“There were several minor inconsistencies,” Kahless explained. “Most of them were inconsequential on their own, but they added up to a picture of someone who was attempting to conceal his past. For example, his family was supposed to have gained its wealth through mining concerns in the Hromi Cluster.”
Worf furrowed his brow at this. “There are no Klingon mining concerns in the Hromi Cluster. It is controlled by Ferengi and Orion concerns.” He sneered. “Most of them illegal, I might add.”
“Precisely,” Kahless said. “Though I might point out that very few Klingons would know this since we consider it distasteful to discuss commerce.”
“It is not a warrior’s concern,” said B’Tak, captain of the Ya’Vang. It was the first time he had spoken in the council room since their discussion had begun.
“It is precisely that attitude that allowed Morjod to hide his true dealings,” the emperor explained. Turning to B’Tak, he asked, “Why isn’t commerce a warrior’s concern? Should a warrior not need to know where his house gets the materials and wealth he needs to fight his battles? And, more importantly, what is the point of battle if not to ensure his family’s security so that they all might enjoy the fruits of his skills?”
B’Tak was confused, even flustered. He hadn’t expected Kahless to explore this line of thought. “The point of battle,” he said, practically sputtering, “is battle.”
Sighing heavily, Kahless turned away from the captain and looked closely into the eyes of every other Klingon in the room. Apparently not finding what he sought, he turned to Ezri Dax and asked her, “Do you believe this?”
“I’m not a Klingon,” Ezri said.
“That’s not what I asked you,” Kahless said. “I said, ‘Do you believe this?’”
“Then, no, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because battle without a goal, an end in sight, is just …” She wavered, struggling to find the right word. Finally, she found it and, almost whispering, said, “Chaos.”
“And what does chaos lead to?”
Without hesitation, Ezri said, “Death. Only death.”
Kahless stared at her for several long, silent seconds, then turned to look at B’Tak. “Do you agree?”
“No,” B’Tak said brusquely. “To do battle is a privilege. To die in battle is an honor.”
“Ezri Dax,” Kahless said without looking away from B’Tak. “How many times have you died?”
“Eight,” she replied. “I am the ninth host of the Dax symbiont.”
“And were any of those times in battle?”
“Yes,” she said. “More than once. My last host, Jadzia, she died in a kind of battle.”
“In the end,” Kahless asked, “were any of your deaths more glorious than any other?”
Ezri snorted. “No,” she said. “Death’s only glory comes from a well-lived life. By itself, death is only death.”
Kahless continued to stare into B’Tak’s eyes, but as Ezri finished speaking, the emperor’s mouth broke into a soft smile. “Thank you, child.” He turned to look at Martok. “She is a worthy addition to your house.”
Martok only nodded, but was more proud in that moment than he knew how to express.
* * *
Simultaneously anxious and elated, Worf listened intently to the debate between B’Tak and Ezri and marveled at his own serene viewpoint. Where once he might have felt compelled to insert himself between such polar extremes and try to reconcile them—especially since they so closely mirrored his own oft-divided soul—today he was content to let them argue. It might not last long, but today, at this hour, Worf, son of Mogh, knew who he was and what he must do. Kahless had shown him the way. In a way that he would have been hard-pressed to explain to anyone—except possibly Jadzia—Worf felt smugly pleased with himself. All those months ago, when he had called Martok “the leader of destiny,” it had been mostly rhetoric meant to inspire the council. But, now, if what Kahless had revealed to him was true—and he had no doubt that it was—then his brother Martok was even more a man of destiny than Worf had suspected.
B’Tak surprised Worf by not pursuing the argument, but seemed content to let Kahless continue with his monologue. Worf resolved to watch the captain carefully. The suspected betrayal at Ketha by one of the crew of the Negh’Var still stung. Of course, Worf had no proof that any of them had revealed their location to Morjod and, if he did, he probably paid for his treachery with his life, but the former security officer of the Enterprise disliked being surprised. He had made it the point of his life to be prepared for every eventuality thrown at him.
But for the time being, Worf would sit, listen, and learn. There was still so much about their enemy he did not understand, and if he was to aid the emperor and his brother, then he would have to be prepared.
“Morjod’s official record,” Kahless continued, “lists his birthplace as a small town in the Chak’ok region of the Homeworld. I checked their archive and found a document, which I believe is a skillful forgery. It was so skillful in fact that I knew I could never prove anything with it. However, whoever had constructed the concealing tapestry of Morjod’s history had not snipped every loose thread. My associates and I performed a careful search of records and found that a child matching Morjod’s description had traveled several times back and forth between Chak’ok and Boreth.”
Pausing to let this revelation settle in, Kahless poured himself another glass of water. Looking around at his audience, he said, “I see most of you understand the significance of this information.”
Several pairs of eyes slid over to look at Ezri.
Observing that most eyes were on her, Ezri said, “I suppose this is the point where everyone is expecting me to raise my hand and say, ‘I don’t understand.’”
“Do you?” Kahless asked.
“Actually, I think I might” she said, brightening. “You were—for want of a better word—born on Boreth. Perhaps ‘created’ would be more correct—by clerics or monks of some kind?”
Kahless nodded. “The r’tak of Boreth created me from the original Kahless’s genetic material. Our people have very little tolerance for experimentation with genetic science, so only those in the most remote, private places have the opportunity to carry out such experiments.”
“And Morjod has ties there?” Ezri said.
Kahless exchanged glances with Martok, then nodded.
“I’m beginning to see what this might have to do with the Hur’q,” she said, furrowing her brow.
He offered Ezri a sage smile before continuing. “I traveled back to Boreth in secret. My goal was to uncover anything I could about Morjod’s past, and after a very short investigation, I learned much more than I had expected.”
Ezri, who clearly enjoyed playing along with the emperor, asked, “What did you find?”
Kahless let the question hang for a moment, then said, “His mother—and my own.”
* * *
“What are you saying?” Worf snarled as he leapt to his feet. “Morjod is another clone of Kahless?”
Ezri winced. All the Klingons began talking at once, most of them very loudly. The captains had abandoned their chairs to gather around Worf. Only Sirella, who remained stock-still in her chair, and Darok seemed unperturbed by the emperor’s words. When Ezri met the old gin’tak’s gaze across the table, he shrugged and raised his mug in toast.
For several seconds, Kahless stared in bafflement at the crowd gathering around him before waving Worf and the others back to their chairs. “Worf—forgive me for lapsing into metaphor. No. Morjod is not a clone. All I am saying is that Morjod’s mother, Gothmara, was the one who conceived of the idea of cloning me from the preserved blood of Kahless. Not only did she plan the procedure, but she was largely responsible for executing it, too. As learned as Koroth and his order are, they are scholars and priests, not scientists. It was Gothmara who facilitated my creation. She is an astonishingly adept scientist, possibly the greatest our race has produced i
n the past century.”
“And the most insane and immoral,” Martok added. He exchanged glances with the emperor and then waved Kahless to a seat. “As much as it pains me to speak of this matter before my family and honored allies, I believe it again falls on me to take up the tale.”
As Martok spoke, Ezri’s trained eye caught a fleeting expression of cold fury—an expression no one else seemed to notice—flash in Sirella’s face. Maybe now she’d find out what had come between Martok and Sirella. Poor guy. If we were at Quark’s I’d buy him a bottle. As a gesture of support, she slid out of her chair, poured a mug of bloodwine, and passed it to Martok, who accepted it gratefully.
After draining half the cup, he wiped his mouth and said simply, “House Kultan.” Looking around, he studied the faces of the others and noted their expressions. “What does that name mean to you? Worf? Anyone?”
Kultan … Kultan … Why does that name sound so familiar? Ezri puzzled. Not a Jadzia memory, though. Too long ago. Must be Curzon….
Martok’s wife stirred, but did not reply directly.
“You know, Sirella. Your father was active in the council.” Finally, he looked at the emperor and murmured, “And of course you know. But probably no one else.”
Draining the rest of the wine in a gulp, Martok stood. “How to explain?” he asked, and walked around the table to stand before the others. “It was a lifetime ago, a different era. We had finally made peace with the Federation, the Defense Force was at its strongest in decades, and the Romulans had yet to betray us. The empire was, in many ways, at its peak. The Praxis disaster was behind us. Trade was excellent. Many worlds still paid us tribute, but we no longer needed to crush every insurrection that dared raise its head.” Sighing, Martok said, “Many would say it was a golden age, brief though it was.”
“With respect, my brother,” Worf said. “What has this to do with Morjod?”
“My point is simply this: In an earlier, more desperate era, a scientist of Gothmara’s character might have been embraced, even venerated for her skills. But in the time I speak of, because we were secure in our power, the empire did not accept what she and her father offered.”
Worf said, “Bioweapons?”
Martok grunted in ascent. “Though other races in the quadrant were not so discriminating, the council repulsed such overtures … but I’m getting ahead of myself.”
Martok’s voice dropped and all strained to hear him. “When I met Gothmara, she was the science officer aboard her father’s ship, Gothspar, named after his dead wife. I was a lieutenant, having just been elevated following the Battle of Tcha’voth. Kultan was, in his way, as seductive as his daughter. Everyone in the ranks knew that he invited only the best to join his crew, warriors of proven abilities, and he did not care about social rank or family status. Your value was measured in your worth to him. Nothing else mattered and we were the most fanatically loyal crew in the empire.”
“I have known others who inspire that loyalty,” Worf interjected.
“Your praise—if I am interpreting you correctly—is appreciated, my brother,” Martok replied, “but my desire has always been only to be an able warrior and inspire the same in others. Kultan expected you to be the best. If you were anything less, you were sent away, broken and spent. He was ruthless, but there was a glory in his service that I have never felt anywhere since.” Martok grinned and Ezri could see he was drifting back to simpler times when all he needed was a strong back, keen vision, and a willingness to serve. “And I was among his chosen elite,” he continued. “Kultan made me his tactical officer and we were an unstoppable force.”
Clearly savoring the memory, Martok continued. “Gothmara served as science officer and even then she must have been working on her genetic experiments. The moment her bridge shifts ended, she fled to her labs and labored through the night. She was tireless, as driven as her father. I admired her dedication greatly and found myself amazed and intrigued by such a woman.
“But I was ignorant of many things in those days,” Martok said, more to himself than the others. “And made it a point to never listen to shipboard gossip, feeling it was beneath contempt.” He glanced at Darok meaningfully. “Now I have others who do the listening for me, but only because I learned the value of knowing what rumors the lower decks were chewing like cud. Had I been wiser in those days, I would have discovered, long before I did, that many of the crew had concerns not only about Gothmara’s research, but also about how Kultan financed his house.”
“He was selling bioweapons?” B’Tak asked, his voice thick with disgust.
Martok nodded. “I did not learn this for many weeks and by that time I—” He paused. “My loyalties were conflicted.”
As she listened to Martok diplomatically relating this tale from his past, Ezri believed she’d figured out why Martok told this story instead of Kahless, why Martok had a vested interest in Gothmara’s treachery. No wonder Sirella is angry, she thought, recalling some of Worf’s more irrational outbursts of jealousy. How humiliating to have to reveal this in public.
“My rival on the ship, the second-degree tactical officer, Manx, showed me records he had pulled out of the ship’s database. It did not occur to me at the time that the only reason he told me was because he knew I would be fool enough to confront Kultan.”
Clearly lost in the well of memory, he paused in front of the window, gazing out at the stars. “But I surprised Manx,” he said softly. “I did something he could not have anticipated because, despite the evidence, I could not believe that Gothmara, the woman I’d come to love, was involved.”
A tense silence filled the room as the council absorbed Martok’s last revelation. Even her anticipation of this truth didn’t shield Ezri from the shock of hearing Martok confess that he had ever loved anyone other than Sirella. Martok and Gothmara lovers? And that could mean Morjod … She contemplated the ramifications. Morjod as Martok’s—? Whoa…. None—including Ezri—dared look in Sirella’s direction. Ezri imagined that Sirella’s pride must be stinging with angry humiliation, since she so despised discussing even the smallest personal detail outside the family.
For a moment longer, Martok maintained his position in front of the window. He then turned to face the council, his head held square on his shoulders. One by one, he looked deeply into the eyes of each individual seated at the table, whether to offer reassurance or penance, Ezri couldn’t guess. When he reached Ezri, she offered a sympathetic smile that he acknowledged with a wink of his single eye. All politely averted their gazes when Martok faced Sirella.
Indicating the time for reflection had passed, Martok tossed his hair imperiously and threaded his hands behind his back as if he were assuming command of the bridge. “Instead of confronting Kultan with bat’leth and disruptor in hand,” he continued, “I tracked my lover to her lab, hoping that together, we could liberate the Gothspar from her father’s treachery.”
5
Stalking down the corridors of the Gothspar, Lieutenant Martok felt the red curtain of rage threaten to cloud his vision. It cannot be true, he thought. But if it is, Kultan must pay. But first, he knew, he must inform Gothmara of his plan and find a safe haven for her. When the rest of the senior crew learned of Kultan’s infamy, there would be bloodshed.
“Bloodshed! Ha!” he said aloud, and swung his bat’leth in a bright arc. They will tear Kultan limb from limb. Though imperial law had banned bioweapons, Klingon pride had spoken long before the legal ruling. A warrior should face a foe looking him in the eyes while he slew him. Even when space was the battleground and the weapons were starships, each side squared off against the other as an equal combatant. Bioweapons were cringing and cowardly. Anyone who would make them, let alone use them, was beneath contempt, as cowardly as a Terran and as conniving as a Romulan. Sniveling petaQ Kultan!
But for his captain to have committed such perfidy right under Martok’s nose? How could he have been so blind? What if he and Gothmara had wed? Then his name would be link
ed to the scandal when it was uncovered, as surely it must be. In the name of honor, his own and Gothmara’s, he must expose Kultan’s treachery.
Crew members stepped to the side and pressed themselves against the bulkheads as Martok strode past. Though he knew the ship’s schematics as well as the curve of Gothmara’s back, he rarely visited this part of it, mostly because his lover had asked him to stay away. “I cannot work when you are near,” she had said, stroking the ridge above his eyes. Martok had smiled when she had said that and pulled her closer, their warm, slick bodies sliding together. The memory made him miss a step and he felt his resolve waver. What if Gothmara tried to persuade him to spare her father? Her love for Kultan was, in its way, as intense and palpable as her love for Martok. An admiration for their familial closeness was one of the characteristics that had brought him into Kultan’s service in the first place. Such a strong House! But Gothmara was not her father. Surely she would not condone such dishonorable conduct … would she?
“No!” he shouted, and a maintenance engineer who was rounding a corner jumped back in surprise and stared at him wide-eyed as Martok swept past. Gothmara would be as revolted as he was when he showed her the data spike Manx had given him. The recording clearly showed Kultan delivering a bioshielded case to an Orion trader in exchange for a credit chip—who knew how much?—and the accompanying scan data revealed that the case held virulently mutagenic organisms unknown in the current taxonomies. There could be no doubt. Kultan was a traitor to the Empire.
Coming to the doors to Gothmara’s labs, he pressed the entry-request key, and when there was not an immediate response, he banged the butt of his disruptor against the metal frame. “Gothmara!” he shouted, then again, and was preparing to fire his weapon at the lock when the doors parted.
Standing there, annoyed and unkempt, she looked like a storybook warrior-princess who had been roused from a much-deserved rest after a battle with the hideous jybok. Martok knew her well enough to know that she hadn’t been sleeping at all, but had, in fact, been wrestling with a foe of sorts. Gothmara was already famous—or infamous—on the ship for her multishift lab sessions, sometimes working for two or three days in a row if she could arrange to have her bridge work covered by others. Even as he stood looking at her, disheveled but oh so desirable, the first worm of doubt began to creep into his soul: How does she always manage to find someone to do her work? What currency does she trade with?
The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2 Page 4