The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2

by J. G. Hertzler

  Finally, after a time, the wind pierced through even the thickest armor and the assembled warriors began stamping and patting their arms and legs for warmth. The sun headed toward the horizon, though none knew for sure how long it would take to set. To all the day had felt endless.

  “What will you do now, my brother?” the Federation diplomat asked at last.

  The chancellor lowered the head of his son to the ice, picked up a piece of tattered banner, and cast it over the corpse. Looking at his brother, he growled softly, “Find his mother.”

  For the first time since Morjod’s death, Martok saw those standing around him, waiting patiently for their orders. “Go,” he said. “Gather the dead and tend to the wounded before they freeze. The battle is over. We have won.”

  And everyone looked around at the cliffs, down through the cleft, out to the plain, and saw the frozen bodies of their brothers and sisters, and realized it was true. But, still, strangely, no one raised a victory shout. They had won, but all understood the price.

  * * *

  Historians said in future ages that this was the moment when the second age of the Klingon Empire began. A single figure, an older man cloaked in gray watched the moment pass, nodded in approval, and began tending to the dead.

  21

  Martok showed the communicator Morjod had been clutching to Worf and asked, “Assuming he used this to speak to his mother, can you determine where she was?”

  Worf studied the device, crumpled around the edges where the mutated Morjod had been clutching it, and put on his pensive face. “A Khac mark seven,” he mused. “Not very durable.”

  “I’m not asking for a quartermaster’s review,” Martok replied through gritted teeth.

  “I understand, brother,” Worf said, and sighed. “But the casing has been crushed, the interior electronics exposed to the atmosphere …”

  “And…?”

  “I do not know if there is anything …”

  Alexander, who stood near his father, extended his right hand and asked, “May I?” Worf handed him the communicator. Alexander popped the outer casing away from the electronics, studied the interior for a moment, then pulled out his tricorder. After attaching a pair of leads to the communicator, he tapped on the communicator controls for several moments until a thin wisp of smoke emerged from it.

  “You’re burning out the power source,” Worf said.

  “I know,” Alexander said, studying his tricorder. Satisfied, he handed both devices to Martok. “All the data is on there.”

  Martok looked at the tricorder display. The frequencies of the communicators that last spoke to Morjod’s were listed along with a time and location stamp. “These coordinates?” he asked.

  “About three klicks back through the canyon,” Alexander replied, pointing.

  Regarding Worf questioningly, Martok asked, “This is the son you’re always worried about?”

  Worf, surprised but obviously pleased, shrugged. “Once,” he replied. “But not as much anymore.”

  “Good. Assemble the katai and ask them to join me here. To find Gothmara, I will need their familiarity with the terrain.”

  Worf nodded and grinned fiercely. “As you command, Chancellor.” He ran down the small slope and quickly disappeared into the deepening gloom.

  When he was gone, Martok slipped the tricorder into his belt. He asked, “How much cold can this take?”

  “More than you can, sir,” Alexander replied. “You’re going after her?”

  “Yes,” Martok said, turning up his collar against the wind. “Unless you think you can stop me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir. But I will be obliged to tell my father when he returns.”

  “I know. But it will take him a little time to catch up. When he does, this will all either be over or …”

  “Right, sir.” Alexander extended his hand in the human fashion and Martok took it. “Good luck, sir.”

  “Thank you, Alexander. In the past several years, there have been few acts that I have felt were as uncompromisingly correct as taking your father and you into my house.”

  The boy smiled shyly and then his expression turned serious. “Why are you doing this, sir? Why risk yourself? After all, you are the …”

  “I’m the chancellor,” Martok said. “Yes, I know. If my wife were here, she would …” He paused then and considered. What would Sirella say? He would have to grow accustomed to asking himself that for the remainder of his life. “I believe she would inform me that I am a fool, which is something I already know. All men are fools eventually for something. It’s how we know we are men.”

  Alexander laughed at that. “So, the man first and chancellor after?” he asked.

  “I would not trust a chancellor who was not a man first. Would you?”

  “No,” Alexander said. “Not unless she was a woman.”

  Now Martok laughed, then clapped the boy on his back. “You should spend more time with my son, Drex,” he said, wrapping his cloak tighter around him. “He could learn a few things from you.”

  With that, he turned and headed up through the cleft to the canyon and the plain beyond. Three kilometers, he thought wistfully, bowing his head against the wind. I am too old for this sort of thing.

  * * *

  None of the ships responded to her call. As the vehicle bounced the last several hundred yards to her hidden compound, Gothmara allowed herself, for the first time that day, to worry. Moments ago, when she had ordered the driver to proceed, she had discovered that he had disappeared, because of desertion or a misunderstanding Gothmara could not guess. Her immediate thought had been I can drive a vehicle, so she climbed in the cab and activated the controls. Unfortunately, she had never figured out how to activate the heater and was now chilled to the bone. Even her fur-lined gloves could not keep out the cold; she worried that her fingertips might be slightly frostbitten. “Fingers are simple enough to repair,” she said to herself. “Once I get back to the lab.”

  But was returning to the lab a good idea? Martok knew its location. If Morjod had not been able to defeat him in single combat … Even if the mutation had occurred as she had planned, Gothmara conceded that Martok might have defeated him. Very frustrating, she thought, fuming. I can’t go back to the lab. Then where?

  Ah. Of course. As she had been thinking earlier, her cave compound was not far from here. Much safer in many ways and, best of all, secret. She would use the communication equipment to contact one of the ships and use the Voice on an officer, convince him to beam her aboard. And then? she thought. And then I will fight another day…. First, she needed to warm up and regroup. Gothmara checked the coordinates on the navigational array (This I can figure out, she seethed, but I can’t find the heater!) and changed the vehicle’s heading.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gothmara pulled up before the cave mouth and slid out of the driver’s cab, her feet as frozen numb as a pair of ice blocks. Stumbling clumsily, she staggered to the compound’s hidden door and spoke the password to the voiceprint security module. Seconds later, the door opened, releasing a cloud of deliciously warm air. Gothmara hobbled inside and stood before the heating units, her fingers and toes pinched by a not entirely unwelcome ache as blood began flowing again. After several minutes of basking, she whispered, “Thank the gods,” an almost playful squeak of pain in her tone.

  “The gods have had nothing to do with this, Gothmara,” Martok said.

  Feeling foolish, she closed her eyes. The door, she thought. Very careless, but then, discomfort always makes me less cautious. “Then, our son …”

  “Morjod is dead. Though you hardly have the right to call him son,” Martok intoned portentously. “He gave me this before he died.” Something silver and electronic clinked on the ground near Gothmara’s feet. “I think he wanted me to find you.”

  “Why?” Gothmara asked. “So we could reconcile our differences and be reunited?”

  “I doubt it,” Martok replied humorlessly.

 
; The man never had any grasp of irony.

  “In the end, he knew he had been tricked. I think he wanted me to kill you.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” Gothmara said. Unless my hold on him slipped even more than I thought. Gothmara unbelted her long cloak and flapped the long tails around herself. “It has grown very warm in here,” she said distractedly, then turned her attention back to Martok. He held the Sword of Kahless before him now, ready for a trick, for a surprise attack. Ready for anything. Almost anything. “Morjod was my puppet even as you once were, my old lover.”

  “No,” Martok droned, stepping forward. “Never. You deceived me once, long ago, but never again. In the name of the Klingon people, I hereby charge you with treason and murder. You will accompany me back to Qo’noS to answer for your crimes.”

  Gothmara laughed. The man was delightful when he was full of himself. Reaching around to the small of her back, she twisted her hips as if loosening joints and removed a small vial from the inside of her belt. Pinching the top just so, she waved her arm before her and, concentrating, summoned her Voice. “Treason?” she asked. “All I have betrayed was a corrupt government. And murder? Who has died?”

  “Who has died?” Martok sputtered. “Who has died? Thousands have died! You murdered my comrades, my daughters, my wife!”

  “Wife?” Gothmara asked, her voice filled with confusion. “You are such a simpleton, Martok. Don’t you recognize what’s right in front of you?”

  * * *

  And even as Gothmara said the words, Sirella stepped out from behind a pillar. She wore a pair of manacles on her wrists and appeared disheveled, even underfed, but not too much worse for wear considering how long Gothmara had been holding her prisoner.

  Martok blinked. Shook his head, but the figure before him remained the same. Morjod must have beamed her off the ship just before it was destroyed. A trump card that he gave to his mother in case things fell out badly for her. But he would not let the witch manipulate him. She had made her last mistake, taunting him, letting Sirella come within his grasp. Two steps, three at the most, and his love would once again be by his side; he would be able to protect her. His head fairly swam at the prospect of being able to make up for his past errors.

  “Sirella,” Martok said, and reached out to her with his right hand, the bat’leth hanging by his left side. “Stand behind me. We’ll free your hands later.”

  “As you command, my husband,” Sirella said, and moved into the circle of his arms.

  As you command? Martok wondered. What has Gothmara been drugging her with? But he could not resist the temptation to touch her, to encircle his wife in his arms and feel as if, even for a moment, he could protect her.

  “My love,” Sirella said, and brought her hands up to his chest. “I have missed you.”

  “And I you, Sirella,” Martok replied. “But do not stand between me and that witch or she may … Oh.”

  As cold as he was, the knife blade sliding up into his midsection was by far the coldest sensation Martok had ever felt. A sliver of ice cut into his belly and now Sirella probed with it, searching for his heart so that she could freeze it. The shock rattled up and down his nerves, making his knees wobble and his fingers numb. His weapon was a dead weight in his hand, gravity too strong to defy.

  Trying to turn away from her, Martok felt the d’k’ tahg tear into his chest wall. Muscles quivered and he smelled a terrible odor that meant she had nicked his intestines. “Sirella?” he asked weakly, bending forward, unable to stand erect. Staring up into her face, he tried to ask “Why?” but was unable to breathe.

  But it was not Sirella before him. He saw a dim gray outline, a flowing shape that danced before his eyes. A woman, yes, but not Sirella. She held something in her hand, but not a tiny knife. This woman held in one hand a simple wooden cup and in the other, something that gleamed brightly. He had seen this object before and, smiling, the woman tried to remind him of its name before she disappeared. When she vanished, Gothmara stood before him and Martok startled to awareness. Ah, yes, a bat’leth.

  He raised the blade one-armed and swung. Just before it connected with her neck, Gothmara’s eyes widened.

  Martok overbalanced and fell on his back. That’s done it, he thought before he passed out. But Sirella will be very angry with me….

  Epilogue

  Two Months Later

  Martok awoke in his favorite chair, realizing that he had fallen asleep during the meeting with Admiral Ross. Once, he would have found this irritating and would have been profusely apologizing to the Federation officer, but he had been back on semiactive status for less than two weeks and everyone had been very decent about letting him occasionally have a nap. Besides, Worf was with him; he would be taking notes. Many, many notes that he will want to review with me later…. Martok sighed. This was the price for surrounding himself with conscientious operatives.

  “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 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 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.”

  “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.