The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2

by J. G. Hertzler

  “Can’t lock on?” Worf rumbled as he rose from his chair. “Why?”

  Ezri beckoned at the viewer and glared at him. “I don’t know,” she growled. “Why don’t you take a look?”

  Worf did as she bade, then spent several minutes checking and rechecking her coordinates. Finally, he pounded the console with his fist and cursed. “I cannot get a lock on it.”

  “That’s what I said!”

  Everyone on the bridge ducked their heads nervously. Alexander had lived on enough Klingon ships to know that this was generally the point where officers drew weapons and eyed each other’s jugulars. None of the others understood that Ezri and Worf wouldn’t attack, though, certainly, they had other ways of inflicting misery on each other.

  Instead of being a spectator, Alexander decided to help. He ran a full-spectrum analysis of the minerals in the comet’s tail, reviewing the results while Worf and Ezri snarled at each other about the relative merits of Klingon scanners. Alexander asked, “Father, do you know anything about kelbonite?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, this area is saturated with it. It must have been inside a comet that broke apart during the last four years.

  Ezri groaned. “I thought it couldn’t be any worse after we got word of Morjod’s last attack. Now this.”

  “We will never be able to lock on to it,” Worf said.

  “But I can get us a picture of it,” Ezri replied, the animosity gone from her voice now that she understood the nature of the problem. She pressed a set of controls and the image on the main monitor shimmered. “There,” she said. “To the left. It’s hard to keep the image centered, but look toward the right for a bright crescent….” And sure enough, when the image resolved, there it was, tumbling in a lazy arc, endlessly slashing through the fabric of space-time, the legendary Sword of Kahless, glistening in the starlight.

  Alexander looked around him and saw that the bridge crew, collectively, sat straighter in their chairs, each gaze locked on the monitor. Even without a clear view of the weapon, each of them knew that before them was the bat’leth that had once been held by the first Emperor Kahless. Many of them—probably all of them—had met the clone, but somehow seeing this almost mythological relic breathed new life into the legend. At least once in a lifetime, every Klingon had sworn, “By Kahless’s sword,” and now, there it was, spinning in space before them.

  “Tractor beam won’t work. Does this ship have a shuttle?” Ezri asked.

  “Yes,” Worf said, “but thrusters might disturb the area around the sword and send it tumbling away. If we lose sight of it, we may never find it again.”

  “A grapple?”

  Worf looked at her skeptically.

  “Never mind,” Ezri said irritably. “It was just a thought.” She sighed. “Fine, then. Only one thing to do.”

  “Yes,” Worf agreed.

  “Someone is going to have to go out there and get it.”

  * * *

  Martok floated in a wine-dark sea, his arms and legs dancing in the waves like inflatable buoys. There was neither sun nor moon, but a diffused, leaden light filled the air, coloring everything—sky, sea, Martok himself—a uniform shade of somber gray. Though Martok had never feared the ocean, he had never trusted it. With a wild diversity of creatures lurking just under the surface of the Klingon seas, he knew that floating around in a horizonless gulf should concern him. Yet he felt relaxed and at peace. His arms and legs felt simultaneously heavy and light and he was not in the slightest bit worried about swallowing seawater or drowning. Were it not for the nagging sense that he was supposed to be elsewhere, about important business, Martok felt sure he would be forever content to skip along the tips of the rolling waves.

  Without warning, the sea beneath him churned and the waves rolled upward into a peak as if a mountain were growing up underneath him. Martok slid down the slope, his body rigid, slashed beneath the surface, bobbed up like a cork, then swirled in the churning surf. Blinking the water from his eye, he turned his head and saw there was a mountain floating beside him, a sinuous mountain covered with silver-gray scales and edged with razor-sharp fins. He was too close to take in the whole thing, but he knew he was looking at a leviathan, some kind of immense serpent from prehistoric depths. Martok saw its gaping maw and its tremulous gills and wondered how many seconds would tick past before the creature decided it was hungry. Strangely, this thought held no particular terror for him; he was simply impatient for whatever was going to happen next to happen.

  Glaring down at him with one of its unblinking eyes, the creature asked, MARTOK? IS THAT YOU?

  This was not precisely the question Martok had been expecting, but since it’s never a good idea to be rude to a gigantic sea beast, he said, Yes. I’m Martok. Who are you?

  The serpent’s slitted eye rolled heavenward and it replied (rather testily, Martok thought), MY NAME HAS NO MEANING TO YOU.

  Yes, I suppose. All right, then what are you?

  The monster said, I AM YOUR TRANSPORTATION. And, with that, it opened its mouth, allowing kiloliters of seawater—and Martok—to slide down into its gullet. Martok screamed as he tumbled down into the glistening pink maw, then screamed himself hoarse when the jaws snapped shut and the light disappeared.

  Martok’s face was cut by the wind of his passage as he plunged through the black. Fearful that the walls of the serpent’s gullet were lined with knives, he curled himself into a ball, his face pressed against his thighs, not even noticing that he could once again control his arms and legs. He knew not how many seconds or minutes or even hours passed then in that timeless, lightless place. The serpent’s gullet might have led to the center of the world, but Martok allowed his mind to go blank. For a space of time, he was a nothing, a fleck of sea foam in a torrent.

  But then, after an eternity of feeling nothing but the wind against his limbs, the fear ebbed away and a thought pricked Martok’s warrior’s heart: This is not how a man dies.

  Uncurling from a ball, Martok straightened, flung his arms out before himself, and, spearlike, slashed into the wind. The speed of his passage increased geometrically with every second until, even though it was dark, he knew that he traveled at a rate no terrestrial object could achieve. The flesh of his arms fused together, became rigid and edged like steel, and he felt his spine stiffen. I am the line that divides, Martok thought, and then he willed a change of course: not down—no more down for him, but up and away.

  The tips of his fingers cut through the first layer of the serpent’s spongy gut. Deeper in—or, more accurately, on his way out—he slashed through gristle, bone, and suet.

  Suddenly, it was light again and Martok stared up into a bright orange sun framed by puffy, luminous amber clouds. He was out in the fresh air, arcing upward into the sky, propelled by his own force of will, catching an added boost from the creature’s thrashing body. Blinded, he closed his eye against the sudden glare, but enjoyed the gust of wind against his face.

  The rush of air slowed as Martok reached apogee and then, once again taken by gravity, he tilted forward, arms still stiff before him, and began falling back toward the ground. Below him, he saw the arch of a lovely emerald, gold, and burnt umber landscape and two tiny figures at the edge of a rectangular field of waving grain.

  He was falling now, streaking toward the ground, but once again he was unafraid. A voice inside him said, You’re a spear now. This is what spears do.

  Martok the spear pierced the ground near the edge of the field, vibrating with released kinetic energy. A wild joy sang through his length, the knowledge that he was doing precisely what he wanted to do at precisely the right moment.

  A large, gnarled hand closed around him and began to tug.

  Urthog, father of Martok, picked up the spear and twisted it around to examine its point. Studying the spear carefully, without judgment, the old man said, “Here you are. I thought I had lost you.”

  Without hesitation, Martok asked, How did you find me?
>
  Urthog looked back over his shoulder and raised his free arm to take it all in: the fields, the trees, the darkening sky. “I lived here in Ketha as a boy,” he said. “There’s very little of it I did not know.”

  It has changed a great deal, Martok said.

  “I know. It was already changing when I was still alive, and not for the better. I was saddened by it, but there was very little I could do.”

  I didn’t think there was anything you couldn’t do, Martok said. When you set your mind to it.

  Then, Urthog did something Martok could never remember seeing him do. His lips parted and he broke out into a smile. “Then you had many misconceptions about me.”

  You never smiled, either.

  “That can’t be true,” Urthog replied, an eyebrow raised. “I was renowned for my sense of humor.”

  I do not think so. I would have heard about that.

  “I swear to you it is true.”

  Mother never laughed.

  “That is because your mother had no sense of humor,” Urthog said, “but that is forgivable in a wife. I loved her until my dying breath. You know that, don’t you?”

  I knew that.

  “Good.” Urthog hefted Martok in his hand, gauged his weight, then cocked his arm back. “You have to go now. Be well, my son. I am proud of you.”

  I will bring you honor, Father.

  “Honor me by honoring yourself,” Urthog said, then threw Martok with all his might. He arched upward into the twilight sky, moving faster and faster, and left the fields and flatlands around the river far below. The stars beckoned, first glittering, then turning into quivering balls of orange-gold light as he reached the edge of the atmosphere. Plummeting back to Qo’noS, he felt the urgent tug of gravity, but knew no fear. Wherever he fell next would be the place he was meant to be.

  Kilometers below him, Martok spied a luminous red dot, which quickly grew into a glowing circle, then a shimmering pool. Waves of superheated air and a sulfurous reek roiled up from the pool, buffeting and tumbling him, pushing him first this way, then that. Now fear rose up within him again. Martok knew what it was below him. He had seen it from space on more than one occasion, impossible to miss when approaching the First City from the north, the prescribed pattern for military traffic. This was the Kri’stak Volcano, the mightiest of the Twelve Sisters, the ring of active volcanoes that dominated the inhospitable Kra’ta plains.

  Kri’stak and her sisters had been bubbling and roiling for millennia unknown, volcanoes that did not scab over and seal, a seismic anomaly studied by every geologist in the quadrant. Some said it was because a demon was trapped under each of the Twelve; others claimed it was because Kahless himself had commanded that they never die because he might have need of them someday. Here it was that he forged the first “sword of honor” by dropping a lock of hair into Kri’stak, then plunging it into nearby Lake Lursor, twisting it with his bare hands into the characteristic curve of the bat’leth.

  As Martok fell, he screamed, but could not hear himself over the sound of magma geysers exploding into the sky. No one watching could have noticed his insignificant splash when he crashed into the magma. Swirling in liquid rock, he changed yet again, unfolding, lengthening and stretching his arms wide in an attempt to embrace all of reality.

  Before he could reach so wide that he was pulled apart, something grasped him and pulled him from the pool of molten rock. Shocked by the cold air, his skin turned black and sloughed off in flakes of ash, but beneath the black burrs, his almost liquid flesh burbled and threatened to lose its shape. There came then the rush of air and he was a swirling arc through the sulfurous night sky; then a downward plunge and Martok was chilled to his marrow, flesh growing rigid around his sinews.

  Someone lifted him, still dripping, into the sky and swept him in a circle, encompassing the world, the galaxy, all of creation. All around him, he heard the echo of the voice of his creator, Kahless the Unforgettable, as he chanted the names of his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father and all who came before them. When he reached the last name, Kahless brought Martok down in a blow so powerful that the tip of his point cracked a great boulder, sending it flying in two directions, one to the volcano and the other to the lake.

  “This,” Kahless shouted, holding his blade aloft, “is the place of the new beginning.” Twirling the weapon so that starlight glinted on the edge, he finished, “And this is the line that divides the old from the new.”

  * * *

  Martok woke up.

  Hunkered down beside his narrow bed sat Pharh, who was reading aloud from a small, leather-bound book. Martok tried to speak, but found that his lips and tongue were too dry to form words. “Oh, hey there,” Pharh said when he saw the bright eye gleaming. “You’re awake. Finally.”

  Martok raised his hand very slowly and pointed at his mouth. Pharh understood the gesture and lifted a simple wooden cup to his lips and helped him to sip water. When Martok could feel his tongue again, he said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. We were pretty worried about you for a while there. I’m going to go get the other guys. They said I was supposed to do that when you woke up.”

  Martok nodded, then murmured. “How long?”

  “Couple days,” Pharh said, rising. “Surprised it wasn’t longer. When they found you, you were in rough shape. How are you now?”

  “Now?” Martok asked, and found that he was performing a quick audit in a sincere attempt to answer the question. Other than being tired, he decided he felt fine. Rejuvenated, in fact. He attempted to explain this, but when he opened his mouth, what he said was “I am the line that divides.”

  Pharh cocked an eyebrow. “Ohhh-kay,” he concluded. “You get some more sleep. I’ll go get you some, uh, help.”

  “Good idea,” Martok said, or tried to, but before he could get the words out he was asleep again. Pharh lingered for a moment or two and was surprised, most sincerely surprised, to see that the old Klingon appeared to be if not happy then calmer than he had ever before appeared.

  Shaking his head, Pharh left him. As Martok drifted back into sleep, he heard, “There’s just no way to ever know what to expect from Klingons.”

  13

  When Martok awoke again, he was much more lucid (no more talk about lines and dividing) and, much more important from Pharh’s point of view, ravenously hungry. Pharh watched in awed wonder as he slurped up bowl after bowl of katch, the thick gruel the katai subsisted on. Pharh had no idea where the gunk came from or what it was made from, but he loved it. Katch was bland, belly-filling goodness, and he was strangely pleased to see Martok enjoying it so much. He felt better for knowing they had something in common.

  He had only been awake—really awake—for less than half a day, but the old man seemed different. Putting a finger on exactly what had changed—well, there was the puzzle. Was he acting any differently? No, not really. Martok was every bit as grumpy and irascible as before. Did he look any different? Again, not really. He had the same gray, rumpled mane, the same worn and haggard face, and the same slab of scar tissue where his left eye used to be. If anything, he looked even the worse for wear, compared with the last time Pharh had seen him on the shuttle. His battle with Gothmara’s pets had been hard on him. If the katai were to be believed (and Pharh most definitely did; it was difficult to imagine any of them lying), there was no force in the universe that could have healed Martok. Kept him alive, maybe, but heal? No. According to Angwar, their chief medic, Martok’s spinal cord had been broken in several places and he had received major trauma to his brain. Falling three hundred meters down a cliff—even if you’re curled up inside a Hur’q’s body—does a lot of damage. He didn’t understand how Martok could be alive, yet, undeniably, here he was scraping at a morsel of food with his fingertips.

  “Good, isn’t it?” Pharh asked.

  “Awful,” Martok said, extending the bowl. “But I’m famished. More please.”

  “I’
m going to get the recipe before I leave,” Pharh replied, looking into the kettle. The stuff left in the bottom was so badly dried he could barely stir it, but Pharh managed to crack off a piece and ladle it into Martok’s bowl. “On Ferenginar the franchise rights will make me absurdly wealthy, not to mention the offworld rights.”

  “I’m very happy for you,” Martok said. Pharh sat and watched the Klingon eat for several minutes, uncharacteristically silent, enjoying the companionable moment.

  “Angwar said you would be hungry for a while. The healing ceremony they used burns up a lot of resources.”

  Martok lowered the bowl, his beard dotted with specks of congealed gruel, and asked, “Were you here for any of it? Did you see what they did?”

  Pharh shook his head. “Only the last bit. By then, the katai had contacted me and talked me through the use of the transporter. By the way, the automation on your computer is useless.”

  “Pharh, the ceremony …”

  “All right. Lots of smoke and drums and blankets. The katai chanted and you talked in your sleep a lot. Do you remember any of that?”

  Martok set his bowl down on the floor beside his pallet and stared into the middle distance. This tiny cell—more like a recovery room than anything—was dimly lit but cozy, and Pharh was aware of the constant low hum of background music. All the elements combined to create a restful, even meditative space, which not only aided Martok’s recovery, but also made it possible for him to reflect on his recent experiences. “I remember … everything,” he said. “All the visions, from the very first back on the Negh’Var, just before Morjod attacked.”

  “You’ve been having visions since then?” Pharh asked. “Why didn’t you mention them to Kahless? He strikes me as the sort of fellow you’d want to tell. For one thing, he’d believe you. The rest of your friends, I’m not so sure.”

  Martok refocused his eye on Pharh. “Visions are not such an unusual thing for a Klingon to have,” he explained. “Don’t Ferengi ever receive sendings from the other world?”