As she and Worf stopped in the center of the tiny open space, the figure turned, and Ezri saw that it was the clone emperor himself, Kahless. Older-looking than the last image she’d seen of him, but a formidable presence just the same. “Excellent,” he said. “Then we are all assembled. Please sit down, Ezri Dax. You, too, Worf. We have much to discuss here today and while there is much you two already know, there is much more you do not.”
“I believe that,” Ezri said.
The sound of her voice seemed to rouse Martok and he looked up at her. A look of pleased surprise softened the grim lines on his face, and he stood. “Dax,” he murmured, and extended his arms in a gesture of almost paternal greeting. “House Martok is honored by your presence. Your sense of familial responsibility does you credit, my comrade-in-arms and sister of my heart.”
Ezri walked around the side of the table and, feeling awkward both because of the tight quarters and her uncertainty about what she could possibly contribute under the circumstances, stepped into the ring of Martok’s arms, and they embraced. “I wasn’t motivated only by responsibility,” she explained, “but by my concern for you and your family.”
“You are not wearing your Federation uniform,” Sirella observed with an edge in her voice.
Ezri turned to her. “No,” she said. “I’m not here as a Starfleet officer. I’m here as a member of this House, to offer what help I can in this time of crisis.”
“What do you know of this House?” Sirella demanded, stepping forward. “You are no Klingon, Ezri Dax. You cannot pretend to be what you are not.”
The room seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting.
Ezri understood that she was being challenged, and despite the rational voice in her head screaming at her not to say the words that came to her lips, some willful past part of her escaped and met Sirella’s disapproving glare head-on. “I don’t need to pretend anything, My Lady Sirella. I’m Dax. Among Klingons, that still counts for something. And as Dax, and the adopted daughter of this House, I pledge to be true to who I am, and to honor what I owe. But I’ll have what is due me as well: respect.”
All eyes turned to Sirella, whose stern countenance never wavered, and Ezri suddenly found herself wondering what sort of blade would be sticking out of her chest in the next few moments. Then, ever so slowly it seemed, a smile spread across Sirella’s face, and she reached out to embrace Ezri as Martok had. “Then you shall have what is due you. Be welcome among us, Ezri Dax, daughter of the House of Martok. Your presence honors us. Truly.”
Huh? What just happened?
There came grunts of approval from around the room as Sirella released her.
Martok gestured her toward the empty chair next to Alexander, and said, “Sit, then. I will introduce you to the others, and then we will begin.”
* * *
The first part of the tale, told by Martok, mirrored what Ezri already knew up to a point. Morjod was a member of the Klingon High Council who worked covertly to form alliances with many of the old, well-established families. After warning his allies to stay away from the Great Hall for Martok’s return and welcoming ceremony, he crushed the Hall and those who had gathered with a diabolical weapon deployed from a cloaked robot craft in the upper atmosphere, now popularly referred to as Morjod’s Hammer. The Great Hall had been obliterated and everyone within it and the surrounding square had been killed, but the collateral damage to adjoining property was minor. Civilian casualties from flying shrapnel, toxic-smoke inhalation, and other causes related to the attack had yet to be numbered.
“When Morjod revealed himself on a public broadcast,” Martok continued, his tone dry and almost academic, “he was not, as I would have expected, vilified. We now believe this is partly attributable to a subsonic neural carrier wave that was carried under the transmission. Partly attributable,” he repeated, his voice growing icy. “But it must also be noted that Morjod has seemingly tapped into a deep current of frustration and anger. The Klingon people—those whom I once called my people—are displeased with the path the empire seems to be on. Our alliances with the Federation and the Romulans during the Dominion War have made them feel weak. Worf, my brother, in particular seemed to be a focus point for Morjod’s rhetoric, because of his direct influence in shaping the empire’s political landscape over the last decade. Apparently, I was being ‘manipulated’ by him …” Here Martok looked down the table at Worf and grinned. “As if such a thing were possible.” This small joke at Worf’s expense made the starship captains grin, and Ezri saw that Martok was once again taking on his role as leader. It was practically a reflex with the man, a knowledge ingrained so deeply in his bones that he could not stand before a group and not try to bind them together.
“Morjod attacked my ship,” Martok continued. “And the Negh’Var was lost, along with much of her crew. He attacked my lands doing I know not what damage, then took my wife and made her a captive.” Now Martok paused, placed his fists on the table, and lowered his head. His voice dropped low and his tone grew darker as he said, “He tried to kill my son, but Drex, by warrior’s skill and warrior’s luck, was able to escape. He did kill my two daughters, Shen and Lazhna, and, for this alone, among all his other crimes, I will kill him. I vow it here with every warrior in this room as my witness.” Martok ceased speaking for several seconds, struggling with barely contained rage. When he’d taken control of his emotions, he stood erect and began pacing the length of the table.
“And there is more, much more. When he learned that I escaped the destruction of the Negh’Var, he burned the Ketha lowlands down to the bedrock, slaughtering who knows how many. He took control of the Federation embassy and—for all we know—other diplomatic delegations. While none of our neighbors has yet retaliated, how long will Morjod’s lies and apologies prevent them from taking up arms against the empire? And, worst of all, he has, by some trickery, resurrected the scourge of our people, our ancient conquerors, the Hur’q.”
As Martok continued explaining the role the Hur’q had played in Morjod’s coup, Ezri watched as his words sent shudders through the room. For her, it brought back memories of Jadzia and Worf’s adventure with Kor during which the three of them had traveled to a planet in the Gamma Quadrant that had been home to a Hur’q base. There they had found the legendary Sword of Kahless, purportedly looted from Qo’noS when the Hur’q plundered the Klingon homeworld over a thousand years ago. Subsequently, Jadzia had studied the few archaeological surveys the Klingons had either performed or allowed others to perform about the Hur’q, but the entire occupation period still remained a huge question mark.
Recalling Jadzia’s readings, Ezri had formed the opinion that the modern Klingon persona had emerged at least in part as a response to the trauma sustained during the Hur’q invasion. Very little was known about the people of Qo’noS before the Hur’q, but when they left—their sudden departure being another mystery—they left behind the fiercest, most aggressive warriors in the quadrant. An oft-discussed question in galactic sociological circles was “What would have happened to the people of Qo’noS if the Hur’q had never come?” Of course, the debate was irresolvable, but Ezri could not help but wonder which traits of the Klingon character were remnants of the people the original Kahless had inspired half a thousand years before the Hur’q, and which might be compensation for nearly pathological feelings of vulnerability. Whoever had pulled the Hur’q demon out of the Klingon closet of nightmares deserved commendation for such an effective strategy. But something still nagged at her. Something in Jadzia’s memories about the Hur’q…
Martok was relating the details of Drex’s and Darok’s encounters with the Hur’q when Ezri found the memory snippet she’d been fishing for. She straightened up in her chair and raised a finger to catch Martok’s eye.
He turned a questioning gaze on her.
Ezri shrugged. “Excuse me, but, well, I want to make sure I understand something.”
Martok gestured for her to speak.
More pairs of Klingon eyes than she cared to count drilled on her. Keep it short, their expressions said.
She quirked a half smile, swallowed hard, and continued. “All the evidence Jadzia found regarding the Hur’q indicated that they’d vanished from the quadrant—perhaps even became extinct. Where have the Hur’q been for a thousand years?”
Martok began, “These Hur’q aren’t like the original invaders. They’re—”
“More like Morjod’s pets,” Alexander interjected. “They move where he points. They stop at his orders. They kill on his command.” Noting Martok’s perturbed expression, presumably from Alexander’s interruption, he quickly added, “At least that’s how it looked from what I saw. You probably know more than I do, Chancellor. I mean, you most definitely know more than I do.” He winced at his own verbal clumsiness, dropping his eyes to the conference table.
Ezri squeezed Alexander’s arm reassuringly. “So Morjod controls them. How?” she asked no one in particular. Ezri surveyed the others in the room, expecting that someone would be able to answer her question, but found only blank, but frustrated, expressions. “Doesn’t it matter?”
Two of the Klingon captains fingered the blades on their belts, perhaps waiting for Martok to abandon this meeting in favor of a full-on assault of Morjod’s position in the First City. One captain sat with arms crossed over his chest, teeth clenched. He glared at Ezri; she offered him a weak smile in return. Even Worf, sitting beside her, shifted a few times in his seat. All the lurking, talking, and waiting must be taking a toll on him as well, Ezri guessed.
“Do not assume that talk is wasted, warriors!” Martok growled. Shaking his head, he opened his arms expansively. “To know one’s enemy is to know how to defeat him. Impulsiveness will only give victory to our foes. Listen.” He pointed to his own ears. “Answers, not weapons, might better serve you in this battle.”
Ezri looked around, expecting bared teeth or drawn mek’leth s, but saw none. If the captains and Drex smarted under Martok’s reprimand, they didn’t show it. Maybe Worf was right, Ezri thought, feeling a faint tinge of pleasure suffuse her. Martok really could be the “leader of destiny” if this is how he chooses to govern.
“Now to answer your questions, Ezri Dax. We have reached a place when such questions at last have answers, troubling as they are. Morjod may control the Hur’q, but another controls Morjod.” Martok continued, “I must make this as plain as possible: Morjod is not our primary enemy. Though he may not know it himself, he is but a piece in another’s game.”
This was new information to Ezri, as apparently it was to the starship captains. Two of them began to converse in a stilted Klingon dialect too quickly for Ezri to follow, and the other two adjusted themselves in their chairs. This revelation is more disturbing to them than anything they’ve heard so far, Ezri realized. But why? And then she heard one of the two conversing captains say the Klingon word for “Federation” and she understood. They were worried that Morjod’s handler was an outsider.
Martok, too, must have understood what they were thinking and quickly corrected them. “No, my friends. Do not misunderstand. Our foe is not an alien. Perhaps if that were the case, the battle before us would be clearer. But our enemy, though every bit as monstrous as the Hur’q, wears a Klingon’s face. Her name is Gothmara and though much of her story is not known, I believe we may anticipate her motivations and her goals from what we do know. But that part of the tale should be told by he who discovered it.” Martok turned and indicated Kahless, who had been sitting silently throughout the chancellor’s recitation. “Emperor,” Martok said. “Tell us what you have learned.”
Kahless rose then and, in his deep, sonorous voice, began his tale.
4
Kahless began, “I am known by many as ‘the clone emperor,’ ‘the Ghost of Kahless,’ and, my favorite, ‘Kahless the Forgotten.’”
Every Klingon in the room stood, protesting his words, but Kahless waved them back into their seats.
“Stop, stop,” he said. “I cast no aspersions. Neither do I disagree. My time as emperor has been … less than distinguished. When I returned and Gowron challenged my legitimacy, Worf forged a compromise. I decided to serve my people as an example of what Klingons—who had fallen from the true path laid down by the original Kahless—could once again be. This was a noble and glorious challenge to me and I took it into my heart, but it was not long before I realized that Gowron would never allow me to have any meaningful effect on my people.”
Listening to the emperor’s words, Martok recalled their few discussions before he became chancellor and the single one after. During much of Gowron’s soul-crushing administration, Kahless had seemed exhausted and ready to abandon his mission. Then, several months before Gowron died, Kahless had called Martok to a brief, secret meeting. The emperor had been kindly, even solicitous, and had seemed interested only in Martok’s health, his emotional well-being. This had confused the general, but he did his best to answer all the questions put to him. When he asked if there was anything Kahless wished to know about the war effort, the emperor had simply said, “I am not worried about the war.”
“Then what are you worried about, Emperor?” Martok had asked with a touch of anger.
“Nothing now. I just wanted to see how you were doing.” That had been, more or less, the end of the interview, and Martok had left shortly after. He hadn’t thought about the meeting since that day, probably because he had attributed Kahless’s seeming renewed good spirits to his feeling reassured that the alliance would be victorious.
Then, shortly after Gowron had died, Kahless had called him to another private interview—this one in a small tavern on a Klingon starbase—and Martok had been concerned to see his emperor dressed in the ragtag clothes of a beggar. Fearing that Kahless had lost his senses, Martok had spent several tense minutes trying to determine if there was any way to drag him back to his ship unnoticed. But then, after only a brief conversation, the chancellor had seen that Kahless’s wits were, if possible, keener than ever.
When Martok had asked if he was glad Gowron was gone, Kahless had responded cryptically, “But is he?”
“I saw his body with my own eyes,” Martok had said.
“But can he truly have passed if his spirit still lingers?” Kahless had replied. “A poison has polluted the souls of our people; Gowron is only a symptom of its foulness. I have been on a quest for a cure and will not return until I have found it.”
Further questioning did not produce any useful information, and the two had parted ways. In the succeeding months, Martok was so distracted by the escalating war that he was unable to devote any thought to the matter. Perhaps now, as he addressed this council, the meaning of Kahless’s words would become clear.
“I left Qo’noS and took to traveling as a beggar. It was surprising how easy it was to become a faceless entity and this despite the fact that my likeness is carved into the edifices of many buildings and my image can be found on government documents, in newsfeeds, even on currency. But as your eyes now show you, my beard and mane have gone white since my return. And few will look into a beggar’s eyes. Even those who will seem only to find a reflection of their own misery.” Kahless shook his head sadly and Martok began to worry that they would be in for a lecture before the old man got to the point. Though he regretted his impatience and inwardly chastised himself, there was no ignoring the fact that Kahless enjoyed having an audience and could, at times, tire out even the most devout believer. Still, Worf, Alexander, and even old Darok were listening patiently, almost reverently. He did not bother to turn to see how Sirella was responding to all this, because he had heard her vent similar opinions in the past. It would give his wife some small satisfaction to hear that the emperor agreed with her on many issues, though Martok could not forget that she had been one of the most vocal protesters when the clone emperor had come into power.
“I turned my back on the joyless, savage brutes who called themselves Klingons and wen
t in search of those who still remembered the essential teachings of the original Kahless. It was,” the emperor said, “to be a long, frustrating search.” Walking to a small refreshment table in the corner, Kahless poured himself a small cup of water and drank it off quickly. Martok had noticed since his return that Kahless no longer drank bloodwine or, indeed, anything stronger than the juice of the prune that Worf favored. “But my quest was not my only concern,” he continued. “I made certain to keep a watchful eye on the empire’s leadership. When the conflict with the Dominion began, Gowron was sucked into the maelstrom of war, then quickly became its seething eye. But I have seen enough wars to know that one should always carefully observe what happens around the ragged edges, where chaos reigns supreme. Studying intelligence reports passed on to me by allies I have made, I noted the movements of members of the High Council and, soon enough, found the opportunist I knew would be there.”
Worf said, “Morjod.”
Kahless nodded. “My contacts back on Qo’noS confirmed my suspicion: while the rest of the council was embroiled in fighting a war, Morjod was amassing power. The more I learned about this enigmatic, though admittedly charismatic, figure, the more I discovered that there were suspicious lapses in his background.”
“Such as?” Sirella asked. This revelation had obviously piqued her curiosity. Martok’s wife had always prided herself on her ability to uncover useful information about her House’s allies and enemies. In addition to all the pain Morjod had caused her family, her failure to discover anomalies about his past injured her pride.
The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2 Page 3