3

All of the Klingon ships—including Ch’Tang, B’Moth, Ya’Vang, and Orantho—were familiar to Ezri, all having visited DS9 either before or during the Dominion War, but it was into the Rotarran’s airlock she slipped, though only after the other four had taken up defensive positions around it. Wardrobe’s docking port wasn’t compatible with its Klingon counterpart, but once Ezri had sidled alongside the Rotarran, stepping from one ship to another across the void was the work of seconds. Worf awaited her outside the inner hatch, his expression carefully neutral upon seeing her purple-flower-covered EVA suit. “I might be able to find you something more ... suitable later.”

“What—it’s not warriorly enough for you?” Ezri said, uncoupling the light helmet. He helped her climb out of the suit, then directed her to the door.

Memories of the Rotarran—not her own, but [18] Jadzia’s—overwhelmed her as soon as they stepped into the passage. In comparison with Starfleet vessels, the air was more humid, the lighting dimmer, and the ratio of oxygen to nitrogen in the atmosphere slightly higher, making Ezri feel a little giddy. And there it was—a smell both Curzon and Jadzia had associated with Klingon vessels, an odor unique to their culture that they probably didn’t even notice or maybe did and just liked.

Every time she came aboard a Klingon vessel, Dax noted it. She smiled at the memory of Curzon trying to explain it to a young Ben Sisko: “It’s something between the smell of frying bacon, old-fashioned petroleum oil, and the yeasty smell you get off truly exquisite beer.” Only two of those smells (bacon and beer) were even in Ben’s sensory vocabulary, and since he had never been much of a beer drinker, let alone an exquisite beer drinker, combining their smells hadn’t made sense to him. And petroleum oil was a concept wholly lost on a modern twenty-fourth-century lad. Benjamin might have been unable to truly appreciate “essence of bird-of-prey,” but it never failed to evoke a response in Dax. Damned if it didn’t make Ezri wonder when was the last time that she had eaten. Either her stomach was growling or, again, maybe it was the symbiont.

Walking up from the stern of the ship toward the bow, Ezri took longer strides, threw her shoulders back, and breathed in more deeply, partly in an effort to keep up with Worf’s long-legged stride, but also because this was how she imagined the crew of this ship must all walk.

And then she noticed that there was no one else in the corridor.

[19] Observing her questioning expression, Worf said dourly, “We are spread rather thin.”

“So I see. How many?”

“Among the five ships: approximately fifteen hundred.”

Ezri whistled ominously. Struggling to remember the complements for the various warships, she asked, “That’s about ... half strength?”

“Closer to one-third.”

Ezri winced.

“But they are the finest soldiers of the empire.”

“They’d have to be to keep these ships in operation.” She almost asked, “When do you all sleep?” but then she saw, even in the low light, the dark circles of fatigue etched under Worf’s eyes. There was a light there, too. A touch of fever? “How is Martok taking all this?” she asked.

From the low murmur of annoyance, Ezri knew this was precisely the sort of question Worf did not want to discuss, but she was feeling rattled and fell back on her counselor’s training, part of which was collecting intelligence.

Worf must have been even more exhausted than she thought, because he snapped, “Jadzia would not have asked such a question. She would not have had to.”

Stopping in her tracks, she retorted, “Jadzia isn’t here. I am. And though I can call on Jadzia’s memories of Klingon inter- and intra-familial politics, it would be tainted—yes, tainted—by her view of things. Jadzia loved Klingons. She had a very romanticized view of all of you. So did Curzon. I, on the other hand, do not. You summoned me knowing that I think there are some fundamental flaws in Klingon philosophy, or, at least, in how it’s being expressed currently. I would not make the [20] mistake of walking into a room full of warriors who are looking for a way to prove how valuable they are to their chancellor without first getting a sense of said chancellor’s mood. Am I making myself clear?”

Worf stared at her, his bushy eyebrows so high up on his prodigious forehead that they looked like they were ready to crawl up into his scalp. Finally, after several seconds, they both crept down to form a level horizon and he nodded once. “Yes, I understand. This is your way.” Ezri knew that the words and concepts Worf attempted to form in his mind were not things that came easily to him. While Klingons enjoyed, even indulged themselves in, their passions, they were not, culturally speaking, a species that enjoyed discussing same. “Martok is ... resistant. He does not seem to understand that he must embrace the destiny that has been laid out before him.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want that destiny.”

Worf shook his head impatiently, then looked down at Ezri as if he was once again reminded to whom he spoke. “One does not want or not want one’s destiny. One accepts it ... or not. Not accepting one’s destiny creates strife and disharmony.”

“For that person or for everyone else?”

“Both.”

“Worf,” Ezri said. “I might not have every detail about Klingon culture at my fingertips the way my last two hosts did, but I have to say I don’t remember ever hearing any of this before. Is there some cache of Klingon wisdom that you’ve been hiding from outsiders for all these years?”

Now Worf stared deep into Ezri’s eyes and, looking back, she was able to study more closely the thing that [21] she had thought was a glimmer of exhaustion-induced fever. No, she realized. Not fever, not exhaustion: exultation. “Worf,” she said breathlessly. “You’ve been having visions, haven’t you?”

He smiled—not so rare a thing for Worf as he might like to think—but there was a note of something in it that Ezri could only describe as beatific. I am in so much trouble.

As she walked, she was continuing to ponder what confluence of events might have brought Worf to this place when she nearly tripped over something—no, make that someone—lingering in the narrow hallway outside the conference room: a Ferengi of Nog’s approximate age, but, from the look of his long, gangly arms and legs, about half again his height. Without getting a better look at him, it was difficult to say exactly how large this utterly unexpected figure was, but he was doing his best to make himself as invisible as possible. Stopping where she stood, she blinked, shook her head, and blinked again, but the knotty little ball of Ferengi wearing a shabby gold-and-green-striped suit didn’t vanish as she expected a hallucination should. The knotty little ball waggled a few fingers in her direction; she waggled back. She glanced over at Worf, who seemed to be reading her mind, but the only explanation he offered was a quick roll of his eyes. Later, he was saying. When we have time. Lots and lots of time.

A few paces down from the Ferengi, they paused before a door long enough for the security sensors to scan and clear them. Ezri understood that this was standard procedure on many Klingon ships, but she recalled that Martok held such practices in disdain. “If I cannot trust the least of my crew,” he had said once, “then I do not [22] deserve to be their captain.” Obviously, times had changed.

The door slid open and they stepped into what passed for a conference room on a Klingon ship. Unlike the large, comfortable work areas on Federation starships and certainly nothing like the Cardassian-designed cavernous spaces on Deep Space 9, this cramped, narrow room was obviously meant to be as uncomfortable as possible, a room where orders were issued, not where options were discussed.

Looking around the room, studying the occupants’ faces, Ezri was not surprised to find that nearly every person exuded a profound discomfort. As a rule, Klingons despised meetings. Why discuss when a warrior should act? This, Ezri believed, was part of the empire’s problem: an unwillingness to examine the situation at hand and choose the proper course based on the situation’s specifics. Instead, most Klingons believed battle-fever-infused decision making to be superior to logical decision making. To be faced with the present dilemma, one that required measured discussion, analysis, and planning, must be disquieting for the lot of them. Few, if any of them, knew precisely how they’d arrived at this moment; fewer still had any inkling about what the future held.

Seated at the center of the long, crescent-shaped conference table was Martok, wearing neither his chancellor’s cloak nor even a general’s regalia, but the simple garb of a Defense Force soldier. Rather than looking like he was in charge of the meeting, to Ezri’s eyes he evinced the posture of a caged Tika cat, eager to flee the room for the bridge the moment Sirella took her eyes off him. He must absolutely hate having to sit here. To be [23] political in a crisis must be repugnant to him, she thought. Restless to the point of fidgeting, Martok periodically twisted from side to side, drilling his gaze on the tabletop or at his open hands, but rarely into the eyes of the others in the room. Something terrible has happened, Ezri realized, her counselor’s training coming to the fore. He’s blaming himself for whatever has happened to the empire. He’s even trying to punish himself—wearing a common soldier’s uniform—but none of the others is allowing him to suffer the way he thinks he ought.

Studying his posture more carefully as they approached the table, Ezri sensed a frosty zone of uncertainty and shame radiating from Martok’s back toward Sirella. While Ezri had never met the imperious lady of House Martok herself, Jadzia’s experiences with her before her wedding to Worf were among the most indelible memories of Dax’s previous lifetime. Sirella stood as tall, straight, and proud as she had on the day Jadzia—the supplicant daughter-in-law—had greeted her at the door of Dax’s quarters, but there was a palpable sense of fatigue around her. No wonder, Ezri thought, considering what she’s been through. There had been scant information from Qo’noS since Morjod had destroyed the Great Hall a week before, but if the small amount they had was to be believed, Sirella had been captured and held prisoner until Martok and Worf and a small contingent of warriors had rescued her a few days ago. Ezri could only hazard a guess at what might have passed between her and Martok that caused this icy animosity. If half of what Worf and Ben Sisko had told her about the Martok marriage was to be believed, the single word that best defined their [24] relationship was “heat,” whether the heat of battle or the heat of passion.

Seated on Martok’s right was his son Drex, a young warrior whom Ezri had only met once or twice in passing during the war. From Jadzia’s recollections as well as her own impressions, she believed Drex to be what she considered the personification of the contemporary Klingon warrior—arrogant, fearless, quick to anger, and, most of all, proud. He possessed none of his father’s patience or humor and very little of his wisdom, though Drex had always seemed to enjoy the high esteem of his fellow warriors, which was, Ezri thought, precisely the problem. While Martok and Worf possessed most of the qualities that represented whatever greatness remained in the empire, Drex embodied the attributes that hastened its ruin.

Beside Drex was a bowed, white-haired figure that Ezri recognized as Darok, gin’tak to House Martok. He and Jadzia had shared a warm, open friendship based largely on the fact that Darok had known Curzon in his youth. Consequently, they shared an understanding that endured long after the old Klingon could no longer tolerate the blustering and posturing of the young. Ezri had first talked to Darok during the rocky adjustment period following her joining. Recalling the encounter, she was certain that he had been puzzled by her own confused sense of “knowing, but not knowing,” if not outright annoyed. Still, when Darok caught sight of her standing beside Worf, he inclined his aged, gray-maned head at her in a nod of greeting.

On Martok’s left were two empty chairs, obviously meant for Worf and herself, and then, beside these, was [25] Worf’s son, Alexander Rozhenko. Surprisingly, rather than looking stressed or uncertain (his usual expressions), Alexander appeared more calm and at peace with himself than Dax could remember seeing him since ... well, ever. He gave her a tight-lipped smile, then pointed his chin at the seat beside his own, obviously pleased to have her there.

At either end of the table, two to each side, sat four Klingons Ezri had never met, three men and a woman, clearly the captains of the other Klingon ships. None of them said or did anything as Ezri and Worf entered, but in their stillness she sensed a vague foreboding. How could they not be anxious, she thought, considering their leader’s anxiety? Observing pinched weariness in every pair of eyes she met, Ezri wondered if this whole group might benefit from a hearty meal, several kegs of bloodwine, and a long nap. What was it about Klingons that made them think they were above the needs of their bodies, redundant systems or not?

Her eyes flickered over the last character in the unfolding drama, trying to ascertain his identity. The broad-shouldered, snowy-haired Klingon was the only one who was not looking at her, but instead stood at parade rest beside the room’s only window, watching the tumbling asteroids. And though he seemed utterly absorbed by the dance of gravity and inertia before him, Ezri knew he was equally aware of everything that was happening in the room behind him. It was, she decided, as if he were a chess master who was thinking not only about the play of stone bodies and space outside, but also about the pieces behind him. Nothing would happen, nothing would begin to move until he turned around and gave them all his attention, and then, [26] perhaps, the pieces outside would cease to wheel and collide.

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 [27] 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, [28] 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 [29] 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 [30] 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.

[31] 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 [32] 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’leths, 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 [33] 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.