The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 1

by J. G. Hertzler

  Worf tried to maintain a neutral expression, but he was clearly wavering back and forth between disbelief and disgust. “That … does not sound like many Klingon songs I’ve heard.”

  “Most of the songs you know are not so ancient. This one was written long before the days of the Hur’q, back before the days when all songs were about battle and victory. The songs my father taught me … some were about loss and despair, some quite merry in a way that most warriors would consider frivolous or foolish. Do you know this one?” Martok asked, and softly hummed a sprightly tune.

  Worf nodded and identified it as the “Fool’s Song” from the opera Malsandra’s Death.

  “Long before it was appropriated for the Fool, mothers sang it to their children. It was a finger-play song about a small shum that tried to crawl up a wall and was repeatedly washed away by a summer shower.”

  Worf arched an eyebrow, charmed but not entirely convinced. “How do you know these things?” he asked.

  Martok shrugged. “My father,” he said. “All things my father told me when I was a boy and all of them things I have not thought about for more years than I can count. Can you explain to me, my brother, why this is happening?”

  Worf looked out through the open windows and studied the line of the hills as the sun rose over them. “You are home, General,” he said, and the corners of his mouth curled upward ever so slightly. “Someday, we will travel to Earth and I will take you to Minsk where we will see what memories the smell of boiled cabbage stirs up in me.”

  Martok did not know exactly where Minsk was or what boiled cabbage smelled like, but he sensed that his brother had just tried to share something of himself and so he chuckled appreciatively. He beckoned for Worf to follow him to the window where they could look out over the oozing wastes of Ketha. Down in the valleys between the piles of rubbish, shadows had deepened into night. “You did well to bring us here, Worf,” Martok said, pointing out at the gloom. “Even if Morjod believes we might have survived that explosion, he would never think to look for us here. And even if he does that, he will not find us easily.”

  “It was not a premeditated act,” Worf said. “I programmed the transporter to snare as many signals as possible before the warp core breached and ordered it to route them through the com satellites in a random fashion. Its only other command was to materialize us before the ship lost power. This is the site the computer selected. If you must thank anyone, thank chance.”

  “There is no such thing as chance in Ketha, Worf. There is only fate, only destiny. If we thank anyone, perhaps it should be Kar-Tela.”

  “I know very little about these old deities,” Worf admitted, brow furrowed. “But I seem to recall that destiny is a fickle mistress and it is best not to place too much trust in her.”

  “Trust?” Martok asked, grinning again. “No, never trust. But it never hurts to try to bribe her. A little bread, some wine, perhaps. What do we have to lose?”

  “Only our pride, General. Klingons should not rely on gods.”

  “But as I have grown older, I have begun to believe that we ignore them at our peril.” Worf looked so perplexed then that Martok laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “But enough of theology. Give me your report.”

  * * *

  “We killed two with the first round of concussion grenades, my lady,” Darok reported as Sirella joined him in the command bunker. It was buried fifty meters under the center of the house and could be entered only through a small elevator big enough to carry only two people at a time. The reinforced thermocrete walls around them could withstand a point-blank disruptor blast from a bird-of-prey’s primary battery.

  Sirella had ordered the household staff to leave via secret exits, and as far as Darok could tell either they had all made it or, more likely, the Hur’q were not interested in cooks and maintenance workers. Only the house security force remained; Sirella prepared to send them out, but it was clear she had expected more from the barrage.

  “Only two? Any injured?”

  “None, my lady. As soon as the first two died, the others seemed able to anticipate the dispersion pattern and moved out of blast range. They are very nimble and unnaturally fast for such large creatures.”

  “Very well. Have you been able to determine their exact number?”

  “Fifteen remaining, my lady. They are moving in a staggered sliding pattern, the entire line strung out over approximately a quarter of a kellicam.”

  “Instruct the security teams to attack. Prepare to support them with the disruptor cannons.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The security squads moved forward on foot in wedge-shaped squadrons. Darok agreed with their commanders that this was the best formation considering the circumstances. They could move at speed over rough terrain (and the Martok lands were purposefully allowed to become overgrown), but could also support one another if they had to fall back quickly. The plan was, Darok knew, to try to break through the Hur’q’s line, maneuver around behind them, then begin picking them off one by one. If the attack went especially well, the squads could even separate, set up under cover, and create crossfire. At worst, they were to break off their attack and withdraw through a narrow canyon lined with disruptor cannons. It was, Darok decided, a worthy plan, and he felt a little bubble of something that passed for hope bob up within him.

  Sirella settled back into her chair and watched the sensor displays. The lady possessed the disconcerting ability to remain completely and utterly at rest when she chose. Darok had seen fully grown warriors, leaders of thousands of men, turn into twitching, mewling boys in her presence merely because she could sit still and stare for longer than seemed possible by a living being. Even in a persona that seemed designed from birth to be formidable, it was a disquieting attribute.

  On the screen, the icons that represented the security force and the Hur’q converged and, for several seconds, overlapped. Darok waited for the groups to separate or, alternatively, for the security force to withdraw into the canyon. His finger hovered over the switch that activated the cannons, and he exerted all of his will to keep his hand from trembling. Then, at first one by one, and then in blocks of three or four at a time, the security-force icons winked out. Two lights stayed lit for two minutes after the others had disappeared, and Darok guessed that there was a song that should be sung about those men, whoever they were. He opened a channel, but they heard nothing but quick breathing, a strangled cry, and the thump of something heavy crashing into the ground.

  Sirella did not stir while the battle raged, but when it ended and the last security-force icon had disappeared, Darok glanced over at her and saw that her left index finger was lightly stroking the bracelet she wore on her right wrist, her DiHnaq. This was the symbol of her control of the household, and it was the tradition of House Martok that when the lady was not there, the DiHnaq hung on a thin chain over the inner archway of the main door. The first thing she did upon entering the house, even before greeting her husband or child, the first thing she would do if the emperor himself were waiting to be served, was slide the DiHnaq onto her wrist.

  In theory, a day would come when Sirella would be too old and weak and one of her daughters, Shen or Lazhna, or possibly a daughter-in-law, would wrest the DiHnaq from her, but Darok seriously doubted if there was currently a woman in the empire who could do this. Darok had once thought that Jadzia Dax might have possibilities—and there was a show he would have gladly surrendered his d’k tahg to watch—but that Dax was dead now, and he doubted the successor, Ezri, would be up to the job. Sirella could break that one in half with a disapproving sneer.

  The other possibility, he now mused, was that someone would break down the front door, stride over the broken threshold, and snap off Sirella’s arm at the shoulder. Darok had never before imagined that such a thing could come to pass, but, then again, he had never believed his mother’s tales of the Hur’q, either, and there they were up on the screen. He would have to tell this story to Most Fear
some when he saw her in Sto-Vo-Kor. He would, he decided, mention it to her just before he shoved her and the boulder she was chained to over the lip of a cliff. It would give her something to laugh about as she tumbled down to Gre’thor. What a good son I am. …

  Sirella stopped toying with the DiHnaq and asked, “What other weapons do we have?” Darok was certain she already knew, but he answered briefly: concussion grenades, which were becoming increasingly useless; and, of course, bat’leths.

  Sirella made a sound that Darok took to indicate disapproval, though not with him specifically. Finally, she finished, “You omit the antimatter charge.”

  Darok didn’t answer immediately, but instead found himself thinking of the lovely brook at the foot of the hill below where House Martok was situated. For the past several weeks, he had made regular trips down to the brook to soak his tired old feet in its cool waters. They had, he thought, some medicinal effect, because whenever he did this, he found that the accumulated aches and pains of decades of soldiering were leached away. He hated to think about the streambed being turned into a parched, lifeless culvert, but, finally, he was compelled to say, “Forgive me, Lady. My memory has become feeble.”

  “I think not,” Sirella said sternly. “I think, rather, that you have learned to love your wizened life.”

  Then something happened that Darok knew he would carry with him to the next world, another thing to describe to his mother. Sirella, wife of Martok, daughter of Linkasa, laid her hand on his wrist and smiled at him. A small smile, a tiny thing, and it looked like she had to think about what to tell her muscles to achieve the effect, but she managed it. “And mine,” she said. “But I will not choose that road. We might kill them all, thereby saving my husband the trouble of doing it later, but the destruction of his House, his home, would lie heavy on his heart.”

  “Not to mention my death,” Darok said. Then added, as if it were an afterthought, “And yours.”

  Sirella almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she slid the DiHnaq off her wrist and handed it to him. “Here,” she said. “Keep this safe for me. I will reclaim it when I return, or you will give it to me in Sto-Vo-Kor.”

  “Lady …” Darok began, but she held up her hand for silence.

  “I will go to meet them at the front door as the mistress of a House should. You will wait here. They will likely leave when they have me and even if they search for you, this room is not easily found.”

  The only words Darok could find were “No, Lady,” though he was not sure what he was saying no to.

  “When you find my husband, tell him of my decision. If he finds fault with my choice, he may meet me in a court of combat and attempt to divorce me. But remind him that I still have two good eyes.”

  Darok found he no longer had an appetite for trading barbs. “Die well, my lady.”

  Sirella almost smiled again at that and rose to go to the lift. “Die well, Darok.”

  * * *

  Worf glanced at a checklist on his tricorder.

  By the Hand of Kahless, Martok thought. In Starfleet, they must sleep with those damned things. “We are undetected, at present,” Worf stated. “We have enough rations to last two days. No one is seriously physically injured, though I am detecting symptoms of shock and stress-related behavior in almost everyone.”

  “Almost everyone?” Martok asked. They sat near the open window frame, away from the others. Martok told the few who were not on sentry duty or working on the consoles that they could light small fires, as much for comfort as for light. By the low flames, he could see sullen faces occasionally turned toward them, unhappy with the way he and Worf were spending so much time in conference. The words of Morjod, he could see, had wormed into their hearts.

  “All right,” Worf corrected. “In everyone. Myself included.”

  “I am not surprised,” Martok said. “Morjod’s treason, the destruction of the Great Hall—these were not the acts of a true Klingon. To wantonly destroy our heritage runs counter to everything we believe in, and yet, I see something in their eyes. We must consider the question: Could we be betrayed by one of our own?”

  Worf bent his head and a growl rumbled up from his throat. “Had I not been on the bridge of the Negh’Var when Morjod was speaking, I would not be concerned. But I heard murmurs …”

  “As did I,” Martok agreed. “We must be on our guard, but we cannot abandon our other goals, short-term and long. Can we find allies? Can we gather intelligence?” And, as if to answer the question, across the room, the communications console flickered into life. From beneath it, Maapek yelled in victory. Worf and Martok grinned at each other. “I believe you have work to do, my brother,” the general said. “See if you can find Sirella. We must unite our forces with hers.”

  “Then you believe she remains free?”

  Martok’s eyebrows arched with skepticism. “My wife?” he asked. “How could you even doubt?”

  * * *

  To his mingled shame and relief, no one pursued Darok when he slipped out one of the compound’s rear entrances. Judging from the damage to the living quarters and kitchens, the beasts had searched for others, but only halfheartedly. Obviously, they had been instructed to capture Sirella and, with that goal accomplished, had returned to their hovercraft and left. She had kept her com circuit open, and Darok had heard the beasts howl when they had seen Sirella stride (no doubt, imperiously) into the main hall. As they had closed in around her, the lady had ordered the beasts out of her home. Naturally, they hadn’t heeded her, but it made Darok smile grimly to think of how she must have looked when she cursed them for tracking mud on the carpets.

  The DiHnaq clanked heavily in his pocket, and the strap of his satchel chafed against his ribs. It had been a long time since he had taken a long overland hike, but there was no other choice at present. All the vehicles were either gone or disabled (the beasts had seen to that), but Darok had no doubt that he would find the general and deliver the lady’s message. He could not conceive of how the circumstances would conspire in any other way if Sirella wished it to be so.

  And then—and then—he would find some way to make it back to House Martok and see that the carpets were cleaned before the lady returned.

  7

  WORF DREAMT.

  He had been sitting on the floor beside Maapek, helping to check the connections between two consoles, when Maapek had leaped up and headed for the exit that led outside. High-protein rations affected some people that way, Worf knew, so he leaned his head back against the panel and closed his eyes. Just for a second. And then he was someplace else.

  * * *

  … sitting on the floor of a small wooden hut that shifted back and forth under him with a gentle, swaying motion that made him feel slightly queasy. Outside, through a narrow, jagged doorway, he could see the branches of trees move back and forth, leaves fluttering. Between the branches, there was a blue sky and fluffy white clouds scudding along. He was, he realized, on Earth and he sat on the rough planking floor of the tree house his father had built him when he was eight.

  They had cobbled it together over the course of a spring weekend in the branches of the large maple tree in the Rozhenkos’ backyard. It was meant, Worf realized even then, to be something of a lure for the other children in the neighborhood, a come-on, an excuse to get them to come over and see what the big Klingon boy was doing. And the ploy had been successful, too, up to a point. Several curious boys and girls had come into the yard after the nail pounding and sawing was finished, but had fled again when Worf jumped down from his hiding place brandishing a stout tree branch. His mother tried to explain the other kids’ behavior to him when he had come sulking back into the house, but nothing other children did ever made sense to Worf. He had never played in the tree house again after that and had taken a sad, sick sort of pleasure in watching it decay over the successive years. One late-autumn night when he was in his early teens, a stiff wind had sent the hut tumbling out of the tree to crash on the ground, and Worf’s mot
her had ordered him to break up the pieces and feed them into the recycler. He had found himself enjoying the work, enjoying the sound of snapping wood and screeching nails, until, quite suddenly, he realized just how much he was enjoying it and stoically forced himself to feel nothing at all.

  But here he was again in the hated (and beloved) tree house. He looked at his hands and found them to be absurdly small and soft-looking, but he felt like his head was exactly the same size and shape as the adult version. He started to reach up, to see how big his forehead ridges were, when he felt the thrumb, thrumb, thrumb of someone climbing the two-by-four ladder his father had pounded into the tree trunk.

  K’Ehleyr, Alexander’s mother, poked her head up above the lip of the small porch, then pulled herself up over the edge. “Hi, Worf,” she said. She wore one of the flamboyant outfits she had always favored, neither completely Klingon nor Terran in design, but a subtle intermeshing of the two. Inappropriately (considering his age), Worf felt himself yearn for her. “How’ve you been?” K’Ehleyr asked as she seated herself before him.

  “I am well,” Worf said, his voice absurdly high and light.

  “No, you’re not,” K’Ehleyr said. “Don’t lie to me. You’re a terrible liar.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I am.” He hadn’t wanted to say that, but Worf found that he had little control over what he said.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And worried that you’re somehow responsible for all this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, get over it,” K’Ehleyr said, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “You’re not. Believe it or not, this all has very little to do with you. I know that’s going to be hard for you to accept.”

  “No, it’s not. Things are very rarely about me. Things just happen to me.”