7

Ezri mentally retreated from the discussion as soon as she understood what Gothmara had done on Boreth. The others, the Klingons, all reacted more or less the same way—with various shades of anger and disgust—but it was obvious that the perversion motivated them, while Ezri felt enervated. What am I doing here? she asked herself. What can I possibly have to offer these people? They’re preparing themselves to fight monsters out of mythology and an evil sorceress and all I can think about is how out of place I am. ... No! Back on Sappora VII in my room with my books and my music and my holos ... The thought of her room made her see the irony of it all. What were all those books, music, and holos about? They were tales of heroism and adventure, both historical and fictitious. She had stacks of Trill mythology, tales of the Qieltau and accounts of the travels of Evu, supposedly the longest-lived symbiont on the planet (though there was some doubt about the veracity of Evu’s claims).

[79] As a girl, she had read and reread biographies of Surak of Vulcan, the logs of the first Enterprise, the great mythological fiction of other worlds. How many times had she longed to accompany Ch’Vras, Thruzen, and Zheffra on their quest to hide the Rings of Narath-anazhe? The stories, in part, had inspired her to join Starfleet, to become like those heroes she dreamt about.

And now here she was in the presence of truly larger-than-life adventurers and all she could think about was how little she offered. If Gothmara needed therapy (and Ezri imagined she could use years of counseling, if not a lifetime of it), she was their woman. But dueling with resurrected demons wasn’t exactly Ezri’s forte. She wasn’t afraid of physical danger—she had faced more than her share of that in the past couple of years—but it was difficult to accept the idea that she had a vested interest here. But then she chided herself; of course it wasn’t her (Ezri’s) problem. It was Dax’s problem, and she was Dax. And whether or not Ezri believed she had the abilities to do right by House Martok, Dax knew she did. I suppose this is one of the times when I’m just going to have to trust the slug. She shook her head, as if the action would redirect her focus to the conversation at hand. It sounded like the outrage over Gothmara’s experiments had receded and Kahless had again picked up the story of the time he spent on Boreth.

The clone was, she had to admit to herself, not exactly what she would have expected given Worf’s descriptions of the emperor: less the warrior king and more like one of the monks he lived among on Boreth. There was something almost mystical about him, as though he did not live on the same plane as everyone else. He reminded her of someone, but it required [80] several more moments of distracted thought before she put the pieces together. Of course, she realized, and almost snapped her fingers. Benjamin, on one of those days when he was feeling especially “Emissary.”

“... When I learned that Gothmara had succeeded in creating her pseudo-Hur’q and was planning to give them to Morjod to use as an army, I left Boreth as quickly and quietly as I could. As you may guess, it was not a simple matter for me to travel anywhere—least of all the planet of my birth—without being noticed, but I have learned a few tricks.” He grinned in a most unimperial manner, like a little boy pleased with some small cleverness. Then, sobering, he continued: “But I was too slow. Gothmara was better organized than I had anticipated and by the time I reached the home system, Morjod had struck.” Turning to Martok, he confessed, “I sat in a departure lounge at Ja’Gokor and watched the Negh’Var enter orbit over Qo’noS. When the news feeds said you were going to meet with me in the Great Hall, I knew what was about to happen. ...” Kahless hung his head sadly. “I am sorry, Chancellor, for what has befallen you and your house. If I had moved more quickly or unraveled these secrets sooner, none of this might have come to pass.”

Fascinated, Ezri watched Martok’s reaction to Kahless’s apology. “Emperor,” he said, struggling for the right words, “Kahless, what else could you have done? You found my son and my brother, then rescued both my wife and myself. It is I who should be paying tribute to you.” He paused, listened, clearly hoping nothing else would be required. When Kahless did not respond, he asked, “How did you make it to Qo’noS then? Alexander said you found him within hours of Morjod’s attack.”

[81] Holding up his hands to indicate the hull of the ship, Kahless said, “Shortly after the attack, I found that the crew of the Rotarran was on the station awaiting their captain. They had just completed repairs and were chafing to be under way, disappointed that they could not meet the Negh’Var in orbit. I took command and told them to head for Qo’noS at best possible speed under cloak, which they did.” Smiling fondly, the emperor concluded, “She is a good ship, Chancellor. I can see why you favored her.”

“But you were not the only one in this room, Emperor, who was away from Qo’noS when Morjod attacked.” Martok gestured at Ezri and asked, “How has the Federation responded to the crisis on Qo’noS?”

Considering her response carefully, Ezri replied, “I’m not privy to the inner circles of diplomatic activity, but I can tell you what has happened on the station. Colonel Kira is concerned. Admiral Ross contacted her shortly after he received word that something had happened in the First City and, I think, inquired whether I had heard from Worf. At that time, I hadn’t and told her so.”

“And since they learned that Morjod’s forces took over their embassy?”

“Morjod claims they were safeguarding the embassy during a period of civil unrest. The Federation has not accused him of anything, only asking to speak with their people, which he has allowed,” Ezri said. “Everyone is treading very carefully. No one wants another breakdown in relations, especially since neither the Federation nor the empire is in a position to wage another war.”

“And the Romulans? Are they aware of this situation?” Sirella asked.

“They would have to be fools or blind not to be aware of it. Never underestimate the Romulans’ ability to [82] collect intelligence. But the Romulans won’t attack anyone until they know they can win; that’s their way.”

“So for now Morjod is safe from outside interference?” B’Tak asked, every word clipped and angry.

Before Ezri could answer, Worf came to the rescue.

“The Federation will not act against him,” Worf explained. “Not unless he expressly withdraws from the Khitomer Accords. He may publicly accuse the Federation and me of every crime imaginable, but unless he violates the treaty with some overt action, Starfleet will only listen and wait.” He looked around the room at the sullen faces and finished grimly: “Which is why we must strike now.”

“Explain,” Martok ordered.

“This is a critical time for Morjod,” Worf said, and held up one finger. “He has publicly stated that Federation influence is responsible for the decay of the empire, yet he has not withdrawn from the Khitomer Accords. Why? Because he has not consolidated his power. Every reasonable citizen will give him time to plot war against the Federation, but how long will they wait before the Defense Force takes matters into its own hands?”

Martok laughed heartily. “Ah, my brother, you are more of a political creature than you would ever willingly admit.”

“I credit it to your influence,” Worf retorted. Continuing, he said, “As he senses his time growing short, he will accelerate his plans. He has his generals and council members in key positions, all of them spreading propaganda, but they cannot stall indefinitely and neither will everyone believe them. Morjod will resort to repression and force if he has not already. Does anyone know if he again penned his pet Hur’q after we left Qo’noS?”

[83] No one spoke up until Darok said, “I will check with the bridge,” then rose, walked to a small monitor near the refreshment stand, and began to speak in low tones.

“In any case,” Worf continued, “the more time passes, the more desperate he will become.”

“But what of Gothmara?” Sirella asked. “She does not seem the sort to me to do something either desperate or foolhardy. She will restrain her son.”

“I agree,” Martok said. “But she could be distracted or goaded into an imprudent act if we choose our target carefully.”

“And a great victory will rally your supporters throughout the empire!” Drex shouted as he rose to his feet. “We must retake Ty’Gokor! Surely many of the warriors at the command center are still loyal to you! No matter what tricks his mother wields, by now all the true warriors will have recognized that Morjod is nothing but another politician.” He spit the word out as if it left a bitter tang in his mouth.

“Be careful, my son,” Martok said sardonically, “I am as much a politician as Morjod.”

“Never, Father. You are a warrior, the general who led Klingons to victory. ...”

“Stop,” Martok said holding up his hand. “Let me consider your idea, because I believe it has both merits and flaws.”

“Consider, my brother,” Worf said cautiously. “Who controls Ty’Gokor?”

“Yes, my very thoughts: the Yan’Isleth, Gowron’s former elite guard. Do we know where their allegiance has fallen?”

“I don’t think that requires much thought,” Kahless [84] remarked. “The Yan’Isleth has little love for either you or me. They were Gowron’s. I undermined them and you, Martok, almost disbanded them.”

“I wish now that I had.”

Kahless shook his head. “The people would have interpreted it as petty vindictiveness. Your offer to allow them to continue to control Ty’Gokor was a wise compromise.”

“So that now they will fight us,” Martok said.

“Undoubtedly,” Worf observed. “But if we won, it would be counted a great victory, the kind of victory that would draw many to your banner.”

“Yes,” Kahless agreed, “but only a military victory. Some Klingons might see it as a sign to rise, but probably only those who are already prepared to do so. And then the empire would be divided and we would fight on for years and years.”

“Or until the Federation or the Romulans invade,” B’Tak added.

Kahless nodded. “Exactly. We need another kind of victory, one that will not only give us a military advantage, but will expose the depths of Gothmara and Morjod’s infamy.”

All eyes swiveled to Martok, who was staring hard into his mug. At what? Ezri found herself wondering. At his reflection? At the bloody color of the wine? Sensing their gazes, Martok looked up and stared back at each of them in turn.

Finally, he said, “Boreth. We keep coming back to Boreth. Gothmara flees there. Morjod is born there. You were created there, Emperor, as were the Hur’q. It is the knotty center of this puzzle.”

“Yes,” Kahless agreed. “And neither Gothmara nor [85] Morjod know how much we’ve learned. They will not expect a strike there because Boreth is apt a military target. If we take the planet and expose their atrocities, it will send shock waves through the empire. The people will rise up to follow your banner and the forces of the coup will crumble.”

Martok exchanged glances with Worf and Alexander, then nodded almost imperceptibly. The four captains talked among themselves, shifted in their seats, each of them grinning and making sounds of assent. Even the Ferengi smiled, though Ezri noted that Sirella’s expression remained curiously neutral, her eyes never leaving Martok. Finally, the chancellor rose and slammed the table with the flat of his hand. “Yes!” he shouted. “We will take Boreth! And when we do, then shall Morjod and all his allies tremble!”

The Klingons drew their weapons, lifted them high, and bellowed in response: “MARTOK! Kai the Chancellor!”

To Ezri, it was precisely the sort of Klingon hubbub and bluster she would have expected. Then, unexpectedly, in the middle of it all and without her willing it, she felt Jadzia’s judgment brought to bear and those more experienced ears found the cries to be strangely perfunctory, even subdued, as if each of them might have secret doubts.

 

Even as the cheers and shouts died down, Martok continued feeling satisfaction. At last—finally!—he had found a path that might lead them all toward victory, or, failing that, to some sort of conclusion. He was too experienced a military leader not to see that they would have only this one chance. If their attack failed or even if the battle ended in a stalemate, his small force would collapse. His core group would remain loyal—the [86] Rotarran, the Ch’Tang, possibly the Orantho—but all the others would slip away, not because they were cowards, but because they no longer saw any chance of victory.

For now, they must establish forward motion and momentum. In unity, his warriors had to set their hands to the task before them. Distraction must be avoided or they would be vulnerable to Gothmara’s wiles. Never again would he underestimate what that woman was capable of.

On all sides, the exulting continued, enabling Darok to slip back into the room, virtually unnoticed, no doubt armed with information about Hur’q. Martok did not wish to dwell on the creatures, seeing them as causing a paralyzing—not motivating—fear in his warriors, so he cut off the old man before he could speak. “How long before we meet with General Ngane and his fleet?” He already knew the answer to this question, but he wished to have the others hear the response.

“Ngane!” B’Tak shouted, surprised. “He lives?!”

Martok knew full well that Ngane had once been B’Tak’s much-revered commanding officer. He had intentionally withheld the information that the general would be joining their attack force, hoarding it as a gambler keeps his last credit in his boot, just in case he needed to tip a delicate balance.

“Lives?” Martok asked. “Of course he lives! No one in Sto-Vo-Kor wishes to see his grizzled, ugly, old face. He contacted the Rotarran as soon as he heard of our escape from Qo’noS and is meeting us with his fleet in ... how long, Darok?”

“Two hours,” Darok said. The true answer might be much more or much less, but Martok didn’t care. He and the old man had survived enough campaigns by playing [87] the odds that Martok trusted Darok to know when to keep his mouth shut and when to tell an easy lie.

“Kai, Ngane!” B’Tak bellowed and rushed from the room, the other three captains at his heels. As they receded down the hall, Martok heard him say, “We cannot fail now!” Grinning wolfishly, he saluted to Darok, who nodded wearily.

“How long really?” Martok inquired.

“I have no idea, my chancellor. Perhaps in the future you should inform me ahead of time that I will be performing in a play so I will have time to prepare my part better.”

“You’ve never needed time before, you old fool.”

“I grow older every day and my mind begins to fail.”

“Good. You’ll be less trouble that way. Quickly—which of these five ships is the fastest and in best repair?” One of the many reasons he kept Darok as an aide was that he possessed an unrivaled fund of information about the specifications, records, and status of every ship in the fleet.

“Without question the Rotarran.”

“Agreed. Worf, she’s yours. I may not completely agree with the wisdom of this mission you’ve proposed, but I trust you to do it quickly and well. Bring Rotarran back to me, brother, for I will have need of her.”

“Fear not, my chancellor.” And, without another word, he beckoned to Ezri and Alexander, and the three of them left the room.

“Darok, when we are done here, go to the captain of the Ch’Tang and inform him that I am taking command of her.” Martok caught a glimmer of annoyance in Sirella’s eyes. Clearly, she did not approve of his choice of cruisers, but this wasn’t hers to negotiate. “I know [88] that look, Sirella. Fear not. I’ve had my flag on Ch’Tang before. I know it as well as I know Rotarran.”

His wife glared, but said nothing.

“Very good. My lady, you will board the Orantho, and Drex, go to B’Tak on Ya’Vang. Do not interfere with him, my son. He is the best captain in our fleet.”

“Except for you,” Darok offered sardonically.

Drex appeared on the verge of agreeing with Darok when Martok cut him off. “And you, my son, are neither my equal, nor B’Tak’s. Conduct yourself accordingly.”

Offering his father a curt bow, Drex turned away, scowling, and turned to bid his mother farewell. What happened between mother and son was not Martok’s concern, however, so he turned his back, granting them a modicum of privacy.

Scanning the room, he asked, “Where did Kahless go? He and I have other things to discuss.” Martok very much wanted to understand some of the more obscure points from their discussion. Kahless seemed at once both much more and much less than the man he had known before he became chancellor. He wanted to avoid any unpredictability from the emperor as they headed for what might be his last battle. Suddenly realizing he had forgotten something, he looked to his left and found Pharh standing there staring up at him.

“What do you want me to do, Martok?”

Martok considered the question. Unfortunately, there were no neutral worlds or starbases between their present location and Boreth, or he would simply drop the Ferengi off and bid him farewell. Somehow, though, he knew it would not be so simple. While he did not share any of Kahless’s faith in forces that shaped his destiny, he did have the feeling that his fate and Pharh’s were [89] bound, at least for a time. However, Pharh deserved to have a choice in the matter.

“What do you want to do?”

“What I want is to go to this little bistro on Ferenginar and have one of the massage therapists stroke my lobes while I watch a show. How does that sound to you?”

Martok snorted. “I would enjoy that, my friend, but my wife wouldn’t approve.”

“Yeah, I can tell from the look on her face.”

“What?” Martok spun around and saw that, indeed, Sirella had not left with the others and, no, she did not approve of the idea of him having his lobes stroked. She had that look on her face, the one that meant it was time to discuss something. “I see,” Martok said. “Join Darok on the Ch’Tang. Have him assign you to quarters and stay there. Circumstances are bad enough without you stirring up the crew.”

“Sounds good to me,” Pharh said. “I can see I’m going to be spending a lot of time with Klingons for at least a while longer.”

“If they don’t slit your throat, yes,” Darok said dryly, and gestured for Pharh to follow him.

Remembering that he wasn’t yet alone, Martok repressed the urge to follow after the Ferengi and the gin’tak as they slipped out of the conference room. He had no desire to wrestle down this last, most precious of foes.

“We need to talk, my husband.” Her tone did not promise romantic overtures, but Martok had already figured that out from her expression.

“Sirella,” he replied wearily. “I have survived countless battles, both in space and on alien worlds. I was held prisoner by the Dominion for two years and forced [90] to fight Jem’Hadar in order that they could learn how to kill Klingons. And now I am facing vicious attacks from my mad son and his mad mother. Despite all these things, nothing in the universe inspires as much dread in me as the words ‘We need to talk, my husband.’ ” Sighing, Martok sat down opposite his wife. “You wield an extraordinary power, my wife. Never abuse it.”

“I will not, my husband, if you promise to never again abandon your own.”

Suddenly weary, Martok dropped his head and rubbed his right eye and then the patch of scar tissue where his left once was. “What nonsense do you speak, Sirella?” he asked irritably.

“I know the truth,” she began icily, “of what happened after Morjod destroyed the Negh’Var. None of them, least of all your brother, speaks of it directly, but it has become clear to me that you abandoned your warriors to come search for me.”

“Not for you alone. For the children as well,” Martok added. “Do not forget about them.”

“I never forget about them, husband,” she said, her voice sharp as a needle. “You can be sure of that. I do not forget them because I know that sometimes you must. You are the chancellor and as such your first responsibility is always to the empire. And yet, when the first obstacle appeared, what did you do?”

“I rescued you,” Martok said, his face a mask of betrayal.

“You tried to rescue me,” Sirella countered. “You were caught and we were both almost executed. Kahless rescued us both, and even when we both could have left, you still insisted on fighting those creatures and risked yourself foolishly. First you put your family before the [91] empire and then you put your own pride before it.” She slapped the table with the flat of her hand, much as Martok had only a short time earlier. “What is wrong with you?!”

Feeling his face growing hot and the blood singing in his ears, Martok rose as slowly as he could and stepped away from the table. Breathing heavily, he struggled with himself, fighting down competing urges to drop down before Sirella to beg for forgiveness and to slap her in the mouth. Tiny white flashes sparked before his eyes, only slowly clearing with each deep breath. When he could clearly see her frowning face again, he pointed at the door and growled, “Leave me. Go to your ship. See that it is prepared. Your brother is still the helmsman aboard Orantho?”

She nodded.

“Good. I am pleased you will have some family with you, seeing the tattered thing that ours has become.” He thought the blow would strike her heart, but Sirella did not flinch.

As she rose, she said only, “This discussion is not finished, my husband.”

“Yes it is, Sirella. I am the chancellor and I say it is.”

This comment seemed to give her some small amount of satisfaction, so Sirella said only, “See that you continue to act like one.” Then, she left, her long cloak swirling imperiously behind her.

Watching her leave, all Martok could think to say was “That woman ...”

“She is extraordinary, isn’t she?”

Caught off guard, Martok spun around to face the speaker, only to see Kahless stepping out of a corner. Flustered, too many questions coming to his lips at [92] once, he asked, “How did I miss ... ? How dare you ... ? What did you hear?”

“Don’t worry about what I heard. I’ve been married, too, you recall. In many ways, your Sirella reminds me of Lukara.”

“You were never married,” Martok snarled. “Kahless was married. You are a copy of Kahless and you do not have the right to listen in to my private discourse with the lady of my house!”

Shrugging, Kahless said, “I am the emperor, so I have the right to do as I choose. But do not concern yourself. I am not one to gossip. I stayed only because I require a private conversation.”

“You require!?” Martok shouted, and, his anger still seething, drew his d’k’ tahg from his belt and leapt at the emperor, forcing him back against the wall. “You require? What about what I require? What of my wishes? Here I am, supposedly the leader of the greatest empire under the naked stars, and what in my life have I truly ruled? First, my father drove me to seek a commission I never truly desired and then when I got it, Kor tore it from my grasp. I was a plaything of the Dominion for two seeming endless years, but when I returned it was only so that Gowron could take advantage of my loyalty. Then, Worf manipulates me into becoming the damned chancellor only to have my office stolen by a woman I haven’t seen in decades—who forced me to sire a son who now wants to murder me and destroy everything I hold dear.” Gritting his teeth, his face so close that the whiskers on Kahless’s face prickled his skin, Martok snarled, “So, tell me, Emperor. What exactly do you require?”

To his credit, Kahless did not flinch. Not a muscle in [93] his face twitched and his eyes bore into Martok. He let the silence hang between them for only two, three seconds, then breathed in once deeply and released it. Martok was surprised by how sweet the emperor’s breath was. “Sometimes, Chancellor,” he said, “we have no control over our lives simply because we have not yet chosen to take it.”

Fixing his attention on a tiny drop of blood where the point of his blade touched the emperor’s neck, Martok felt the slow fury that had been building up begin to ebb. It was not that Kahless’s words relieved the pressure or even gave him insight into his situation, but the effort of untangling his pseudo-mystical nonsense had finally exhausted him. He no longer had the will to fight, no desires at all. Releasing his grip on the emperor, he said only, “I’m tired. ...”

“Of course you are, my friend,” Kahless said, straightening his tunic as if Martok had just helped him recover from an almost nasty fall. “We all are. And you should rest, but while we had a moment’s privacy, I wanted to tell you something that I didn’t think the others needed to hear.”

Despite himself, Martok felt dully curious. What else could there be? What kind of deviousness yet lurked before him? Morjod’s evil twin? An incurable plague brewed in Gothmara’s labs? A planet-killer weapon? What?

“In the archives of Boreth, I found information concerning your father that I did not understand, and I wondered if you could help me.”

“My father?” Martok looked up. He had not expected this.

Consulting his padd, Kahless said, “There was a [94] document written in an obscure dialect where I found reference to a ‘Katai Urthog.’ That was his name, wasn’t it?”

Martok nodded.

“In the context used, ‘Katai’ sounds like an honorific, like ‘Dahar master,’ but none I’ve ever heard before. Do you have any idea what a ‘katai’ might be?”

“None whatsoever,” said Martok, who realized that Kahless had actually succeeded in discovering something worse than an evil twin, a plague, or a planet killer: he had found a mystery.