page 3

  Worf pulled a padd from the inner pocket of his ambassadorial attire and glanced at a display. “Yes,” he said, tapping the surface with a finger. “I have those listed here. …”

  Martok grinned despite himself. All right, he thought. Stuffy, but not humorless. Then he wondered: Unless that wasn’t meant to be funny. There was always the chance that it wasn’t. … He sat up straighter and tried to pay attention.

  “But there are other items that will also require your attention,” Worf continued.

  Martok sighed and began looking around for his boots. “For example?”

  “The emperor has contacted me and left word that he would like to meet with the two of us privately as soon as the opportunity arises.”

  “‘Contacted me’? ‘Left word’? ‘As soon as the opportunity arises’?” Martok shook his head in wonder. “This is hardly the tone I would expect from an emperor.” The distance on his life journey from Ketha to the First City could be measured in more ways than kellicams.

  “The emperor could command you,” Worf explained, not without a touch of impatience. He knew that Martok already understood all of this. “But I believe he is simply acknowledging the fact that you are the political leader of the Klingon Empire. Kahless has always made it clear that he did not wish for that kind of power, but chooses to influence our people through spiritual and cultural means.”

  “The emperor knows best,” Martok muttered, lifting his left boot. “We didn’t want to risk putting him on the front lines of some great battle or show him actually doing something of value for his people.”

  Worf’s eyes narrowed. “The emperor has great wisdom with which to help our people. …”

  “Kahless had great wisdom,” Martok said. “His clone—well, what proof have we that we have benefited from his wisdom in any way?”

  “There is no doubt in my mind that though he may be the original, his is the true spirit. …”

  Martok held his hand up for silence, then lowered it slowly to indicate he regretted what he had said. “I spoke out of turn, Worf. I do not dispute the emperor’s course. His choice to serve our people as an example of a different era … it was a wise compromise. Sometimes, however, I feel there have been too many compromises, too much politics.”

  “And I have been thinking,” Worf said, “that there has been too much war. Even for us.”

  “My brother,” he said, grinning, “you speak much too plainly to be an ambassador. If you’re not careful, someone might take offense and try to assassinate you.”

  Worf smiled one of his too-rare smiles and replied, “Anyone who does not like my plain speech is welcome to try.”

  Sliding his foot into his left boot and stamping it against the deck, Martok felt a tug on his memory. What was it, this half-remembered dream? “Worf, before we reach Qo’noS, there is something I need to know, something that I still do not completely understand.”

  Sensing the change in Martok’s tone, Worf lowered his padd. “You have only to ask. I owe you … everything. If you hadn’t stood with me at the Dominion internment camp, or, later, taken me into your House …”

  “Enough, Worf. Every damned time I try to ask you a question, you have to bring that up. I weary of your gratitude. I did what I did because you are an honorable man with the heart of a hero. But if you say anything about it again, I will have to cut your throat.”

  Worf grunted. It was as much as Martok could expect.

  “My question …” he began, then hesitated. “Gowron. The day you challenged him …”

  “I remember it.”

  “I need to know …” Martok snarled, hating himself for needing to know, for asking the question: “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you challenge him?”

  He listened to Worf’s reaction to the question—a heavy sigh—and had to fight hard not to echo it. These were deep and mysterious waters and Martok had a general’s hatred for asking questions that might expose his ignorance. Above all else, a military leader succeeded best when his soldiers had the illusion that he knew the answers to all questions. He only ever asked, the myth went, because he needed to make sure the soldiers knew the answers, too.

  But Worf wasn’t a soldier anymore, or even, strictly speaking, a subject of the empire. Worf was his brother; if Martok could not trust him, he couldn’t trust anyone.

  “It was Dax,” Worf muttered.

  Martok was surprised. “Dax? Which one?”

  “Ezri.”

  “Ezri Dax told you to challenge Gowron?” This came as a surprise. Of the two Dax incarnations Martok had known, Ezri had seemed the most peaceable, the more levelheaded. The least Klingon.

  “No,” Worf said, almost shouting. “She said nothing of the kind. She observed …” He clearly chose his words carefully. “… that the empire had come to accept a state of affairs that we would once have found dishonorable. Gowron was a political creature and, somehow, the Klingons were also …”

  “… Becoming political.”

  “Yes. Politics had become more important than serving the people. Politics was an end unto itself.”

  “And you were the only one who could stop it.”

  Worf snorted. “No. Not that. But perhaps it was possible because of my—unique—situation that I was able to accept this truth before others might have. You, my brother, would have seen it yourself, sooner or later. …”

  “But it might have been too late by then. Gowron might have already done too much damage.”

  “Possibly,” Worf agreed. “Yes, that may be true. Do you understand now? I meant no disrespect to you or anyone on the council.”

  “None was assumed,” Martok said. “We owe you a debt, the entire Klingon people. Possibly more than we could ever repay. Or acknowledge. That is the greatest problem, I think. Too much pride, you know? To admit such a thing.”

  An embarrassed silence hung between them. They had just spoken of things that very few brothers could easily say to each other. Finally, Worf said, “I suspect that these things may be what the emperor wishes to discuss with us. He is a man of vision.”

  “So they say, Worf. So they say.” Martok massaged the sole of his right foot, trying to loosen a cramp. “I have to confess I’m not sure what I should say to him. It’s times like this that I wish my father were still alive. He would have had some kind of good advice.”

  “He was an eloquent man?”

  Martok laughed. “Urthog? Eloquent? Hardly. He rarely said more than five words from sunrise to sunset, but when he did deign to speak, they were … they were the right words.”

  “Some might say that is the definition of ‘eloquent.’”

  Martok stomped his right foot down into his boot, then looked up at Worf and grinned. “I think,” he said, “you spent too much time around the silver-tongued Picard. You’ve already become too subtle for me.”

  “Don’t be insulting,” Worf growled, but he said it with a smile in his eyes. “Or I may have to challenge another chancellor.”

  Martok laughed, feeling almost awake for the first time that day. He put on his armor, then reached for the massive chancellor’s robe. Donning it, feeling the weight of it settle on his shoulders, he said, “You are welcome to try, my brother. You are welcome to try.” Strapping on his weapons belt, he asked, “What’s first on your list?”

  Worf slipped the padd back into his robe’s inner pocket. “A reception,” he said. “Of sorts.”

  * * *

  Stepping off the lift, Martok judged that the entire off-duty crew of the Negh’Var had assembled in the main mess hall, and judging by the sounds and smells, they had started quite a while ago, too. The decks and the bulkheads reverberated to the beat of battle songs. The mingled aromas of stews, blood pie, and gagh were so dense that Martok felt he was getting a nourishing meal simply by inhaling.

  “I am not in a mood for celebration,” Martok shouted into Worf’s ear. They could not communicate in any other way despite the
fact that the doors to the mess hall were not open.

  “The crew wished to surprise you,” Worf replied, a diplomatic way of saying, This has nothing to do with what you are in the mood for. …

  “Surprise me?” Martok asked. “How could they surprise me … ?” But the rest of the question was lost in the tumult of roars and shouting that threatened to burst the seams of the Negh’Var’s hull plating when the mess-hall doors slid open. The ship’s great bones then trembled as the crew chanted, “MARTOK! HAIL, MARTOK! KAI THE CHANCELLOR!”

  Someone thrust an overflowing flagon of ale into Martok’s hand. Smiling, he raised the flagon and shouted in reply, “Long life to the Negh’Var! Death to her foes!” The crew roared its approval, so Martok raised the flagon to his lips, drank it to the dregs, then threw it with all his strength against the far bulkhead, where it shattered.

  A young weapons officer stumbled forward and made a slurring introduction. “Chancellor! I am K’rac. I served aboard the Orantho during your raid on Trelka V. I have prepared this may’bom in your …” Gods of my father, Martok thought. Not an original song! I may have to cut out the boy’s tongue! Apparently, Urthog’s gods were listening, because a mountain in the rough shape of a squadron leader stepped up and punched K’rac in the throat. The younger officer dropped to the deck and began to make strangling noises that might have been a description of Martok’s victory. The mob cheered its satisfaction and the older officer began a song, but the words dissipated as the crowd swallowed him up.

  Perhaps this “reception” wasn’t such a bad idea after all, Martok decided. Just as long as we don’t stumble up the steps to the Great Hall.

  Martok found that he was holding another flagon in his hand, so he drank off the head, grateful that here, at least, aboard this too-big ship of Gowron’s, he could trust that his food and beverages wouldn’t have to be scanned for exotic toxins. The air throbbed as a tableful of grinning marines began to pound on the table and chant one of the old songs of Reclaw and his victory over the Twelve Sons of Ch’Tan. The beat took hold and soon the whole crew stomped on the floor, banged flagons on the table, or crashed their heads together in time. Martok lifted his head, opened his mouth, and roared along with them, the words tumbling forth:

  SuvwI’ ’a’ ghaH ReQlaw ’e’

  (For Reclaw was a mighty warrior,)

  qu’ qabDaj; jev ’e’rur

  (Terrible as thunder,)

  nom vIHchu’j Hov tIH rur

  (Swift as starlight,)

  jupDajvaD yoHbej ghaH

  (Stalwart to his friends)

  jaghDajvaD Heghna’ ghaH

  (And DEATH to his enemies …)

  And as they boomed through the long epic, some of them—only one or two at first, but more as the idea took hold—inserted Martok’s name in the place of Reclaw’s, so that by the end of the tale it was Martok who approached the City of the Dead and challenged the Twelfth Brother, the Lord of the Dead. At first it made the general uneasy to find himself cast in such a role, but soon he joined his voice with the crew’s, swept up in the play of imagery, the rhythm of the song, until all their hearts beat in time and the crew bellowed their victory to the starless heavens of Death’s Domain.

  All in all, it was a good beginning to a good party.

  The general ate. The general drank. The general talked and sang and toasted his crew.

  Sometime later, Martok found himself standing (a little unsteadily, truth be told) on the bridge of the Negh’Var before the main viewscreen, waiting for the comm officer to clarify the image. His lower back and his right arm ached because of an arm-wrestling match he had won (though he suspected the soldier could have beaten him if he’d been less intoxicated), but, all in all, he felt better than he had in days.

  Great Qo’noS, jewel of the empire, shimmered into view before him. Brown and green, banded with swaths of gray and white, it glowed with a fire that only Martok could see. Sirella is down there, he thought. She pulled him toward her like a great star drawing in a comet. And later, tonight, he would crash down into her, burn up in her heat. … The thought made him giddy. Couplets of poems, paeans to her loveliness, coursed through him, but then he remembered where he was and tried to focus on what was before him.

  * * *

  Worf felt inordinately pleased with his machinations. Against all expectation, Martok had been enjoying himself. It had been too many long days since he had seen Martok smile.

  There had been that day at the celebration on DS9, but that was the last time Worf could remember. Since then, the chancellor had sunk into quiet isolation, weighed down by some secret care. He doesn’t feel like he’s ready, Worf had decided, and saw, in truth, that no true warrior could adequately prepare himself for the battlefield they were about to enter. Worf knew that from the minute they entered the Great Hall, they must be prepared for the fact that behind every smile there were clenched teeth. Behind every word of praise, the promise of treachery. The chancellor knew this, too, but Worf knew such dangers weren’t the source of his anxiety.

  If Deanna were here, she would have no doubt counseled something about Martok’s “processing a transition.” Ezri would have probably echoed the thought, though with her greater understanding of Klingons, she would have phrased it more plainly. “Try to get him to relax,” she would have said. Jadzia would have said, “Take him to a party; get him drunk.” With any other Klingon, she would have added, “Find him a lover,” but Jadzia had known the formidable configuration of womanhood who was Martok’s wife, and understood that after Sirella, there could be no one else.

  To his great surprise, the plan had worked. Ten minutes into the party, Martok had grinned indulgently; ten minutes more and he had laughed at one of K’Tar’s jokes; twenty minutes later, after the first round of songs had ended, Martok had won an arm-wrestling match with his security chief by smashing his forehead into the other man’s nose. After that, Worf had almost relaxed, and the rest of the evening had slipped away until they had received a call from the bridge informing the chancellor that they were about to drop out of warp in preparation for entering the Klingon home system. Would the chancellor like to come to the bridge to greet the council?

  With great enthusiasm, the chancellor had said that he would be pleased to do so and decided to bring along as many of his fellow old campaigners as could comfortably fit on the Negh’Var’s bridge without getting in the crew’s way. A quick glance at the chronometer showed that it was midmorning in the First City. On a normal day, the streets would be crowded with petitioners and tourists and the halls of the government temples would ring with the voices of council members debating policy. Ancient tradition dictated that ambassadorial residences and commerce buildings be built outside the first ring of government buildings, but traders and ambassadors from every system would normally be flitting from temple to temple. Not today, however. Today, only Klingons would be permitted inside the First City, and then only if they had some direct business with the council. Today had one purpose: to honor a hero and to welcome him home as chancellor.

  Even as they entered orbit, outside the Great Hall of Warriors, the councillors would be blustering and arguing about status, arranging themselves rank upon rank for the moment when Martok appeared. If the information Worf had gathered from the Klingon comnet and an ever-growing army of informants was correct, then half the council, mostly the professional politicians from the middle tier of Klingon society, were less than thrilled about Martok’s ascension to power, but were taking a wait-and-see attitude. So popular was he with both the military and lower classes, no politician dared to risk alienating himself from Martok.

  Another slice of the political spectrum, a group whom the commentators had dubbed “the New Councillors,” rose to power when openings appeared owing to deaths in combat. Worf had been pleased to learn that more than one politician had resigned his position and taken up his bat’leth when the Dominion War began. Unfortunately, he knew very little about those who had taken the
dead men’s places on the council. Most were unknown quantities, but from what he had learned they were evenly split for and against Martok. Many had decided to model their own careers on the general’s: Poor Boy Of Common Lineage Makes Good. The other half feared that the new chancellor might shake up the status quo even as they became members of the privileged caste.

  Most of Worf’s informants agreed that the general’s chief danger lay in the threat from the oldest and wealthiest families, those who had felt the greatest threat to their status, though few of these openly opposed him. They would play along, allowing Martok to be a hero until the next hero emerged. And last, Worf knew, they would have to contend with the Klingon people’s peculiar prejudice that made them believe that a warrior’s ability to lead in battle translated into an ability to manage an empire.

  It pained him to admit it, but Gowron, who had been only an adequate warrior, had not been a bad leader at first. It was only when Martok, a man of clearly superior ability, had appeared that Gowron’s personal ambitions drove him to make more and more missteps until, finally, Worf had felt compelled to challenge him. On that day, Worf believed, he had been granted one of the few moments of yajchu’ghach, “clear vision,” that he would ever enjoy: he had seen the folly of his taking on the mantle of chancellor, and, instead, had thrust it on his brother, Martok.

  The chancellor spoke, more softly than Worf might have expected. “Captain K’Tar, announce our presence.”

  “Operations,” K’Tar ordered, “drop cloak. Weapons officer, drop shields. Communications, hail the High Council and announce our arrival.”

  Out of habit, Worf found himself standing next to the weapons officer’s station. From the corner of his eye, he saw that one of the scanners appeared to be miscalibrated, and he was going to chastise the weapons officer for his negligence when he saw an energy spike on the sensor display. Taking a step toward the display, he intended to find the meaning of the reading, but shouts and gasps of surprise distracted him. Worf looked up in time to see the birth of a brilliant white star over the First City, unaccountably beautiful and all the more lovely for its eeriness.