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

by J. G. Hertzler

  At least the Chak’ta was leaving them alone. Couldn’t take the g’s, she guessed. “Ha!” Ezri shouted triumphantly. “Coward!” No one else on the bridge seemed to find any of this remotely amusing, which led her to wonder if the carbon-dioxide problem might already be worse than she had guessed. No time to check now, she decided, feeding the rest of the reserve power into the landing systems and bringing the nose up. Let’s find out how well they built this thing. ...

  * * *

  [283] Standing on a high shelf overlooking the mouth of the canyon, staring out over the frozen lake, Martok was unexpectedly reminded of a youth who had lived in Ketha when he was a boy. This boy—Gort, if memory served—had taken a particularly savage delight in focusing a beam of sunlight with a piece of quartz onto the nests of colony insects called tak. Oh, how the tak would scurry when Gort managed to set a twig or leaf aflame. The tiny bugs would run hither and yon in a panic, none of them able to comprehend the baffling fate that had befallen them. Gort would laugh and laugh as he watched, then sometimes stamped the fire out so he could start another. Other times he would let it burn, but, honestly, in Ketha, who even noticed another fire burning? More particularly, who cared about some maddened insects?

  As Klingon warriors, katai, and Hur’q monsters exited the canyon, they all behaved similarly: brake to a halt, stare up into the sky at the smoking fireball, then frantically look for someplace to hide. Desperate, a few struck out for the caves on the opposite shore. Quite a number tried turning around and heading back down the canyon, but Morjod’s forces flowed out too quickly and any warrior who attempted to force his way past was facing a test not unlike trying to swim up a waterfall. The bulk of the, Martok guessed, two thousand warriors, simply fled to whatever spot looked well protected.

  Knowing that one spot was no better than another, Martok decided to stay where he was. After conceding that there was nothing he could do about the situation, he resolved to stand and watch it play out, if for no other reason than to honor whoever was aboard the [284] plummeting ship. A mighty struggle was taking place above him, he knew. He had seen many a crashing ship in his day and he knew that the vessel he watched was not out of control. Someone was guiding in a Bird-of-Prey to this exact spot under the worst possible circumstances. Martok thought of only one person who would be insanely confidant enough to attempt such a thing.

  The ship had to be Rotarran and his mad brother Worf had to be at the helm.

  Despite initial appearances, the ship had enough room. The pilot had started his run far enough back that he would be able to fire his reverse thrusters in time and grind to halt on the plain just shy of the entrance to the frozen lake.

  “Wings up now,” Martok muttered as the ship’s flight path leveled out. “And keep the nose up.” Worf must have heard him. Just like a living raptor, the wings flared back as the belly came down and the nose of the ship was jerked back. “Good!” Martok cheered. “Now fire thrusters.”

  But there was no slowing the ship down. Instead, the ship’s belly skipped across the surface of the ice, slid to port, somehow straightened, then overcompensated and slid to starboard. A wave of chipped ice flew up in Rotarran’s wake and chunks of ablated armor spun off to either side where the shields failed.

  Against all hope, Worf managed, briefly, to keep the nose up and the belly level. As the Bird-of-Prey sluiced back to port, any pretense of a controlled landing was forgotten; the ship rolled up onto her flank, shearing off the wing at the base. Now physics would play out until the inertia was used up.

  Skipping and sliding like a child’s sled that had [285] escaped on a steep hill, Rotarran twirled across the plain stern first, then the bow again, then the stern. Finally, the lower hull screeched up over a low bank, sheets of hull plating peeling off like scorched skin, and for a stunning moment, the ship was briefly—and for the last time—airborne. When it crashed back down again, the icy surface of the lake splintered, mirrorlike, and crumbled. The sound of the hull screeching as it slid under, the slosh and burble of the waves, and the crunch of the floes against one another, all these sounds echoed unnaturally in the frozen valley.

  Frigid water lapped up over her nose and Rotarran sank with barely a ripple.

  Pharh gaped openmouthed as a crack in the ice crept right up under his feet and continued on toward the shore. He looked over his shoulder and considered retreating back toward the mouth of the canyon, but, no, Klingons were still pouring out, drawn by the sound of the crash. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell who was loyal to Martok and who to Morjod, though he had a suspicion they knew, because small constellations of soldiers clustered together into larger, denser clumps as they joined their comrades.

  Steam rose up from the giant hole. As Pharh watched, chunks of ice around the rim of the gap broke away and the crack under his feet grew wider as the heat from the engines and the friction on the hull thawed this part of the lake. Everyone seemed to grasp this fact at the same moment and moved away from the hole, farther and farther apart until the mass of Klingons was either pressed back into the canyon or fanned out on the still-frozen portion of the surface.

  [286] Only one figure, standing right at the edge of the crumbling shore, about fifty meters away, did not move. Pharh squinted against the glare of reflected sunlight, but he didn’t need to see the figure’s face. The slouch of the shoulders and the spread of his legs told Pharh everything he needed to know: Martok.

  The general appeared to be straining to hear something, his head cocked to the side, his left ear down. The ice directly before him broke away and spun off into the lake, forcing Martok to take a half step backward, but he didn’t change the tilt of his head.

  The wind from the plain whipped across the lake, churning up shushing and crashing whitecaps. No one spoke; no one stirred or changed stances. Every warrior stood still, watching the man who literally stood on the brink of oblivion, and listened.

  A foot crunched in the snow behind Pharh and he turned his head quickly to see if he was being attacked, but the Klingon was staring out at Martok as intently as the Ferengi had been. Unlike every other man and woman on the ice, this warrior wore no robe or coat, nor glimmered with a blue environment field. In fact, if anything, he appeared a little warm—charred, even. Much of the hair on the left side of his head was burned away and there were raw, red marks on his cheek. He glanced at Pharh, grinned sheepishly, whispered, “Hi,” but immediately returned his attention to the lake.

  “Alexander?” Pharh asked.

  Alexander nodded, but didn’t look at him. Pharh turned to look over his other shoulder and saw Worf standing behind him. He, too, looked a little the worse for wear, but when Pharh considered the ship on the [287] bottom of the lake was probably Rotarran, maybe not too bad. “How did you ... ?”

  “Shh,” Worf hissed. “Watch.”

  Pharh obeyed.

  Martok now knelt at the edge of the crack, his feet half submerged in the icy water that lapped up over the frigid shore. Opening his hand, he dropped his weapon into the snow without a backward look and then remained motionless, waiting, silent, every sense straining.

  And then a shaft of light broke the surface of the lake and danced before him. A silver hand equally dazzling held the lightning bolt, the two so bright that Pharh turned his face away, stripes and glimmering aftereffects prancing behind his closed eyelids. When he turned back around, the shaft of light rose up out of the waters and Martok backed away from its brilliance toward the firmer shore. The silver glove was followed by an arm, then a burnished head, then a barrel chest, then two legs, which moved slowly as sheets of water sluiced down, forming broken puddles.

  Martok stood erect now, his arms held wide, and hair blown back from his face by the icy wind. The armored figure knelt before him and presented the general with the shaft of light.

  Pharh suddenly realized it was a blade, a bat’leth, but one unlike any he had ever seen. Even he, a Ferengi, could sense the astonishing craft that had gone into the cre
ation of this weapon, this work of art. For the first time, Pharh understood the expression “A Klingon’s honor shines only as brightly as his blade.”

  Reverently, Martok reached out and gripped the blade by its handle and slowly lifted it out of the armored figure’s grasp. As he did so, every warrior who [288] saw him exhaled as one and Pharh realized that he, too, had been holding his breath and was once again breathing with all the others. Friend and foe alike seemed suspended, unable or unwilling to move, and yet, despite the reverential stillness, Pharh began walking. Lifting his foot was like trying to loosen it from setting concrete, but as soon as he had one foot up, the other followed behind as if it had a will of its own. One step, then the next, then the next until he felt like everyone on the plain was frozen in time and he flew between seconds. A voice in his head exhorted, Run, little warrior! Run as fast as you can!

  As Pharh ran, he never took his eyes off Martok, who stared transfixed at the blade, seemingly unwilling to blink for fear the bat’leth would dissolve into motes of sunlight. All around him, Pharh heard a low groan, the first note of a thousand-throated roar, and knew that Martok was about to lift up the blade for all to see. And that will be the sign, the voice said.

  The thunder rose all around him and Martok flexed his shoulder, tilted back his head, his mouth split in a victorious grin.

  Pharh plodded through the snow, crashed into a huge Klingon who was lifting his own sword, bounced off him and collided with another. His feet slipped in the icy slush, but he regained his footing. He found himself remembering that night on the roof of his house when he had rolled over the edge and had to almost dance on motes of air to keep his balance. Gripping the handle of the small shield the katai gave him, Pharh recentered himself, dug his feet into the slush, and pushed off.

  The roar rose up, the bat’leth gleamed in the air. [289] Martok opened his mouth wide in a wordless bellow of profound certainty.

  Here it comes, the voice whispered in Pharh’s giant ear. Are you ready? Can you do this?

  Pharh measured the distance between himself and Martok, counted twelve paces, and pumped his legs as hard as he could. Time slowed down just for him and with it sound and motion, but soon it would all speed up again. He didn’t have much longer.

  I can do this, he thought in response to the voice.

  The voices—the storm—rose, crecsendoed, then broke. A roar—a name—his friend’s name. The Klingons, the stupid, stupid Klingons who couldn’t pay attention to what was really going on around them when there was a spectacle to be watched, a moment, a little bit of legend played out. Only Pharh knew, only little Pharh, except Pharh wasn’t so little, and Pharh had excellent hearing.

  Six paces now ...

  Back toward the canyon, he heard another voice, one other voice, and it was not shouting his friend’s name, he was bellowing, “NOOOOOO!!”

  Morjod stood on a small hillock where he had been gathering the last living Hur’q for the final assault, just high enough to see over the heads of all the others, just high enough to see Martok’s men and even quite a few of his own watching his father.

  Three paces now ...

  Two ...

  Pharh knew Morjod was there on his hill with a disruptor rifle, though Pharh didn’t know how he knew.

  I can do this, he thought and, shield stretched out before him, he jumped.

  * * *

  [290] Ezri was freezing. Her teeth chattered and the blinking telltales inside the armor told her, in no uncertain terms, Get some oxygen! Martok had his damned sword and now she was down on her knees before him, the batteries in the suit drained down into then: reserves. Soon, occupying this spot on Boreth was going to be several hundred kilos of soggy, immobilized Klingon machinery with a frozen Trill at its center.

  Pop the helmet seals while you still can, Ezri, she said to herself, her gasps echoing hollowly in the shell that was about to become her coffin. She fumbled with the release switch, but the light blinked red: not enough battery power left. Okay, the manual release. Her fingers were so clumsy, though, that it was hard to find the lever. Ezri tried to see what was happening two feet in front of her face, but condensation ran down the inside of her faceplate. Dimly, she heard a rumble rise up around her and the ground seemed to shake, but she couldn’t stop to see what was happening. Damned Klingon spacesuit! She wanted to scream. Why don’t these people put the release switch in a spot where you can find it?!

  Something crashed down in front of her, but Ezri couldn’t see what it was. Why wasn’t anyone helping her? Were they fighting? Had she arrived in the middle of a fight, interrupted it long enough to give Martok a new weapon just so he could go back to breaking heads with a more decorous blade? It made her unaccountably angry to think this might be happening. And what about the rest of Rotarran’s crew? Had any of them survived the beam-out? She had barely survived and look at what she wore. ...

  Her finger caught on something and she yanked at it. Instantly, she could hear other voices and not just her [291] own breathing. Almost afraid to take the chance, Ezri let go of the lungful of air she had been holding and inhaled deeply.

  Air! Blessed air! The inrush of sweet oxygen almost froze her lungs, but thank the Womb, she could breathe! Her arms collapsed under her and her head fell forward, helmet tumbling from the collar ring. Gasping, eyes shut, snow melting against her forehead, Ezri felt nearly frozen water trickle down her cheeks and drip off onto the ground. Hearing wavered in and out, voices shouting, feet running, but nearer, almost beside her, two voices spoke in low tones. One, she realized, belonged to Martok and the other, softer, and high, sounded familiar. She knew she had heard it before. ... The Ferengi. The one Martok had brought with him from Qo’noS. What was his name?

  “Pharh?” Martok called, cradling the Ferengi’s head. “Can you hear me?”

  Warriors stood ringed around them, eyes out, searching for more snipers. Whoever had fired the shot had disappeared, but Martok’s men were watching. Nearby, Ezri Dax was clawing at the helmet to her armor and Martok was just about to order one of the men to pop the seals for her, but the Trill apparently knew what she was doing. She yanked the manual control, the seals parted, and the helmet tumbled down into the snow. Dax was breathing, Martok saw, so he turned his attention back to his kr’tach.

  “I can hear you,” Pharh said, but almost too softly to be heard over the increasing sounds of battle. “Did I make it?” he asked. “Did I get my shield up in time?”

  Martok looked down at the small, undamaged, and [292] probably useless shield that was still strapped to the Ferengi’s arm. Then he looked at the charred hole bored through his friend’s lower abdomen and the ever-widening stain on the snow beneath him. “You did fine, Pharh. Yes, you got your shield up in time.”

  Pharh grinned a snaggletoothed smile and said, “You are such a liar, Martok.” He scrunched his eyes shut, overcome by a wave of pain, then gasped. “This really hurts. Has anyone ever mentioned that working for you can be really painful?”

  “You are the first to dare comment,” Martok said, his voice mock stern. “I do not think there is anything I can give you for the pain.” He paused, uncertain if he should go on, but then decided Pharh knew what was coming. “Is there anything I can do to compensate you for your service? You have been a reasonably competent kr’tach. I could notify your family that you have been of service to the empire. ...”

  “Assuming you live,” Pharh said sarcastically. “I don’t think they would care much and even if they did ...” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’m going to give ’em the satisfaction.” Pausing, the Ferengi’s breath suddenly grew sharper and he gasped, “But there is one thing ...”

  “What?”

  “Darok ... he said ...” Pharh coughed and there was blood between his teeth. Martok wiped it away with his sleeve. Behind him, he heard the cries of warriors as they ran into the plain.

  “I have to go soon, Pharh,” Martok said as gently as he could.

  “So do
I, Martok,” Pharh said. “And I really don’t want to go to the Final Audit. I don’t think I’m going to do well. ...”

  [293] “So?”

  “Darok said Klingons could maybe buy their friends a spot in the Ko-Vo-Store.”

  Ko-Vo-Store? Martok wondered, then moved the sounds around and got it. “Yes,” Martok said. “If we dedicate the victory to the fallen. But it only is necessary if the warrior does not die in battle.”

  Pharh furrowed his brow. “Do you think this counts?”

  Martok considered, then answered, “Probably. But I’m not sure.”

  “I don’t think I want to take any chances,” Pharh said. “Could you take care of this for me?”

  “For the opportunity to have you haranguing me and asking me stupid questions throughout eternity?” Martok asked. “Absolutely. It will be done, my friend.”

  Pharh’s anxious expression relaxed and he began to weakly fumble at the front of his tunic. “Good,” he said. “I have the down payment.” Patting his shirt, his movements became both weaker and more frantic and the familiar lines of worry creased his brow. “I can’t find it. Help me, Martok.”

  Martok reached down and patted the front of the Ferengi’s shirt, uncertain what he was seeking. Then, he found it: a small, hard lump inside the tunic lining. “What is it?” Martok asked.

  “It’s yours,” Pharh said weakly. “Cut the cloth if you want. I don’t care.”

  Martok pulled off his gloves, then drew his blade and carefully slit open the tunic. A moment later, he touched a cold, metallic lump and his memory raced back to the strip of narrow dusty road a few kilometers outside the First City.

  [294] “I’ve been holding on to it,” Pharh said. “Just like you said.”

  Martok stared at the chancellor’s ring in the palm of his hand and tried to think of the appropriate words of thanks, but knew there were none. “I had forgotten ...” he murmured.

  “I know,” Pharh replied, his voice barely discernible above the whispering wind. “I figured you would. What are you going to do without me to remind you of these things?”