The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2 Page 9

  Ezri grinned back, climbed off the man’s chest, then helped him to his feet. By the time they were both standing, the rest of the bridge crew had gathered around the Trill and were patting her on the shoulders and back, many of them telling her tales about their experiences with her former incarnation. Looking down from his perch on the rear deck, Worf could only barely see Ezri’s head among the hulking, shaggy figures clustered around her, but when the crowd momentarily broke apart, he saw her beaming up at him.

  “I guess this means she’ll be coming,” Alexander said from beside his father.

  “Yes,” Worf said. “I believe it does.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after Martok and Kahless had beamed aboard Ch’Tang, the Rotarran went into warp for a destination known to only three of her crew.

  * * *

  After his sonic shower, a change of clothes and a hot meal, Martok felt better than he had at any time since the Negh’Var had returned to Qo’noS—how long ago now? Mere days? Could that be all the time that had passed? It didn’t seem possible that so much could change so quickly.

  His leg still throbbed where the Hur’q had fallen on him and broken it, Klingon bone regenerators not being quite as effective as their Federation counterparts. If he should become the chancellor again, Martok decided, he would address that problem. The Defense Force’s teeth-gritting reliance on antique medical technology was ridiculous.

  Despite his physical condition, now, seated in the captain’s chair on the bridge of the Ch’Tang, he felt more comfortable than he had at any time since the end of the Dominion War. All around him his highly trained, efficient crew murmured and barked at each other, stations all over the ship preparing to get under way. Even K’mtec, the ship’s former captain, had willingly accepted his new role as second-in-command and was currently down in the engine room helping to resolve a problem with the antimatter manifold.

  Darok had assumed his usual position on the bridge near the ops station and had begun hectoring the officer about how they had done things in the old days, his dry, sharp tone a pleasant counterpoint to the low hum of the computer displays. Martok had heard whispered conversations that the emperor—usually trailed by a Ferengi prince (Martok’s mind reeled when he tried to figure out how that rumor got started)—were walking the corridors of the ship offering encouragement and willing hands wherever needed. All in all, the crew was in good spirits. And why not? The prospect of a glorious death in an honorable struggle? It was the fulfillment of every Klingon’s dream, warrior or not—to ascend into legend.

  “A good day to die, indeed,” Martok murmured, and was surprised to find he spoke loud enough for someone to hear.

  “Is it, Chancellor?” Darok asked. “Really? Perhaps I should have gone with the lady.”

  “Perhaps you should have, old man. In the past, I have found that nothing so improves my lady’s opinion of me than to have you before her for comparison.” Several on the bridge laughed at the weak jape, but Martok knew from much previous experience that a crew enjoyed knowing there was at least one person with whom their captain would and could trade barbs. He and Darok had perfected this routine over the course of many campaigns.

  The problem was—the problem had always been—that there was always someone who didn’t understand that the routine was a two-man show. Someone always wanted to get into the act. The weapons officer, a young warrior named Kurs, made the mistake of saying, “If you think the lady will be lonely, maybe I should beam over to the Orantho.” His good-humored grin fell as soon as he saw both Darok and Martok turn their frowning faces toward him.

  Martok started to rise from his chair, but Darok waved him back. “I will handle this, Chancellor.” And he did, too. Most efficiently.

  When Kurs regained consciousness and staggered to the turbolift clutching his broken jaw, Darok chided him, not unkindly, “Think twice before you say the lady’s name again, boy. The next time it might be she that hears you and she is nowhere near as merciful.” This time, no one laughed, but an important lesson had been learned.

  Flexing the fingers of his right hand, Darok moved to the side of Martok’s chair and remarked casually, “It is always a good thing to learn where the limits are.”

  “Yes,” Martok agreed. “And you are a fine teacher. I never truly understood how fond you are of my wife.”

  “She is a remarkable woman, Chancellor. In recent days, I have found that she makes me think of my mother….”

  “Really? I have heard you speak of your mother on more than one occasion, Darok, and I cannot remember it ever being complimentary.”

  “I did not say she reminded me of my mother. The Lady Sirella makes me aware of just how deficient my mother was …”

  “Ah.”

  “… And in so many areas …”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I ever tell you about the time my mother chased me across the graq fields in an antigrav skimmer…?”

  “Yes, I believe you have.”

  “Shooting at me with the stun gun she always wore to catch vermin…?”

  “Yes.”

  Mercifully, Darok abandoned the tale, and turned to watch the men and women around him completing their final checks. Then, bending down so that only Martok could hear him, he asked casually, “Did you two part amicably?”

  “Such things aren’t your concern, Darok.”

  “Naturally, Chancellor.” He flexed his fingers again, then studied the glove leather at the spot where he had struck Kurs. “Still, he continued, “there are times I wished I talked to my mother one last time before she went off to fight the Romulans.”

  “Truly?” Martok said politely.

  “Unresolved business, you know? Words left unsaid. It’s always a sad thing when a warrior goes off to battle with unfinished business back home. Things left undone …”

  “Trouble me no more, old man.”

  “Yes, Chancellor.” He rubbed a knuckle. “I believe I may have broken something,” he said. “Old, fragile bones, you know?”

  Martok inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. “Go to sickbay, Darok.”

  “I believe I will. Is there anything you need to do before we get under way?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Martok said. But before Darok was aboard the turbolift, Martok said, loud enough for the gin’tak to hear, “Hail the Orantho. Patch the signal into the captain’s strategy room.” Glancing over his shoulder at the closing doors, he saw a brief glimmer of bared teeth.

  As he strode into the strategy room, the main monitor’s speaker crackled to life, though there was no picture. Good. The comm officers were observing his orders to minimize wideband transmission, instead restricting themselves to the more easily disguised and encoded narrow-beam audio-only channels. “This is Orantho,” came a voice from the speaker. “What are your orders, Chancellor?”

  “I wish to speak to the lady Sirella. Monitor on.”

  “Yes, Chancellor. One moment.”

  Several seconds passed, and then the monitor flickered to life. Sirella looked down her well-tapered nose at him, proud and imperious. “What do you want, husband? You declared our discussion finished.” She seemed steeled for a continuation of their earlier argument, but Martok’s desire for combat had passed.

  “Perhaps I was mistaken about that,” Martok said. “Or perhaps I only wanted to see my wife’s face again before I went into battle, and am willing to give up a little pride in order to make sure that happens.”

  Sirella’s left eyebrow arched in suspicion, but when she did not detect any change in Martok’s expression her features gradually softened. “I would be careful about how much pride I gave up, Martok,” she said, her tone more playful. “We have precious little left to burn between us.”

  Martok grinned. “Were you here on my ship, Sirella, you would know what else still burns between us.”

  The corner of her mouth quirked up as if tugged by an invisible string. “You are a ridiculous old man who should have other
things on his mind. You have an empire to win back.”

  “My wife, I have not forgotten this, nor will I ever, because the reason I must win the empire is to offer it to you as ransom for my heart, which is now and forever in your keeping.”

  An icon appeared in the corner of their screens, a signal sent by the tactical officers that a ship or ships were approaching. Both Sirella and Martok knew from its color and configuration that they had a few more minutes, but only that—a few. “Fight well, my wife. I will see you again on Boreth.”

  “Or in the halls of Sto-Vo-Kor, my husband.” She saluted him. “Qapla’, Martok, chancellor of the Klingon Empire.”

  Martok returned the salute. “Qapla’, Lady Sirella, ruler of the House of Martok.” For the space of a heartbeat, their gazes tangled, until Sirella cut the connection, leaving the chancellor of the empire to stare at a blank screen, lost in thought, for he knew not how long.

  Returning to the captain’s chair on the bridge, Martok felt, paradoxically, that he’d been freed of some burdens only to take on others. Perhaps they had settled something just then, he and his marvelous, frustrating, astonishing, and endlessly annoying wife. And perhaps they had not. It was always thus with them: whenever they had passed through and closed a door, they found themselves standing in a room with three more doors open before them. Whether Sirella shared his perception of their life journey would likely remain a mystery. Should he explain his thoughts to her, he expected she would categorically deny having any idea of what he was talking about and accuse him of speaking foolishness.

  Smiling to himself, Martok shook his great head, laughing aloud. The bridge crew looked at him, he was sure, but no one offered any comment. Darok, back from sickbay with a bandage ostentatiously wrapped around his hand, would not meet his eyes, but smiled unrepentantly as if at some private joke.

  9

  “Signal resolving,” the tactical officer announced. “It is General Ngane’s flagship.”

  “How many ships are with him?” Martok asked.

  The tactical officer read from his monitor. “Only two—small attack ships.”

  Martok grunted noncommittally. He had hoped for better. Ngane’s flagship, the Chak’ta, usually patrolled with a full complement of four light cruisers, four attack craft, two supply ships, and a ground-assault carrier. Obviously, some of his captains had defected to Morjod or possibly—even more worrisome thought here—been destroyed in a battle. The chancellor was counting on Ngane’s ships to be up to full strength. If they were not, he would have to amend the plan he had been formulating. While Boreth was not a military target, Gothmara would not leave it undefended, and Martok had to have resources available to hold the sacred planet after they claimed it.

  One damned thing at a time, he decided.

  “Hail the Chak’ta,” Martok ordered. “Extend my compliments, then transmit coordinates for the rendezvous point.”

  “Sending,” the com officer replied.

  Tactical called, “General, they are not reducing speed.”

  “Are they being pursued?”

  “Scanning.” Pause. “Nothing sensors can detect.”

  “Scan for cloaked ships.”

  “I have, General. Nothing.”

  “Distance?” Something was wrong. Ngane should have braked and gone to one-quarter impulse. It was standard procedure unless he was experiencing some kind of emergency.

  “One-point-five light-years; one-point-two …”

  “Estimated time of arrival.”

  “Fifty-five seconds.”

  Behind him, Darok cursed. That was never a good sign.

  “Shields up,” Martok ordered. “Send warning to Orantho, Ya’Vang, and B’Moth.” Glancing back at his aide, he muttered, “Your mother would be grossly offended by that word.”

  “My mother,” Darok countered, “would be firing all disruptors at this point.”

  Around them, the bridge crew mobilized. “Shields are up and at full power.”

  “Disruptors—hot. Torpedoes—loaded and armed,” the weapons officer shouted.

  “Sensors recalibrated for close …”

  “Communication from the Chak’ta.”

  Martok frowned. “On screen.”

  Though it troubled him to admit it even to himself, Martok had prepared for the possibility that Ngane might betray him. The reality that Morjod could manipulate or blackmail even his closest companions, whether by trickery or force, was all too apparent. Martok understood weakness. He understood how schemers like Gothmara could find the chink in anyone’s armor. Clutching his armrests, he steeled himself for the worst.

  Ngane’s dismembered head loomed before them. His eyes were open, rolled up into his head, and his face was sunken and shrunk down over his bones. No one could say how long he had been dead, though it had not happened recently, because they could see a dry crust of blood on the ragged fringe of his beard.

  Strong fingers were tangled in Ngane’s hair and made the head bobble back and forth in a grotesque dance when the holder tightened and loosened his grip. Several of the bridge crew cried out for vengeance, but Martok quieted them all with a shout of “Silence!”

  The head was withdrawn and another face replaced it. Morjod smiled and said, “Greetings, Father. Looking for your old friend Ngane? Like so many of your old friends seem to these days, he ran into a problem.”

  “You have no honor, Morjod,” Martok said quietly. “And after today, you will have no life.”

  “I think not, old man.” Morjod signaled to someone offscreen. “Good-bye.”

  The tactical officer almost leaped out of his chair. “Two light cruisers have decloaked off our stern and two Birds-of-Prey off the bow! All are charging disruptors!”

  Dammit! Martok slammed the arm of his captain’s chair. Have I grown feeble?! The oldest trick in the book! “Fire all disruptors at the Chak’ta!”

  But Martok’s order came too late. Morjod had prepared his attack well; disruptors and torpedoes barraged the Ch’Tang from four directions, almost tearing the ship apart. Bridge power was lost for several seconds and Martok felt the sickening lurch of the artificial gravity fluctuate beneath his feet.

  “All power to the engines!” Martok shouted. “Get us out of here!”

  No one responded to his command; he heard instead an agonized shout, then a sharp scream as the navigator’s panel exploded into metal and plastic shards. Martok ducked as soon as he saw the blue-white light, and felt something graze his temple.

  “Engineer—reroute the conn to me!” It was a long shot; he could run most of the bridge functions from the controls in his chair, but Martok could smell the fried insulation of overloaded power couplings and the sharp metal tang of coolant leaks. Morjod’s first attack had been superbly aimed. He knew precisely where to hit a cruiser like the Ch’Tang to destroy bridge functions.

  Someone scrambled up off the deck behind Martok and clawed his way to the engineer’s panel. A combination of familiar curse words and general verbal abuse indicated that Darok was still among the living. “Navigation routed to your chair,” he shouted. “Impulse only! Warp core is offline for … three minutes!”

  Three minutes? Martok brought up the nav system. It might as well be three months! There was no way the ship could survive another fusillade, let alone the four or five Morjod could offer up in three minutes. “Tactical! Where’s the Chak’ta?!”

  “Scanners are offline, Captain!”

  Emergency lights flickered on, died, then came back on again. The gravity sputtered once more, but then Martok felt himself drawn down firmly into his chair.

  “Visual?”

  Darok remained silent for several seconds while Martok listened to the ship groan and strain around him. A quick check of the damage-control systems told him everything he needed to know. Ch’Tang was dying. It was only a matter of whether she would hold together long enough for Martok to take some measure of revenge.

  Then the main monitor flickered to life, cast
ing enough light to enable the captain to see what was left of the bridge and her crew. The conn and navigation stations were destroyed, their officers cut into ribbons when the panels exploded. The injured communication officer, her face smudged with blood oozing from a gash on her forehead, was gamely trying to raise any of the three other ships. Everyone else save Darok was either dead or so badly injured that manning a station was impossible.

  It doesn’t matter, Martok thought. I only need to know which way to point her. “A picture, Darok,” he shouted. “Static does me no good.”

  “Look now,” Darok bellowed, his voice growing hoarse from the smoke. “Dead ahead!”

  The picture wavered, the static shuffled from side to side, then finally cleared until Martok saw her: the Chak’ta, her fore guns glowing brightly, prepared to release another volley. Two light cruisers flanked her just beneath her bow. It would be difficult, but Martok thought he could thread the needle, make it past the light cruisers and into the Chak’ta’s bow before the guns tore him apart.

  Martok fed the coordinates into the system, feeling a sense of nIb’poH as the collision course was locked. Unfortunately, he thought, Worf isn’t here to beam us all down to Ketha this time. His finger hovered over the Engage button as he looked around the bridge one last time. Allowing himself one luxury, he glanced back at Darok, who was busy trying to find power somewhere in the great shivering hulk the Ch’Tang had become. “Get ready, old man,” he shouted. “We’re going to go see your mother!”

  Darok gestured toward the viewer. “You first,” he said.

  Laughing, Martok leaned forward, his back and neck straining as if the ship needed his muscles to fly. He was ready, he decided sadly, ready to die in a bright white flash, the kind he had so often seen on the edge of a blade.

  Over the comm, a familiar voice shouted, “Long live the Klingon Empire!” A fierce joy rose in Martok’s heart … and then crashed and burned.

  On the monitor, a ship surged into view, cutting a diagonal path across the course Martok had plotted, impulse engines blasting at full power, disruptors blazing, and torpedoes flying in every direction, and with a certainty, Martok knew whose voice had been shouting a benediction to the empire.