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

by J. G. Hertzler

  “No. Not really.” His voice sounded oddly petulant.

  “Then it will have to wait.”

  Morjod said, “All right. It can wait. Qapla’, Mother.”

  “Qapla’, my son.”

  17

  She doesn’t want to know, Morjod thought. Fine. She doesn’t need to know. There are things she doesn’t tell me, so now there’s something I won’t tell her. I will make it mine—only mine—and then we’ll see who will issue the orders.

  A sixth head had joined the five under the main monitor, one belonging to a navigator who had displeased the emperor. Morjod had removed the offending cranium with a single blow, a swipe so graceful that though many of the bridge crew had been surprised by its sudden, savage fury, many had also been impressed. Certainly they had all treated their emperor with even greater respect, even awe, since the headless body had slumped over his console. Sadly, she had been the best navigator aboard, and the second-best navigator—a distant second best—was struggling to maintain their course, though Morjod had been having difficulty understanding precisely why. How hard could it be to [247] follow a ship whose warp signature you had recorded in your sensor logs?

  “Time to planet?” Morjod asked.

  “Six point, uh, seven minutes, my emperor,” the first officer responded, his tone a little too hesitant for Morjod’s taste. He liked his bridge officers to sound more assertive.

  “Weapons officer—distance to Rotarran?”

  “Ten thousand kellicams, my emperor!”

  That was a little more like it. Enthusiasm would be a key virtue in the new Defense Force he would build when he had solidified his hold on the empire. Morjod rubbed his chin and looked around the bridge from his seat. He could not see everyone at once, which simultaneously made him anxious and also reminded him of old recordings he had seen of Klingon ships. In those images, the captain’s chair had sat on a high platform—like a pedestal for a throne or a base for a piece of statuary. The idea appealed to him, and not only for his own sake but because it would benefit every captain in his fleet. “A captain should be like a god to his crew,” he said aloud. “He should always know precisely what they are doing.”

  Sensing the crew’s attempts to avoid nervously glancing at each other, Morjod smiled. He enjoyed their discomfort, reveled in his elemental unpredictability. Not only a god, he decided silently, but a storm god.

  “Weapons officer,” Morjod said. “Disable Rotarran, but do not destroy it. Understand?”

  “Yes, my emperor!”

  “Do you know what will happen if you do not?”

  The weapons officer glanced at the main monitor, or rather, at the spot below it. “Yes, my emperor!”

  [248] “Excellent. Fire at will.”

  The weapons officer saluted crisply. “By your command, my emperor.”

  Morjod settled back in his chair, crossed his legs, and laid the blade of his bat’leth across his legs. Though he had told no one about it, he had become attached to this weapon, the one he had taken from Martok when his mother had captured him beneath the emperor’s—that is, Morjod’s—palace. The blade was heavy and cumbersome and not at all the sort of weapon an emperor should carry, which, in Morjod’s mind, made it all the more desirable. Carrying it, he thought, made him eccentric. All the great emperors of the past had possessed some peculiar characteristic for which they were remembered. Someday, someone would ask Morjod why he used such a haggard, misbegotten old bat’leth and that would give him the opportunity to explain how he had come by it—taking it from his father while he had been trying to rescue his wife.

  “And why do you carry this rather than the splendid Sword of Kahless?” that person would ask.

  Modestly, Morjod would say something like, “Kahless’s sword is for state occasions.” Then he would pat the old piece of steel and say offhand, “It isn’t the blade that makes the warrior, but the warrior who makes the blade.” Everyone would nod approvingly, especially the grizzled old veterans. Someone would write down what Morjod said and repeat it later.

  And if no one did write it down, Morjod would kill the entire audience and bring in a fresh one. Eventually, someone would get it right.

  Studying his reflection in the polished blade, Morjod noticed a tiny nock in the edge, a subtle imperfection. [249] Probably the edge had been chipped on the collar of someone’s uniform. Maybe I’ll throw this thing away after all, he decided. Tiny flaws were, in their way, the worst kind of all.

  Distantly, he half heard the weapons officer say, “A hit, my emperor. On the port nacelle. They’re going in.”

  Martok enjoyed himself tremendously. He was not the chancellor now, not the general, and certainly not the glorious leader the katai had envisioned, but only Martok the soldier.

  Sithala, as commanded, had dragged the disrupter cannon from the cave (with a little help from Martok and a very little help from Pharh), and he had destroyed several other emplacements before Gothmara’s gunners had determined his position. Moving to a second gun farther down the row had been a simple feat, though the Hur’q in this cave had been a slightly greater challenge. Still, either Martok’s abilities as a warrior had increased geometrically since he had left Qo’noS or, more likely, Hur’q did not adapt well to subzero temperatures.

  After believing that he had laid a creature out with a pair of well-placed blows, Martok had turned to the gunner and his companion, only to be surprised by a smashing blow to the back of the head. Tumbling forward, Martok heard the monster bellow, no doubt winding up for a second attack, when a disrupter spat fire and the beast disintegrated before Martok’s eyes. The two Klingons had stared wide-eyed at the warrior standing in the cave mouth, too surprised to either attack or even speak.

  Pharh gesticulated wildly with his weapon and screeched, “You two! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

  [250] This would have been an impressive pronouncement if either of the pair had been holding weapons. Since they were not, Martok simply clubbed them with the blunt end of his bat’leth and ordered the quaking Ferengi to quickly bind them before they awoke. Quivering with hormone-provoked energy, Pharh sped to his task while Martok hitched the second gun to Sithala and repeated the process of setting up outside. This time, surprisingly, Pharh did not need to be ordered to bring ammunition.

  They ran out of targets before they ran out of ammunition; none of the other guns found them amid the chaos at the perimeter of the bowl-shaped valley. After he had destroyed the three or four gun emplacements that he could reach, Martok had turned his attention to the tall silhouettes out in the field. He prayed that his shots were accurate enough to only destroy the Hur’q without killing any Klingons, but knew also that any warrior slain was more likely an enemy than an ally.

  The tide of the battle drifted away from their edge of the semicircle and Martok was just beckoning to Pharh to bring Sithala when Angwar, Starn, and the other katai rode up and greeted them. “Qapla’, Martok!”

  “Qapla’, Katai Masters,” Martok replied. “What news of the battle?”

  “Our numbers are evenly matched, but not our hearts,” Angwar said. “Though Gothmara’s beasts are as strong as ten warriors, they are few and fight poorly.”

  “The cold, I think,” Martok said.

  “She chose this field carelessly,” Starn said with a nod.

  “What of her Klingon warriors?”

  Starn frowned. He was not, Martok had noticed, quite as lighthearted as most of the other katai. “Traitors,” he [251] spat. “And worse—cowards! Already they begin to fall back to their caves. We will root them out and ...”

  “Starn,” Angwar counseled. “Enough. Gothmara wields an unwholesome influence over them. Our goal is not to slay, but to liberate.”

  Scowling, Starn jerked the reins of his jarq and trotted off to the lower edge of the slope. Angwar sighed, but only said, “Join us, Martok. Your presence will be the final inspiration your warriors need to ...”

  “General!”

  A solitar
y, panting figure staggered halfway up the slope, all the while clutching something to his chest, and collapsed facedown into the snowbank. Martok, recognizing the voice, slid down the hill, skidded to a stop beside the half-frozen figure, and pulled him up into a sitting position. “Darok,” Martok said. “What are you doing here?”

  Darok, too winded to speak, thrust the silver and black box he had been clutching into Martok’s hand. It was, he saw, a Federation tricorder, forty years old if not more, the kind of prize warriors of Darok’s generation frequently looted from slain opponents. Martok knew his retainer possessed such a device, but he had not seen it in years, especially since the empire had formed closer ties with the Federation.

  “General,” Darok gasped and pointed at the display. “Look. Here.”

  Martok glanced at the tiny screen, but he had little experience with such devices. Darok was so insistent, however, that Martok persisted, squinting to focus on the tiny blips and dots.

  “I became lost,” Darok muttered. “Out on the field, so I used this to find my way.” He tapped the edge of the screen clumsily. “We are here,” he said. “And the mass [252] of the warriors fighting are here.” Martok understood what he meant: the mass of blue and purple lights crossing and recrossing in the center of the screen. Finally, at the edge of the screen, he noticed another mass of purple pulses.

  “What are these?” Martok asked.

  Darok nodded feebly. His general had seen what he wanted him to see. “Transporter signals,” Darok gasped.

  “How many?”

  “Many. As many as are already on the field and they are coming this way.” Pushing himself up weakly, Darok pointed at a narrow gap in the cliff wall across the field. “From there.”

  Martok looked up at Angwar. “Did you hear?”

  “I heard,” the katai said. “Mount your jarq. Draw your weapons. We will ride to meet them.”

  Martok nodded, then called to Pharh, who was standing in the mouth of the cave. “Stay with Darok. Get him into the cave. Protect him. Did you see how to use the gun?”

  “I’ll figure it out,” Pharh said.

  “Like you did the transporter?” Martok asked.

  “Don’t mock the guy with the big gun, Martok.”

  Climbing into his saddle, Martok said, “Good advice. I’ll try to remember it myself.” Spurring his mount, he cried, “Katai! To me! We ride to battle!” He did not check behind him to see whether the other riders followed, but hastened across the field toward the gap, Sithala skipping and leaping around and over combatants as if they were puddles that she did not wish to wet her hooves in.

  As they passed near one of the spots where he had been shooting at a Hur’q, Martok noticed that the ground was cracked and water had welled up to the surface. The hole was beginning to scab over with ice. One [253] of the dead monsters had fallen head down into the hole and, if he slipped inside, would be preserved just like the one Gothmara had found two decades earlier. Even as he rode, even as most of Martok’s mind was preoccupied with the coming battle, he could not help but notice that field upon which the armies clashed was roughly circular. A lake, he realized. So there might still be life of some kind on Boreth, below this icy crust. For some inexplicable reason, this idea comforted him.

  Morjod’s troops continued to beam in, wave upon wave, row upon row. Gothmara would open the top of her car, and climb up to point the warriors who had recovered from the shock of the cold in the direction of the battle. For the first couple of hundred, she said a few words, exhorting them onward toward victory. Soon she became too cold and merely commanded them to follow the tracks in the snow, find their fellows, and destroy her enemies. When Morjod beamed in and approached her vehicle, Gothmara sighed with relief. She could depend on him to order the warriors around. Morjod was, if nothing else, an excellent orator, thanks to her modifications. “What are your orders, Mother?”

  “Find Martok and his followers. Slay them all.”

  “No capturing him alive then? No executions?”

  “I tire of these minor distractions, my son. Please take care of this for me.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Will your pets obey me?”

  “They will if you speak to them with the Voice. These have been conditioned.”

  Saluting her, he said, “We will be back presently.” Gothmara sat down, intending to close the top without another word and turn the heaters up to high, but a [254] thought nagged at her. Standing again, she called to Morjod. “What happened to Rotarran?” she asked. “Was it destroyed?”

  Morjod hesitated before he responded, something unusual for the boy. He had not, she saw, precisely followed her directions. Gothmara almost laughed when she realized that he was attempting to plot a scheme. Such an amusement was almost worth shivering in the cold for.

  “Not destroyed, Mother,” he said straining to sound casual. “But up above the planet, struggling to maintain orbit. I thought it would be ... amusing to have some prisoners later. Worf, you know. The Federation’s dog.”

  “But unable to escape?”

  “We destroyed her engines. If the pilot is gifted he will be able to keep from burning up in the atmosphere.”

  “If not?”

  Morjod shrugged. “There will be other prisoners.” Something on the Rotarran, she realized. Something he wants, but not prisoners. He was so transparent, Gothmara could have used him as a window in her study. Unfortunately the moment to determine the precise scope of his scheme would have to wait until after Martok was defeated.

  “Very well, Morjod. As you wish.”

  Turning away, Morjod ran across the mashed snow so he could “lead” his warriors into battle.

  What could he possibly be attempting to hide from me? she wondered. After a fashion, the idea that her son would attempt to deceive her pleased her. Almost like he’s finally growing up. Snuggling down into her wraps, Gothmara decided that should he survive the day—which she sincerely doubted—she would have to decide whether to try to ensnare his mind again or kill him. The [255] latter would be so much simpler, she decided. Yes, definitely time to dispose of this one.

  “How long can we maintain orbit?” Worf asked Leskit.

  The helmsman rubbed a smudge of black char from his board and answered, “With our current vector? Two hours.”

  Worf grunted, then turned to his son. “Transporters?”

  “Short-range only,” Alexander responded. “The coordinate locking sensors were ...”

  Worf waved away the rest of the explanation. He was not looking for a technical treatise. All they needed was a way to get the sword down to Martok.

  “Shuttlecraft?” he asked no one in particular.

  “Shuttlebay was destroyed,” Alexander answered. “Besides, Chak’ta is still out there watching us. She would not let a shuttle go far.”

  “Then why are we still alive?” Ezri asked, stomping across the deck. Though Worf would never say anything to her, he thought she looked preposterous in her oversized Klingon space armor, helmet clanking on her belt, the huge bat’leth clipped to her back.

  “They must know we have the sword,” Worf snarled. “We are being kept out of the way until Morjod or Gothmara comes to claim it.” Rising suddenly, he crashed his fist against the arm of the captain’s seat. “This must not be permitted!”

  Ezri nodded, her head absurdly tiny in the giant collar.

  I must focus my thoughts, Worf thought on the verge of snickering. This is ridiculous. If this were Jadzia ... And the truth of the moment struck him: If this were Jadzia, who was always aware in some manner of how [256] she appeared, she would have commented on it long ago, probably laughing at herself. This was only one of the thousands of ways this incarnation of Dax was different from the one to whom he had been wed. Ezri, whatever else he could say about her, was nowhere near as self-conscious as Jadzia had been.

  “Then there’s only one course open to us,” Ezri said definitively.

  Alexander, looking confused, asked
, “And that is ... ?”

  “We take the sword down to Martok the only way we can.”

  Alexander looked around the bridge, obviously hoping someone would give him a hint. Finally, he asked, “Jump?”

  “Almost,” Ezri said. “Leskit, when was the last time you attempted a landing?”

  Leskit turned to look at her. “A long time ago. Once, perhaps, in the past ten years.”

  “Worf? Would you agree that this is necessary?”

  Worf took only a moment to ponder the options. And even if we do not survive, the sword might still, he decided. “Plot a course,” he ordered. “Alert the remaining gun batteries. Chak’ta will try to stop us.”

  “And make sure the transporters stay online,” Ezri added, looking at Alexander. “Just in case.”

  Worf agreed with Ezri, then issued the remaining orders, and settled back into the captain’s chair. “And if we must die,” he said loud enough for all to hear, “then let it be a death worthy of a song.”

  After dragging Darok into the small cave, Pharh had tucked some blankets around the old Klingon, found him a bottle of bloodwine that the previous [257] tenants had been using to stay warm, then hunkered down in the cave mouth to watch as much of the battle as he could. Martok had been right: the battle moved away and there was very little to see from where they sat. Sighing with relief, yet experiencing a peculiar disappointment, Pharh began to check his parka for provisions.

  Finding some kind of compressed ration bar in his pocket, Pharh peeled away the foil wrapper and began to munch. He turned to Darok to see if he would like something to eat and was surprised to find the Klingon slouched against the cave wall taking a long pull from the bottle and staring at him. “Want anything else?” Pharh asked, holding up the ration bar.

  Darok shook his head, took another pull, then cradled the bottle in the crook of his arm like a child. “Why aren’t you with him?” he asked.

  “With Martok, you mean?” Pharh asked. “Because he told me to stay here with you.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Darok said. “Old men like me never die in places like this.”