The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2 Read online

  “Two hours,” Darok said. The true answer might be much more or much less, but Martok didn’t care. He and the old man had survived enough campaigns by playing the odds that Martok trusted Darok to know when to keep his mouth shut and when to tell an easy lie.

  “Kai, Ngane!” B’Tak bellowed and rushed from the room, the other three captains at his heels. As they receded down the hall, Martok heard him say, “We cannot fail now!” Grinning wolfishly, he saluted to Darok, who nodded wearily.

  “How long really?” Martok inquired.

  “I have no idea, my chancellor. Perhaps in the future you should inform me ahead of time that I will be performing in a play so I will have time to prepare my part better.”

  “You’ve never needed time before, you old fool.”

  “I grow older every day and my mind begins to fail.”

  “Good. You’ll be less trouble that way. Quickly—which of these five ships is the fastest and in best repair?” One of the many reasons he kept Darok as an aide was that he possessed an unrivaled fund of information about the specifications, records, and status of every ship in the fleet.

  “Without question the Rotarran.”

  “Agreed. Worf, she’s yours. I may not completely agree with the wisdom of this mission you’ve proposed, but I trust you to do it quickly and well. Bring Rotarran back to me, brother, for I will have need of her.”

  “Fear not, my chancellor.” And, without another word, he beckoned to Ezri and Alexander, and the three of them left the room.

  “Darok, when we are done here, go to the captain of the Ch’Tang and inform him that I am taking command of her.” Martok caught a glimmer of annoyance in Sirella’s eyes. Clearly, she did not approve of his choice of cruisers, but this wasn’t hers to negotiate. “I know that look, Sirella. Fear not. I’ve had my flag on Ch’Tang before. I know it as well as I know Rotarran.”

  His wife glared, but said nothing.

  “Very good. My lady, you will board the Orantho, and Drex, go to B’Tak on Ya’Vang. Do not interfere with him, my son. He is the best captain in our fleet.”

  “Except for you,” Darok offered sardonically.

  Drex appeared on the verge of agreeing with Darok when Martok cut him off. “And you, my son, are neither my equal, nor B’Tak’s. Conduct yourself accordingly.”

  Offering his father a curt bow, Drex turned away, scowling, and turned to bid his mother farewell. What happened between mother and son was not Martok’s concern, however, so he turned his back, granting them a modicum of privacy.

  Scanning the room, he asked, “Where did Kahless go? He and I have other things to discuss.” Martok very much wanted to understand some of the more obscure points from their discussion. Kahless seemed at once both much more and much less than the man he had known before he became chancellor. He wanted to avoid any unpredictability from the emperor as they headed for what might be his last battle. Suddenly realizing he had forgotten something, he looked to his left and found Pharh standing there staring up at him.

  “What do you want me to do, Martok?”

  Martok considered the question. Unfortunately, there were no neutral worlds or starbases between their present location and Boreth, or he would simply drop the Ferengi off and bid him farewell. Somehow, though, he knew it would not be so simple. While he did not share any of Kahless’s faith in forces that shaped his destiny, he did have the feeling that his fate and Pharh’s were bound, at least for a time. However, Pharh deserved to have a choice in the matter.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “What I want is to go to this little bistro on Ferenginar and have one of the massage therapists stroke my lobes while I watch a show. How does that sound to you?”

  Martok snorted. “I would enjoy that, my friend, but my wife wouldn’t approve.”

  “Yeah, I can tell from the look on her face.”

  “What?” Martok spun around and saw that, indeed, Sirella had not left with the others and, no, she did not approve of the idea of him having his lobes stroked. She had that look on her face, the one that meant it was time to discuss something. “I see,” Martok said. “Join Darok on the Ch’Tang. Have him assign you to quarters and stay there. Circumstances are bad enough without you stirring up the crew.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Pharh said. “I can see I’m going to be spending a lot of time with Klingons for at least a while longer.”

  “If they don’t slit your throat, yes,” Darok said dryly, and gestured for Pharh to follow him.

  Remembering that he wasn’t yet alone, Martok repressed the urge to follow after the Ferengi and the gin’tak as they slipped out of the conference room. He had no desire to wrestle down this last, most precious of foes.

  “We need to talk, my husband.” Her tone did not promise romantic overtures, but Martok had already figured that out from her expression.

  “Sirella,” he replied wearily. “I have survived countless battles, both in space and on alien worlds. I was held prisoner by the Dominion for two years and forced to fight Jem’Hadar in order that they could learn how to kill Klingons. And now I am facing vicious attacks from my mad son and his mad mother. Despite all these things, nothing in the universe inspires as much dread in me as the words ‘We need to talk, my husband.’” Sighing, Martok sat down opposite his wife. “You wield an extraordinary power, my wife. Never abuse it.”

  “I will not, my husband, if you promise to never again abandon your own.”

  Suddenly weary, Martok dropped his head and rubbed his right eye and then the patch of scar tissue where his left once was. “What nonsense do you speak, Sirella?” he asked irritably.

  “I know the truth,” she began icily, “of what happened after Morjod destroyed the Negh’Var. None of them, least of all your brother, speaks of it directly, but it has become clear to me that you abandoned your warriors to come search for me.”

  “Not for you alone. For the children as well,” Martok added. “Do not forget about them.”

  “I never forget about them, husband,” she said, her voice sharp as a needle. “You can be sure of that. I do not forget them because I know that sometimes you must. You are the chancellor and as such your first responsibility is always to the empire. And yet, when the first obstacle appeared, what did you do?”

  “I rescued you,” Martok said, his face a mask of betrayal.

  “You tried to rescue me,” Sirella countered. “You were caught and we were both almost executed. Kahless rescued us both, and even when we both could have left, you still insisted on fighting those creatures and risked yourself foolishly. First you put your family before the empire and then you put your own pride before it.” She slapped the table with the flat of her hand, much as Martok had only a short time earlier. “What is wrong with you?!”

  Feeling his face growing hot and the blood singing in his ears, Martok rose as slowly as he could and stepped away from the table. Breathing heavily, he struggled with himself, fighting down competing urges to drop down before Sirella to beg for forgiveness and to slap her in the mouth. Tiny white flashes sparked before his eyes, only slowly clearing with each deep breath. When he could clearly see her frowning face again, he pointed at the door and growled, “Leave me. Go to your ship. See that it is prepared. Your brother is still the helmsman aboard Orantho?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I am pleased you will have some family with you, seeing the tattered thing that ours has become.” He thought the blow would strike her heart, but Sirella did not flinch.

  As she rose, she said only, “This discussion is not finished, my husband.”

  “Yes it is, Sirella. I am the chancellor and I say it is.”

  This comment seemed to give her some small amount of satisfaction, so Sirella said only, “See that you continue to act like one.” Then, she left, her long cloak swirling imperiously behind her.

  Watching her leave, all Martok could think to say was “That woman …”

  “She is extraordinary, is
n’t she?”

  Caught off guard, Martok spun around to face the speaker, only to see Kahless stepping out of a corner. Flustered, too many questions coming to his lips at once, he asked, “How did I miss…? How dare you…? What did you hear?”

  “Don’t worry about what I heard. I’ve been married, too, you recall. In many ways, your Sirella reminds me of Lukara.”

  “You were never married,” Martok snarled. “Kahless was married. You are a copy of Kahless and you do not have the right to listen in to my private discourse with the lady of my house!”

  Shrugging, Kahless said, “I am the emperor, so I have the right to do as I choose. But do not concern yourself. I am not one to gossip. I stayed only because I require a private conversation.”

  “You require!?” Martok shouted, and, his anger still seething, drew his d’k tahg from his belt and leapt at the emperor, forcing him back against the wall. “You require? What about what I require? What of my wishes? Here I am, supposedly the leader of the greatest empire under the naked stars, and what in my life have I truly ruled? First, my father drove me to seek a commission I never truly desired and then when I got it, Kor tore it from my grasp. I was a plaything of the Dominion for two seeming endless years, but when I returned it was only so that Gowron could take advantage of my loyalty. Then, Worf manipulates me into becoming the damned chancellor only to have my office stolen by a woman I haven’t seen in decades—who forced me to sire a son who now wants to murder me and destroy everything I hold dear.” Gritting his teeth, his face so close that the whiskers on Kahless’s face prickled his skin, Martok snarled, “So, tell me, Emperor. What exactly do you require?”

  To his credit, Kahless did not flinch. Not a muscle in his face twitched and his eyes bore into Martok. He let the silence hang between them for one, two, three seconds, then breathed in once deeply and released it. Martok was surprised by how sweet the emperor’s breath was. “Sometimes, Chancellor,” he said, “we have no control over our lives simply because we have not yet chosen to take it.”

  Fixing his attention on a tiny drop of blood where the point of his blade touched the emperor’s neck, Martok felt the slow fury that had been building up begin to ebb. It was not that Kahless’s words relieved the pressure or even gave him insight into his situation, but the effort of untangling his pseudo-mystical nonsense had finally exhausted him. He no longer had the will to fight, no desires at all. Releasing his grip on the emperor, he said only, “I’m tired….”

  “Of course you are, my friend,” Kahless said, straightening his tunic as if Martok had just helped him recover from an almost nasty fall. “We all are. And you should rest, but while we had a moment’s privacy, I wanted to tell you something that I didn’t think the others needed to hear.”

  Despite himself, Martok felt dully curious. What else could there be? What kind of deviousness yet lurked before him? Morjod’s evil twin? An incurable plague brewed in Gothmara’s labs? A planet-killer weapon? What?

  “In the archives of Boreth, I found information concerning your father that I did not understand, and I wondered if you could help me.”

  “My father?” Martok looked up. He had not expected this.

  Consulting his padd, Kahless said, “There was a document written in an obscure dialect where I found reference to a ‘Katai Urthog.’ That was his name, wasn’t it?”

  Martok nodded.

  “In the context used, ‘Katai’ sounds like an honorific, like ‘Dahar master,’ but none I’ve ever heard before. Do you have any idea what a ‘katai’ might be?”

  “None whatsoever,” said Martok, who realized that Kahless had actually succeeded in discovering something worse than an evil twin, a plague, or a planet killer: he had found a mystery.

  8

  Ezri and Alexander followed Worf down the long, narrow hall that led to the bridge of the Rotarran, but they walked slowly, much too slowly. From Alexander, Worf was used to this sort of behavior. He had been slow since he was a boy. Whenever they had gone on a class trip or a tour, his son had always been the last one in the line, the lingerer, the … What was the word one of his teachers on the Enterprise had used? Ah, yes: the lollygagger. Alexander had always been a lollygagger. Always, always, always there had been something that Alexander would find so interesting that he could not tear himself away, and the group would move along, leaving him behind, bewildered, lost, confused.

  His laggardly ways had been enough to make a father despair.

  And now he had to deal with Ezri too. Worf had explained the plan, told her what they must do, even attempted to impress upon her the need for haste, but still she hesitated. Though he hated to find himself thinking such a thing, there was no escaping the truth of it: Jadzia would never have lingered so long. His wife had understood the necessity for swift, decisive action, but this one, Ezri, she was too much like Alexander.

  “Ezri,” he pleaded. “Pick up the pace, please. Martok needs us back as soon as possible. If battle is joined on Boreth, it may not succeed without the Rotarran.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Ezri responded. “But what makes you think we can accomplish this task in the time we have? For that matter, what makes you think we can finish it before Qo’noS’s orbit decays and the planet tumbles into the sun? Or—”

  “Because I have faith in you,” Worf interjected, though he wondered if she could sense the lack of sincerity in his words. Again, he knew Jadzia would have. “If anyone can do this, you can.”

  “I’m touched,” she said, her tone revealing that in fact she could sense his sincerity.

  “And our succeeding could spell the difference between Martok solidifying his leadership …”

  “… Or not,” she finished for him. “So, no pressure then. Great.” She glanced at Alexander, who was, naturally, bringing up the rear.

  “Kahless thinks this is a good idea. He wouldn’t have sent us if he didn’t.”

  “The emperor did not send us,” Worf said, correcting his son. “This was my idea.”

  “Oh,” Alexander said distractedly. “Well, whatever. It’s still a good idea.”

  Ezri studied the boy carefully. “He made quite an impression on you, didn’t he?” she asked.

  Smiling shyly, Alexander shrugged. “There’s something about him. When I talk to him, I don’t feel stupid or useless.”

  “Do you often feel stupid and useless?” Ezri asked in her counselor’s voice, and Worf felt his eyes rolling up in his head. This was not the time to be having this conversation.

  “A lot of the time,” Alexander replied. “Depends on who I’m talking to. If I’m talking to a Klingon, then the answer is usually yes.” He smiled. “But I know something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This discussion is making my father crazy.”

  “Thank you,” Worf said emphatically. “We must get to the bridge.”

  As they passed a narrow porthole, Ezri paused to watch one of the other cruisers navigate into position behind the Ch’Tang. “It would be nice to have some backup,” she said. “But we’re going to be on our own, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Worf said, trying to hide his exasperation.

  “Should we consider contacting Deep Space 9?” Alexander asked.

  Ezri shook her head. “No, they can’t know what we’re doing. If we told them, they would be obliged to tell the Klingon government.”

  “But Martok is the Klingon chancellor.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. Whoever is in control of Qo’noS—and, by extension, the Defense Force and the client worlds—is the government. Even if the Federation knew the whole story of everything that’s happened, I doubt they would attempt to tell Morjod that he isn’t the legitimate ruler of the empire.”

  “I agree,” Worf said.

  “So then, Father, how will your involvement sit with the Federation? I mean, you’re an ambassador. What you have planned doesn’t feel very ambassadorial.”

  “I am aware of my tenuous
status, my son,” Worf said. “And will deal with the consequences when the time comes. I have sworn oaths both to House Martok and to the Federation and I am attempting to live up to both of them. Where the oaths are in conflict …”

  “… May never really become an issue,” Alexander finished. “I see your point.”

  Ezri looked at the two of them, first son, then father. “Maybe you two should switch jobs,” she said to Worf. “I think he’d make the better ambassador.”

  Worf said, “I suspect you may be correct.” Alexander grinned proudly, so Worf did not try to explain how he did not necessarily consider what he had said to be a compliment. “I must do this,” he continued, “but you do not, Ezri. If you would like to back out, we can put you back in your shuttle.”

  Dax hesitated, but before she could reply, they were walking through the doors to the Rotarran’s bridge. Worf had been up here once already during the gamma shift and hadn’t recognized anyone, but that crew had just gone off duty. Looking around, he now saw several familiar faces and felt himself relax just an iota. He knew these men and women, had served with them during the war, trusted them. If nothing else, he knew they would make it to their destination, because nothing could stand in the way of the Rotarran when this crew flew it.

  Unfortunately, not all of the crew felt the same way about the trio walking onto the bridge. Several lips curled upon sighting Dax and there came muttered curses and Worf heard at least one man utter the Klingon word for “parasite.” This last came from Ortakin, the very same officer who had challenged Jadzia when first she stepped onto the Rotarran’s bridge. Then Worf experienced a strange and unexpected bout of déjà vu as Ezri levered Ortankin out of his seat, threw him over her hip, and leapt onto his chest with both knees, effectively crushing the air out of his lungs.

  When Ortakin’s head cleared, he must have felt the prick of his d’k tahg at his throat, but he didn’t seem to mind. Looking up into Ezri’s eyes, his mouth suddenly split into a delighted grin and he shouted, “Dax!”