“Excuse me, Admiral. My mind was wandering. Could you say that last bit again?”
Ross paused, uncertain where to begin again. This was changing the rules, Martok knew. He was supposed to say nothing and let Ross finish. Then Worf would [322] more or less repeat everything Ross and he had just said so that Martok would be caught up. The chancellor was tired of playing that particular game. He wanted to start a new one, a game called Paying Attention. Being feeble had lost its charm.
“I was saying, Chancellor, that Starfleet is satisfied with the new safeguards at our embassies. Not just on Qo’noS, mind you, but all of them. It was a rather outrageous gap in the security system.” He glanced over at Worf. “And I assume you, Ambassador, will put all the embassies you visit to the test?”
“Of course, Admiral.” The corners of Worf’s mouth turned up ever so perceptively.
He finds the oddest pleasures in ambassadorial life, Martok thought.
“Excellent. Is there anything else, gentlemen?”
“No government business,” Martok replied. “But how is Lieutenant Dax faring? We have not seen her since we held the groundbreaking for the monument at the Great Hall.”
“Lieutenant Dax is fine, Chancellor, and sends her greetings. She’s been busy as usual, though I hear through the grapevine that she has become fond of long, hot baths.”
Both Worf and Martok laughed at the image. For days after they had returned to Qo’noS, the young Trill had done little but complain that she’d been left in the freezing armor so long that she could no longer feel her extremities.
“And you, Chancellor? How are you faring?”
Martok tried to sit straighter in his chair, but groaned where his bandages bound him too tightly. He had been putting on weight during the convalescence. Not nearly [323] enough “physical” in his physical therapy. Next week, he decided. Back into training. He patted his midsection and said, “Tender, but surviving.”
“And your son?”
Martok shifted uneasily in his seat. Drex had been out on the ice cliff for a long time before anyone found him. He would have, without question, died of exposure if someone had not wrapped him in a cloak. Drex suspected it had been Kahless, but no one knew for certain; nevertheless, Martok’s son’s fingers and toes were badly frostbitten and he had required extensive nerve and skin regeneration. Such procedures usually produced a certain amount of clumsiness, which the boy was finding difficult to endure. “He will live,” Martok replied. “And he will relearn his warrior skills. Soon he will go to his new assignment aboard the Gorkon. Perhaps even with some added humility to guide him in the future. But he is still young, and so not always consistent.” Martok smiled as he said that last part.
Ross nodded neutrally, every bit as much the diplomat as Worf and maybe a bit more. Finally, he came to the question that Martok sensed was most on the admiral’s mind. “Any word of Kahless?”
Martok shook his head. This situation must make a Starfleet admiral very nervous. Where was the legendary emperor? Dead and buried in a mass grave on Boreth? Imprisoned by the new chancellor? Once again wandering the galaxy searching for the perfect Klingon warrior, seeing as his last selection was such a disappointment? “We have heard nothing, Admiral, but have no reason to assume he is dead. We keep the palace open for him and his throne awaits when he wishes to return to it.”
[324] “But until then,” Worf said bluntly, “Martok rules the Klingon people.”
“As it should be,” Ross replied. “And as your people no doubt desire. That was quite a celebration, Chancellor, when you returned to Qo’noS.”
Martok rubbed his nose and closed his eyes. He grew tired and the memory of the return to the First City was not a pleasant one: memorial ceremonies, receiving the families of warriors fallen in the empire’s service, rebuilding what Morjod had destroyed, and the seemingly endless task of accounting for the lost, the dead, and the destroyed.
The Klingon Defense Force had sustained significant losses, both in troop strength and equipment. Finding and promoting those warriors worthy to replace Martok’s lost allies had been challenging. Even reinstating the High Council—with the surviving poet-warrior katai taking a number of the seats—had proven to be a simpler task than selecting new generals. Finally, of course, there had been Martok’s private ceremonies for Sirella and his daughters, as well as the start of construction of the memorial where the Great Hall had stood.
Some had wanted a new structure built where the old had stood, but Martok had asked for a garden to be installed to include a monument to his wife and Gothmara’s other victims. Such was Martok’s popularity at this time that none dared refuse any of his requests. An opera celebrating Sirella’s life would be at the fore of the dedication ceremonies. The Klingon people like a victory, Worf had pronounced in an uncharacteristically sardonic tone, but they will do anything for a tragic victor.
“I don’t remember much of the celebrating, Admiral, but they tell me the gagh was fresh and that the bloodwine flowed freely,” he said. “Just one more question [325] and then I’ll let you go: Were you able to arrange for the payment to that Ferengi company?”
Ross snorted and said, “Yes, though it was hardly worth the effort. I think the transfer fees and ‘handling charges’ were more than the total amount you paid. Would you mind explaining now what it was all about?”
“It was,” Martok said, “the current value of a vintage Federation vehicle called a Sporak.”
“A Sporak? The big overland vehicles?”
“The same,” Martok said. “I ... rented one while I was on the run, but at the time I didn’t have enough on me to cover the debt.”
“Oh,” Ross said. “This is one of those stories I’m not going to hear for a long time, if ever, isn’t it?”
Martok nodded.
“Very well,” the admiral said. “I have a few of those myself. I know what they’re like.”
“I’m sure you do, my friend. I’m sure you do.”
They said their good-byes, leaving Martok and Worf to settle the outstanding business and drink a cup of bloodwine in relative quiet. They were sitting in the large office in the Emperor’s Palace, which Morjod had occupied during his short tenure. Martok had, at first, despised the place even as he had understood why it was necessary to symbolically “retake” it; in recent weeks, since he had begun working again, he had enjoyed some of its pleasures, not the least of which were the large west-facing walls. Since Morjod’s Hammer had fallen, the sunsets had been spectacular.
Worf and Martok sat quietly for several minutes and watched the western sky ripple and twist with shades of crimson, gold, and purple. Finally, as the room grew [326] dark, Worf asked, “Do you think he’ll ever turn up again?”
“Kahless?” Martok asked. “Doubtless. Unlooked-for and with some insane quest that needs to be fulfilled. Perhaps I’ll even give him his sword back and tell him to be on his way. No more adventures for me. I have an empire to run.”
“And that’s not an adventure?”
“On the good days?” Martok replied. “No.”
Worf laughed warmly, a sound that came out of him easier in these days. After a fashion, Martok was distressed not to have the old morose Worf around to tease anymore, but he found new pleasure in baiting the contented Worf, too. “No more visitations from Jadzia or any other women from your past?” Martok asked.
Worf shook his head and stared out the window. “Not a one. And you?”
Martok sighed. “Every night,” he said. “But only when I dream.”
“You should rest, my brother. You have much work to do.”
“And you should leave my home and get some of your own work under way, my brother,” Martok replied. “The Federation has been very generous to lend you to me for this long, but the people grow restless. They want to see their chancellor rule them ...”
“... And not the mongrel outsider.”
“Don’t say that so disparagingly, Worf. We’re all mongrels he
re. It’s what makes us great.”
Worf rose and bowed slightly at the waist. “As you say, Chancellor. Perhaps I will try to finish up my affairs here soon. It does not sound like you have much more use for me.”
[327] “None,” Martok said happily. “Go.”
After his brother had left, Martôk pushed himself carefully up out of his chair and walked slowly and gingerly out into the corridor, down the stairs, and outside the palace to a small garden he had asked to be constructed. This garden served as the model for the larger one being built on the site of the Great Hall in every way but in scale; in every way he preferred the smaller one.
During his long convalescence, this was the single spot where Martok had found peace from his thoughts. One of the gardeners, noting that the chancellor came here often, had arranged for a large, comfortable wooden chair equipped with thick cushions to be installed. Here, in this quiet place, he had long discussions with the many ghosts that drove him. He made peace with some of them. More than one early-rising (or late-to-bed) palace functionary had passed through the garden to find the chancellor muttering to himself, debating some arcane point. Eventually, to avoid being labeled a complete eccentric, Martok had commissioned a statue that had proved so popular a choice that a larger version would stand at the center of the monument garden.
The statue was a Klingon woman in a robe standing lightly on one foot as if she were either taking off or landing. In one hand she held a cup and in the other a bat’leth, as if offering one or the other to those who gazed upon her. Not both, though. This woman demanded a choice. The sculptor had given her Sirella’s features, which pleased Martok no end, though not for the assumed reasons. She is a goddess, he thought in one of his long vigils, for a people who do not fear the gods. But if the gods wear faces we know, we can learn [328] to respect them as they should respect us. It is not too much to ask.
Martok sat down in his chair, studied the statue, and smiled with private satisfaction. And if in turn, in some future day, a new race of Klingons sees that the greatest and only goddess of this age wore Sirella’s face, well, that will be all right, too.
With that thought, Martok closed his eyes and slept.
And the chancellor dreamt.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Best known for his portrayal of General Martok on the television series Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, J. G. Hertzler was born into a family whose roots go back eight generations in the small Pennsylvania town of Port Royal. He was raised on various foreign and domestic U.S. Air Force bases, from El Paso to Casablanca—which may explain his lifelong philosophical confusion. J. G. was a college football linebacker and an antiwar protestor; he has canvassed for McGovern and strongly supported the men and women of our armed forces; he feels he has a gentle Amish soul inside a short-fused temper. In other words, Martok is close to his heart, and J. G. expects he always will be.
As an actor in the theatre, J. G. toured the rust belt with Roddy MacDowall in the 1996 National Tour of Dial M for Murder, held a shotgun on Holly Hunter in By the Bog of Cats, and had his severed head carried around by Irene Pappas in The Bacchae.
[330] In television, J. G. has worked in countless episodics, mostly villains roiling with inner torment. A student of screenwriting, he’s had three scripts optioned with no cigar ... yet. Hope and rewriting spring eternal. The Left Hand of Destiny represents J. G.’s first foray into narrative fiction. It’s been one helluva ride thus far, with a little help from his friends, old and new.
Jeffrey Lang is the author of Star Trek: The Next Generation—Immortal Coil, the short story “Dead Man’s Hand” in the anthology Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Lives of Dax, and the coauthor (with David Weddle) of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—Section 31: Abyss. He is currently working on a couple other projects, including more Trek and the graphic novel Sherwood. Lang lives in Wynnewood, PA, with his wife, Katherine Fritz, his son, Andrew, and Buster, who, no doubt, wants to go out for a walk right now.
About the e-Book
(AUGUST, 2003)—Scanned, proofed, and formatted by Bibliophile.
STAR TREK: DS9 - The Left Hand of Destiny, Book Two Page 27