Star Trek Deep Space 9 The Left Hand of Destiny Book One

A MOB HUNGRY FOR BLOOD.

The sun stood at midmorning and already Martok could see that the stands around the pit were

overflowing—twenty, maybe thirty thousand people. Pushing and shoving against the barriers, they

roared when the prisoners appeared.

They expect us to be slaughtered like animals, but we will show them how true warriors die.Martok tried

to study individual faces, tried to read what he saw there, but all he could see was teeth bared with anger,

eyes filled with hatred.

Such rage!Martok wondered.But at what, truly? At the losses we endured during the Dominion

War? At the alliance with the Federation and the Romulans? At the erosion of our power? He

wondered at his own thoughts at such a time, but he could not stop his mind from tracing the route it was

now following. He saw that everything that had happened over the past several days, the past months

and years, had brought him to this moment and to the verge of this insight.Could this fury be something

older and deeper? Is this wrath for me or is it more truly for themselves?

Is this the face of a people that has come to despise itself?

THE LEFT HAND OF

DESTINY

BOOK ONE

J.G. HERTZLER &JEFFREY LANG

Based openstar trek® created by Gene Roddenberry

and STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE

created by Rick Berman & Michael Piller

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead

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Cover art by Cliff Nielsen

Printed in the U.S.A.

To the memory of Dr. Harvey Powers, Bucknell

University, and Coach John Merricks, Crossland High

J.G.H.

This one is for all the Klingons, but most

particularly for my father, John Lang, more

Klingon than he’ll ever know.

J.L.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.5

HISTORIAN’S NOTE.6

PART ONE.7

1.8

2.13

3.20

4.28

5.33

6.39

7.45

8.51

9.56

PART TWO..60

10.61

11.66

12.70

13.75

14.79

15.82

16.88

17.92

18.97

19.98

ABOUT THE AUTHORS.102

About the e-Book.103

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Firstly, I am ever thankful for the patience and talent of my editor, Marco Palmieri. I am no less grateful

for the heart and wisdom of Ira Steven Behr, Executive Producer ofDeep Space Nine; for the words of

Ronald Moore, poetic soul of the Klingon Empire; and for Gene Roddenberry, the sine quanon of this

grand adventure calledStar Trek. And most humbly, I must bow to the boundless talent and craft of my

cowriter, Jeffrey Lang.

—J. G. Hertzler

I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the producers, writers, and actors who made the Klingons into the

rich, highly nuanced culture we know today. In particular, I’d like to pay homage to the work of Gene

Roddenberry (naturally), Michael Ansara, Ira Steven Behr, Hans Beimler, William Campbell, Shannon

Cochran, John Colicos, Kevin Conway, Gene L. Coon, Michael Dorn, Ronald D. Moore, Marc

Okrand, Robert O’Reilly, and no doubt many others whom I omit only out of ignorance. Special thanks

to the good folks at the Klingon Language Institute—in particular, Lawrence M. Schoen, Alan Anderson,

Roger Cheesbro, and Lieven Lieter—for their help, and to editor supreme Marco Palmieri.

My thanks also to friends and family who have been so supportive during the “Klingon project,”

includingTristan Mayer, Joshua Macy; Helen Szigeti; Annarita Gentile; my wife,KatherineFritz, our son,

Andrew; and, yes, even the dog (hi, Buster!). More than anyone, however, I owe a debt of gratitude to

Heather Jarman—friend, advisor, sister in spirit—I literally could not have finished this one without you.

May the next one have fewer words in italics and less raw food.

Last, of course, a bent knee and a fist in the air to my comrade and collaborator, J. G. Hertzler, without

whom I wouldn’t have been on this journey.Qapla’ to the Chancellor andkai to the General.

—Jeffrey Lang

HISTORIAN’S NOTE

This story is set in the days immediately following the events of “What You Leave Behind,” the final

episode ofStar Trek: Deep Space Nine.

PART ONE

“You want me to become chancellor.Me. Tell me, Worf, how do you think the members of the High

Council will react when they’re asked to follow a common man from the Ketha lowlands? A man without

a drop of noble blood in his veins?”

1

THE GENERAL DREAMT.

Martok knew he visited the twilight world of dreams, because he saw with both eyes. He saw the

steaming cleaning solution sloshing around a rusting bucket near his right elbow and the quill-bristle brush

in his left hand without having to move his head. He sawchech’tluthdraining through the floor grates

where First Officer HomQat had dropped his mug. He saw gnawed bones, greasy with fat, cast

aside when the gaghhad arrived. He also saw that much of the mess hall still required cleaning. So

he crawled along the floor on his knees, dragging the bucket along with him, scrubbing the grates

and the table legs and the backs of chairs.

Thick smells surrounded him, invigorated him. From the stench of engine lubricant to the overburdened

waste processors and the sour sweat of too many bodies crushed in cramped quarters, he inhaled the

essence of a warrior’s life on a bird-of-prey. Only the deep[4]wood-flower tang of Sirella was more

seductive than this! Soon he would be with her, presenting her an offering of power, of glory, of

victory. For now, he would scrub. He scrubbed to the rhythm of a warrior’s song, chanting the

words as he worked.

He scrubbed until his scrub brush found smooth metal, glowing red in the half-light. He crouched low to

the floor, eyeing his discovery: abat’leth,forgotten amidst the kegs of flowing ale, the roasts, the

gagh,the songs and stories. Martok ran a cautious finger over the tip, savoring the finely

sharpened point. He jerked. A drop of blood drizzled down his finger. Throwing back his head, he

laughed. A noble weapon, to be certain!

Gingerly, he lifted the blade off the floor, holding it on his forearms to admire the weight, the heft, the

smooth perfection of each notch and curve. He flipped the weapon off his forearms, into his palms.

Curling his fingers around the handle, he twirled it cautiously to the left and then the right, challenging his

unseen combatant with a thrust-and-parry rhythm. He drew deep breaths, felt battle lust surge within him.

Baring his teeth, he snarled, crafting a dance of spins and jabs.To the throat! And the belly—

A dull thud and a clank told him his bucket had tipped. A hot gush flooded the deck, soaking his boots

before he could sidestep the filthy fluid.

“Come now, Ketha boy,” came the mocking voice, speaking in the hated tones of the privileged class.

“Startled by a little water? You’ll have to do better than that ifyouexpect a promotion—to scrubbing the

plasma conduits!” A deep, throaty laugh reverberated through the galley.

Martok felt the eyes of the despised one fall on hisbat’leth.Clutching the handle tightly, he imagined

how[5]he would gladly thrust the tip into his enemy’s throat. Or not. Why grant him a swift,

painless death when he could slowly eviscerate—

“You are not worthy of such a weapon.”

Turning around slowly, Martok saw—as he expected—the detestable grin: Kor. Growling, he

lunged.

With an effortless twirl of his own blade, Kor deflected the blow, sending Martok’sbat’lethclattering to

the floor. He cackled, apparently amused by Martok’s clumsiness.

With my bare hands, then!Martok thought, circling his foe.

“Fetch me some bloodwine, boy,” Kor said, the edge of hisbat’lethglinting in the torchlight.

“No.” Martok willed the Dahar Master to meet his eyes.I challenge you to look at me, old man. Afraid

of what you’ll see?

Kor scarcely attempted to hide his disdain. “Make that ale, boy. Bloodwine cools a warrior’s blood

after he has tasted the fire of an honorable fight. But this...” He laughed. “...this was no fight. This was

a jo—”

Instantly, thed’k tahgslid out of Martok’s sleeve, its extra blades deployed, and targeted on Kor’s

throat.

Kor tipped his head to one side and seemed to enjoy the breeze made by the blade whistling past his

ear. Martok twisted around for another attack. But Kor pivoted behind him, slammed the back of

Martok’s knee with his boot, and wrested the knife out of his hand. Collapsing forward, Martok

dropped onto all fours.

“Fool,” Kor spat. “I knew of your strategy before you did. You will learn your place, mongrel!” He

reached down and, with unexpected strength, pulled Martok to his feet by the scruff of his neck.

Martok resisted, twisting and jerking his body,[6]struggling to break free.How can he do this? An old

man in his dotage holding his ground against a man in his prime?Or was he? Martok’s gaze dropped

and, with horror, he saw his own withered, wizened body, his armor hanging off him like

graveclothes.

And Kor? He tossed a great, glossy black mane, his clear eyes burning Martok with each glance. Kor

released his grip; the general stumbled back a few steps, but remained standing.

Laughing with wild joy, Kor swept the blade up over his head, then around his back in a showy display

of prowess. “For the insolence you’ve displayed, mongrel,” he said, “the sentence is death, but I will not

soil my noble weapon with your blood. A lesser one than I shall dispose of you!” The keen tip of the

bat’lethspun down in a bright arc, finding purchase in the mess table and splitting it asunder.

The two halves teetered and crashed to the floor. Where the table had stood, the floor groaned, the

deck plating peeled away like skin, and from the bowels of the ship, a dark vapor—pierced only by a

bright, flashing red light—seeped through the floor. As the post ascended, Martok’s heart chilled, for

he knew whose hand Kor had designated to deal him death. He scanned the room for the Dahar

Master, but the old man had already vanished, swallowed by the darkness. He threw himself on

top of the post. If he could stop it, push it back toGre’thor,from where it came ...Grunting, he

braced his hands on the light, pushing down with all his strength. Sweat beaded on his forehead

and he bellowed mightily.

The post won. As it always did.

The force of the post’s upward movement cast him aside like well-worn armor, throwing him hard. His

[7]teeth lacerated his tongue when his head slammed into something; he heard his bones crack.

There would be a battle.

Before the mists blinded him, he would find thebat’lethKor had stripped from him. With a bat’leth,he

stood a chance of defeating this challenger. ...

Dropping to his knees, he felt his way over the floor with his hands, sifting through dirt, seeking the

weapon. With a dull thud, he crawled headfirst into a metal barrier, and his world spun with bright

dizziness. Up the paneling with his fingers, touching the rivets, feeling the divots and dents, then something

warm. Something scaly and dry with a smooth, knife-sharp claw. He swallowed hard. The mists

dissipated, unveiling a score of chanting Jem’Hadar, their reptilian eyes glinting in the half-dark. The

Jem’Hadar whose hand he touched gave his forehead a solid shove, sending him sprawling onto the

arena floor.

Small bits of gravel clung like barnacles to his sweat-slick face, but he lay still, prone on the floor, waiting

for any indicators—heat, respiration, shadows—of Ikat’ika’s location. Sensing his attacker’s

position by the sound of movement would be impossible: the Jem’Hadar was far too clever to let

Martok find him so easily. His best chance of survival would be to reach the post. Where was the

post? How could he have forgotten the post? Of all the rules he knew from his two years in

Dominion Internment Camp 371, one had been ground into his bones: Never lose track of the

post, whether your face has been ground into the gravel floor or your innards kicked into pulp. He

had to touch the top of the post, make it stop blinking, or he would be disgraced, defeated. Maybe

they would drag him back to his cell;[8]maybe they would kill him outright. Martok didn’t know; he

didn’t want to find out. He would not give the Jem’HadarpetaQsthe satisfaction.

How long had he been fighting? He needed to stand. Again, he tried to push himself up, groaned, felt

ribs shift under his skin and tasted blood in his mouth. Standing would not be possible, so the general

crawled—damn all Jem’Hadar—and prayed to Kahless that he was moving toward the post!

Behind him, he heard sounds: light footfalls and low Jem’Hadar voices. Then, before him, he detected

the crunch of a boot on gravel as Ikat’ika shifted his weight. He wanted Martok to know of his plan,

wanted Martok to hesitate as he anticipated the blow to his already cracked ribs. The bone would

puncture his lung and the pain would be paralyzing. Martok expected the tactic because he knew he

would do the same, given the circumstances. But he would not grant Ikat’ika even a hint of victory by

hesitating. Dragging himself on by his elbows, he pushed toward the post.

Martok pulled—clawed—his way up. With only seconds left, he slapped the domed top and the

blinking ceased. Martok spun around with surprising speed to face his opponent,d’k tahgdrawn.

Did I not lose this weapon at Kor’s hand?The thought startled him.

The split-second reflection offered Ikat’ika an opening. The Jem’Hadar feinted to his left, dipped his

right knee, then spun around, the edge of his hand moving at incredible speed. Martok had no reply for

his enemy; he was helpless to block the blow. The bones of his cheek shattered on impact, splinters

thrusting up through the muscle. From out of the cacophony of the roaring crowd and shouts acclaiming

Ikat’ika’s triumph, Martok heard[9]a noise that might have been a small piece of overripe fruit dropping

from a branch and realized—or remembered—it was his eye. The world turned black, then purple,

then red. He heard a noise he recognized as his own bellow of rage and pain and tried to focus

beyond the pain, the shouting, the lights, and run at his opponent, but his legs—traitors!—would

not obey him.

The general staggered, dropping his weapon. Not even shame could move him. Like the implosions of

an ancient star, his perceptions had shrunk into an infinitesimally tiny mote of agony that had once been

his eye. He cupped both hands over the socket, and primitive instinct tried to tell him that if he just held

on he would save his eye, he would stop the slippery wet sliding down his cheek between his fingers.

But if he stood paralyzed, the fight would be over. Ikat’ika would win.

He will not win,Martok vowed. As long as I have breath he will not win.Pushing aside

self-preservation, he dredged the surrounding dirt with his boot, feeling for the d’k tang.Whether

he faced Ikat’ika’s direction or not, whether he could actually find his weapon or not, Martok

would attack. Proudly, he would wear the honored scar—this warrior’s mark—and he would

wear it as a warning of defeat to any who dared challenge him.

Elbows bent and fists balled, he assumed a fighting stance. Nearly blind, he sought Ikat’ika—

But found no one. No Ikat’ika, no Jem’Hadar, no Kor—nothing except the damnable post, blinking

steadily. He expected the low, grim laughter of a sated Jem’Hadar, but none greeted him.

Silence.

Swirling up from the floor, mists of darkness crawled[10]over the barriers, into the arena seats,

smothering each light they touched. lime. He was running out of time. He took a single step

toward the post, seeking to claim victory before the last light snuffed out. He realized exhaustion

had left him; the pain from his eye socket disappeared. He took another step. And another, each

one coming faster than the last.I will triumph,he vowed. He reached the post, raised his arm —

Slow, dull clapping broke the cavernous silence in the Great Hall, accompanied by echoing footsteps.

“Well done, General.” Gowron emerged from behind a stone pillar and stood before him, wide eyes

glittering with rage and madness. To Martok’s eye, he was wreathed in shimmering silver as the metal

links and decorations on the massive chancellor’s cloak caught the flickering torchlight. The council chairs

stood empty; they were alone, save for what ghosts of their ancestors had chosen to haunt this ancient

place.

“Chan—” He coughed. “Chance—” His parched mouth refused to release the title. A fit of coughing

overtook him, doubling him over.

“Tikacat bit off your tongue? Oh, wait.” Gowron linked his arms across his chest, looking down

his nose at Martok. “On second thought, that wouldn’t be a Tikacat. Worf has your tongue. He

does speak for you, does he not? You are his puppet.”

“I speak for myself,” Martok snarled. “I serve the empire!”

“Traitor,” Gowron hissed, throwing a backhanded punch to Martok’s face, followed quickly by a boot

to the throat.

Martok reeled, his skull crashing into the post. He struggled for air. Had Gowron crushed his larynx?

[11]Would he die desperately wheezing for one more breath? Martok had seen more than one

warrior—Klingon and alien alike—die that way, and it was not the ignominious end he had in

mind for himself, his face first turning crimson, then black as he puffed and heaved. Salty

thickness filled his mouth, gagging him; he spat out the clot, some fragments of teeth, and

something soft and formless that must have been a piece of his tongue.

Using the post to pull himself off the floor, Martok twisted back around to find Gowron looming over

him. Blood spraying from between his lips, the general roared, “I didn’t send Worf to kill you, you stupid

petaQ!He made that decision by himself!”

Speechless with rage, Gowron wiped flecks of blood from his face, then stepped back to set up another

kick, but Martok was ready for him. When the foot came in, Martok wrapped himself around it, set his

hands on either side of Gowron’s knee, one above, one below, and twisted. There came a satisfying

crunching noise and Gowron howled as he tumbled to the floor. Martok had lost track of hisd’k tahg,but

that didn’t matter. There were many, many ways to kill a man with only one’s bare hands and

Martok knew them all.

The thought flashed through Martok’smind as he fell on Gowron that he must be quite a sight by now.

Eye gone, mouth torn open—not at all the way a general should present himself to his chancellor.

Worf would not approve....

Wait....

Kor had died in battle against the Jem’Hadar. Worf hadn’t tried to assassinate Gowron, but rather had

challenged him to honorable combat and won, then made Martok chancellor. The “leader of destiny,”

Worf had called him. What kind of leader could Martok be now?[12]One with half a tongue to speak

and one eye to see? Martok laughed aloud at the thought and spat blood into the pile of dirt

beneath him.

Pile of dirt? The thing that he had thought was Gowron was only a rill of earth shaped like a prone figure.

Martok focused his vision, saw that the body’s “head” was lying against the base of the post. The post.

Martok tried to reach it, but he couldn’t stand. Too much blood loss, too much fighting. Collapsing in the

warm dirt was better. Draw it up over his head like a soft blanket. Rest. That was what the general

wanted. To rest for a long time. He closed his eye.

“You have won a great victory, my brother.”

Worf? Go away and let me sleep or I will cut out your tongue and feed it to you.

“This battle is won, General. Gowron is no more than the dust you sleep in. We have been victorious

thus far, but the war is not yet over.”

Martok’seye fluttered open. He gazed up into the black velvet night of Qo’noS. He mapped the points

of starlight and recognized them as the seasonal constellations over his homeland, Ketha. Each star

pattern and the picture it formed had been etched into his brain alongside every other childhood memory.

Breathing deeply, he filled his senses with the stench of refuse rotting andwarqwasting on spits over

open fire pits. Truly, he was home.

“You must not wallow in sentimentality, brother. The time to fight is now,” Worf barked.

Turning away from the night canopy, Martok saw Worf trudging toward him, arms outstretched. He

carried something in his arms. Abat’leth?No, that wasn’t it. When he reached Martok’s side, he

dropped to one[13]knee, bowing his head and holding out his arms for Martok to take his offering.

Martok rolled onto his side and considered the gift.

Star Trek Deep Space 9 The Left Hand of Destiny Book One

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