Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Left Hand of Destiny: Book Two by J. G. Hertzler & Jeffrey Lang

Author:J. G. Hertzler & Jeffrey Lang
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2003-04-23T00:00:00+00:00

13

When Martok awoke again, he was much more lucid (no more talk about lines and dividing) and, much more important from Pharh’s point of view, ravenously hungry. Pharh watched in awed wonder as he slurped up bowl after bowl of katch, the thick gruel the katai subsisted on. Pharh had no idea where the gunk came from or what it was made from, but he loved it. Katch was bland, belly-filling goodness, and he was strangely pleased to see Martok enjoying it so much. He felt better for knowing they had something in common.

He had only been awake—really awake—for less than half a day, but the old man seemed different. Putting a finger on exactly what had changed—well, there was the puzzle. Was he acting any differently? No, not really. Martok was every bit as grumpy and irascible as before. Did he look any different? Again, not really. He had the same gray, rumpled mane, the same worn and haggard face, and the same slab of scar tissue where his left eye used to be. If anything, he looked even the worse for wear, compared with the last time Pharh had seen him on the shuttle. His battle with Gothmara’s pets had been hard on him. If the katai were to be believed (and Pharh most definitely did; it was difficult to imagine any of them lying), there was no force in the universe that could have healed Martok. Kept him alive, maybe, but heal? No. According to Angwar, their chief medic, Martok’s spinal cord had been broken in several places and he had received major trauma to his brain. Falling three hundred meters down a cliff—even if you’re curled up inside a Hur’q’s body—does a lot of damage. He didn’t understand how Martok could be alive, yet, undeniably, here he was scraping at a morsel of food with his fingertips.

“Good, isn’t it?” Pharh asked.

“Awful,” Martok said, extending the bowl. “But I’m famished. More please.”

“I’m going to get the recipe before I leave,” Pharh replied, looking into the kettle. The stuff left in the bottom was so badly dried he could barely stir it, but Pharh managed to crack off a piece and ladle it into Martok’s bowl. “On Ferenginar the franchise rights will make me absurdly wealthy, not to mention the offworld rights.”

“I’m very happy for you,” Martok said. Pharh sat and watched the Klingon eat for several minutes, uncharacteristically silent, enjoying the companionable moment.

“Angwar said you would be hungry for a while. The healing ceremony they used burns up a lot of resources.”

Martok lowered the bowl, his beard dotted with specks of congealed gruel, and asked, “Were you here for any of it? Did you see what they did?”

Pharh shook his head. “Only the last bit. By then, the katai had contacted me and talked me through the use of the transporter. By the way, the automation on your computer is useless.”

“Pharh, the ceremony …”

“All right. Lots of smoke and drums and blankets. The katai chanted and you talked in your sleep a lot.

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