STAR TREK: DS9 - The Left Hand of Destiny, Book Two Page 9

  Smiling shyly, Alexander shrugged. “There’s [97] 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 [98] 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 [99] 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!”

  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 [100] 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 [101] 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.”

  [102] “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. [103] 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.

  [104] “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.

  [105] 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.

  [107] “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 ...”

  “Communica
tion 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 [108] 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 disrupters!”

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

  But Martok’s order came too late. Morjod had prepared his attack well; disrupters and torpedoes barraged [109] 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!”