by David Mack
“Have all mission objectives been fulfilled?”
“Yes, sir. Vanguard is destroyed. Commodore Reyes and his accomplices are dead. Were you able to extract Doctor Marcus and her son?”
Spock nodded. “Yes. They are safe, as planned. Were you able to acquire the sample and data from Xiong?”
“Affirmative.”
“Well done.”
“You might also be interested to know that Captain Zhao, while perhaps a bit more ambitious than we were led to expect, seems amenable to our cause.”
Idly stroking his goateed chin, Spock replied, “Very good.”
T’Prynn stared at Spock for a moment before she added, “I trust you remember the condition under which I accepted this mission, Admiral.”
“I do,” Spock said. “And I will honor it.” He entered the necessary commands on his computer’s interface, and then he returned his attention to T’Prynn. “I have transmitted your notice of honorable discharge from Starfleet to the Admiralty. A copy of that notice will appear on your monitor momentarily.”
He heard a soft feedback tone from T’Prynn’s computer over the subspace channel. She reviewed the document, then bowed her head. “Thank you, Admiral.”
“Give Captain Zhao my regards,” Spock said, “and ask him to contact me as soon as he can do so safely.”
“I will.” She raised her hand in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Spock.”
He mirrored the gesture. “Honor and long life, T’Prynn.”
T’Prynn cut the channel. The screen went dark. Spock turned it off.
He estimated word of Vanguard’s destruction would reach Earth within the hour. Though it was sometimes difficult to predict Empress Sato III’s reactions, he felt fairly confident he knew how she would take this news.
“Who is responsible for this travesty?” screamed Empress Hoshi Sato III.
Her advisers cringed and leaned away from the war room’s conference table as she stood at its head, glaring with murderous anger at the lot of them. Not one of them seemed willing to look in her direction. Leaning forward on her fists, she arbitrarily parceled out abuse.
“Minister Nidas,” she said to her Bolian minister of intelligence, “we’ve lost a Watchtower-class starbase. More than three thousand Starfleet personnel are dead. Why didn’t your people detect this threat before it inflicted such casualties?”
As Nidas hemmed and hawed without producing an answer, the Empress directed her wrath at her Chelon foreign minister. “Minister Phialtes, why weren’t you aware Commodore Reyes was negotiating his own alliance with the Klingon Empire? Are you so underworked that you turned a blind eye to the emergence of a new rival state on our border, raised up using our own weapons, so you would have more to do?” Phialtes evinced his shame by retracting his head a few centimeters deeper inside his carapace.
The Empress slapped her palm on the table. “I want a name! Who did this? And don’t any of you try to lay the blame on Reyes—I can’t visit my revenge on a dead man. I want a living, breathing villain I can crucify for this.”
Silence reigned in the yawning darkness of the underground meeting room.
Somewhere near the middle of the table, a man cleared his throat and leaned forward. He was a middle-aged human who looked to be of Japanese ancestry; his frame was lean, his face was gaunt, and his silvery gray hair was styled in a brush cut. “If I may venture a speculation, Your Majesty?”
“Very well, Admiral … ?”
“Nogura, Majesty,” he replied. “A review of Vanguard’s logs suggest the station’s crew was killed by the escape of an alien entity known as a Shedai, which Reyes had been holding hostage. Long-range scans show the station was already damaged from within when it was destroyed by the Tholians.” He nodded at Minister Nidas. “The intelligence ministry can confirm the Tholians and Klingons are engaged in several skirmishes throughout the Taurus Reach. The party that seems to have had the most to gain in this crisis was the Tholian Assembly.”
Grand Admiral Matthew Decker heaved a disgusted sigh. “Can we knock off this kid-gloves bullshit, please?” He shot a scornful stare at Nogura before turning to the Empress and continuing. “Those long-range scans were provided by the Endeavour, which also happens to have led the attack on Vanguard. Captain Zhao”—he rolled his eyes—“forgive me, Commodore Zhao is the one who made a public spectacle of Reyes’s power-grab-in-the-making. If not for Zhao’s mutiny, we could have replaced Reyes quietly and retained control over the Taurus Reach. Now the entire sector’s in chaos because Zhao absconded with the Sixth Fleet.”
A cold fire of anger swelled in the Empress’s breast as she asked Decker, “Is Zhao the one I want to destroy?”
“Eventually,” Decker said. “But Zhao is only the symptom. I think it’s time we addressed the cause.”
Decker inserted a data card into a slot on the table and accessed its contents, which were rendered as holograms at intervals along the table. “These comm logs show a pattern of transmissions between Zhao’s ship and the Tholian Assembly—which would be damning by itself—but more important is who made them.”
The projection changed to show the face of a Vulcan woman. “Her name is T’Prynn,” Decker said. “She’s an agent of Starfleet Intelligence. Until six years ago, she was posted on Vulcan, where she had frequent contact with Ambassador Sarek.” Calling up more data, Decker continued. “Eight hours ago, she received an honorable discharge from Starfleet service authorized by Admiral Spock—who, it should be noted, two years ago received a packet of classified data regarding Operation Vanguard from Captain Terrell of the Sagittarius.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Hoshi said. “For years Admiral Spock has sowed dissension in Starfleet and been a magnet for insurrectionists throughout the Empire. Now he dares to order the premature termination of an imperially mandated military operation. He has gone too far.” Adopting as regal a bearing as her slender physique allowed, the Empress lifted her chin and said with icy hauteur, “Grand Admiral Decker: terminate Admiral Spock immediately.”
23
Fortunes of the Bold
Will Decker greeted Admiral Spock as the Vulcan C.O. entered the transporter room. “Your landing party is ready, Admiral.”
Spock nodded his acknowledgment as he strode past Decker and stepped onto the platform. Awaiting the admiral were four young Vulcan officers, three male and one female, all personally selected by Spock to accompany him to the Starfleet Admiralty’s strategic conference on Deneva. Lieutenant Xon, the Enterprise’s new science officer, was a boyish-looking young man with long unruly hair. Ensign Saavik, the woman, served as its alpha-shift flight controller. The other two, Solok and Stang, were lieutenants in the security division.
Like the admiral, the other Vulcans all wore full dress uniforms—which, thanks to their dark gray, minimalist styling, looked almost identical to regular duty uniforms, right down to their ceremonial daggers and mandatory sidearms.
Lieutenant Commander Winston Kyle stood at the transporter control station. “Coordinates locked in, Admiral,” he said.
“Stand by, Mister Kyle,” Spock said. In a sepulchral tone of voice, he added, “Mister Decker, please join the landing party.”
The request caught Decker by surprise. He concealed his alarm. “Me, sir? But I’m not dressed for a formal conference.”
“A technicality,” Spock said. “Overriding protocol is one of the privileges of rank.”
Decker realized he had become the center of attention in the transporter room. Debating a direct order from Admiral Spock aboard his flagship would only exacerbate the situation. Refusing it was not an option. Decker wondered if Spock knew what had been arranged on the planet’s surface—or what Decker’s role in it had been. “Aye, sir,” he said, stepping up to join the landing party. Moving past the Vulcans, Decker found an available transporter pad at the rear of the platform.
In the six years since Decker had been demoted by his father to serve as Spock’s executive of
ficer aboard the Enterprise, the notorious Vulcan flag officer had made a point of keeping Decker at a distance. Except for the most perfunctory communications, Spock rarely conversed with him and generally declined to include him in tactical planning or diplomatic efforts. Spock simply did not trust him.
And why should he? I wouldn’t, if I was him. I’d assume my first loyalty would be to my father. It’s a wonder he hasn’t “disappeared” me like so many others. He still might.
Decker’s musings were disrupted by Spock’s level baritone. “Mister Kyle … energize.”
Wrapped in the transporter beam, Decker saw the room swirl with light and color. He unfastened the loop on his phaser before the annular confinement beam ensnared him and restrained his movements. The same irrational fear always raced through his thoughts as the dematerialization sequence began: What if being disassembled is actually fatal? What if the person who comes out on the other side is just a copy of me, perfect in every detail, but completely unaware I’m dead and he’s a copy? A wash of whiteness brought him up short, then the swirl of light and euphonic noise ushered him back to himself, now in a corridor of the imperial administration building in Deneva’s capital city. Though he knew he could never prove his idea or disprove it, he still wondered, What if I’m a copy now? What if the person who stepped onto the transporter pad on the Enterprise is dead?
The landing party was in a dim hallway with bare, dark gray walls of a smooth, prefabricated material. Open panels on the wall revealed complex networks of wires and optronic cables. A musty odor permeated the cool air, suggesting to Decker they were underground, in some kind of subbasement.
Recalling the pre-mission briefing, he realized something was wrong. “This isn’t where we were supposed to beam in,” he said.
“Quite correct, Commander,” Spock said. “Follow me.” Without hesitation, Spock led the group at a quick step down the corridor, then right at a T-shaped intersection. Within a few minutes, he had reached a locked portal marked “Auxiliary Security Control.” Next to the door was an alphanumeric keypad. Spock stood aside while the four Vulcans gathered at the door and stared at it, as if concentrating on something beyond it. They and Spock all were perfectly still and quiet, and Decker followed their example.
Then Saavik blinked, stepped forward, and tapped in a long string of characters and digits on the security keypad. The door swished open, and the four young Vulcan officers rushed in, swift and silent. Sharp cracking noises were followed by heavy thuds. Spock walked inside the security control center, and Decker followed him.
Four human Starfleet officers lay unconscious on the floor, and Spock’s team now occupied the fallen officers’ posts. Banks of video screens lined three walls, packed with images from the building’s internal security network. Spock and Decker watched as the four Vulcans worked. Finally, Stang turned his chair to face Spock. “There are no other members of the Admiralty in the conference hall, sir.”
“As I suspected,” Spock said. He looked at the science officer. “Lieutenant Xon, scan the conference hall for any life signs.” To Saavik he said, “Scan the corridor outside the conference hall for evidence of concealed explosives or other antipersonnel devices.” Both officers nodded in acknowledgment and set to work.
Decker stood and watched, dumbfounded. It was all falling apart. Spock noted Decker’s dismayed expression. “You appear troubled, Commander.”
Still trying to make sense of what was happening, Decker said, “You came down here expecting a trap?”
“Naturally,” Spock said.
“But why?”
Folding his hands behind his back, Spock replied, “Mister Decker, in the ten years I have commanded the Enterprise, I have been forced to suppress six mutinies, two of them instigated by senior officers.”
“None on my watch, Admiral,” Decker said proudly.
“True,” Spock said. “Discipline has improved markedly under your supervision. Regardless, I have been forced on many occasions to defend my command from persons and factions who oppose my methods. Precaution becomes a necessity.” Decker couldn’t fault Spock’s reasoning. From the alleged “malfunction” of the experimental M-5 computer to Grand Admiral Garth’s failed ambush of Spock at Elba II, the Empire had given the Vulcan more than sufficient cause to treat any invitation it proffered as being instantly suspect.
Ensign Saavik turned from her screen to report. “Explosives have been installed at one-meter intervals beneath the floor in the main corridor outside the conference hall.”
“Fascinating,” Spock said. He looked at Xon.
Xon, sensing the admiral’s attention, turned to face him. “Two life signs inside the conference hall, Admiral. Close together, in a concealed position opposite the main entrance. Both armed with phased plasma rifles.”
“Snipers,” Spock said. “Lieutenant, can you deactivate the building’s transport scrambler from here?”
“Negative, sir,” Xon replied. “Doing so would alert the personnel in the primary security control center.”
Spock raised his voice. “Solok, Stang, use the emergency exit stairway to reach the conference hall undetected. Eliminate the two snipers. Saavik, Xon, initiate a command override and then execute an intruder protocol inside the primary security control room. Trigger their anesthezine gas module. As soon as they are incapacitated, we will return to the Enterprise.”
“Aye, sir,” Xon and Saavik answered in near unison, while Stang and Solok swiftly exited the auxiliary security control center on their way up to the conference hall.
Standing near the door, Decker listened to their retreating footfalls. Inside the room, Spock conferred with Xon and Saavik at the main console. All three had their backs to him.
Slowly, carefully, and as quietly as he was able, Decker drew his phaser from his belt, extended his arm, and leveled his aim. Three against one, but I have the element of surprise, he assured himself. This is the best chance I’ll get.
He squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened. He released the trigger and looked at his weapon as if it were a friend who had betrayed him.
Spock, still facing away from Decker, said, “It would seem, Commander, that you are the only member of the landing party who is not aware of the phaser-dampening field inside this room.” The admiral turned to face him. Saavik and Xon swiveled their chairs to do likewise.
The door swished closed behind Decker.
Oh, no. Panic swelled in his gut as he lowered his sidearm.
“Thank you, Mister Decker, for all your assistance,” Spock continued. “Without your unwitting complicity, I would have been hard-pressed to ascertain the specific time and place of this assassination attempt arranged by your father.”
Decker smiled sadly. “You know I had no choice, right?”
“One always has a choice,” said Spock. “Even refusing to decide is still a choice. And choices have consequences.”
Saavik stood and walked slowly toward Decker. Xon followed a step behind her. Both unsheathed their daggers.
Not content to let himself be murdered without a fight, Decker drew his own dagger and squared himself for combat.
They were so fast, and he felt so slow.
He met a lunge with a block, dodged a thrust, slashed at an opponent who had already slipped away—
—then cruel agony, sharp and cold. Steel plunged into his body below his ribs. Gouging upward, ripping him apart from the inside out. The serrated Vulcan blades tore free. He dropped to his knees and clutched his gut. Blood, warm and coppery-smelling, coated his fingers.
Xon and Saavik stood above him, the blood-slicked blades still in their hands. Spock remained at the far console. All the Vulcans wore the same dispassionate expression as they watched Decker die. For people from a scorching-hot planet, they were the most cold-blooded killers he had ever seen.
Decker tried to swallow, but his mouth was dust-dry and his throat constricted. “My father will kill you all,” he rasped.
�
��It is very likely he will try,” Spock said, then he nodded once to Saavik.
Another flash of steel landed a stinging cut across Decker’s throat. He felt himself slipping away and going dark, and his last thought was that it felt not all that different from vanishing into a transporter beam.
“That rotten, scheming, Vulcan sonofabitch!” Grand Admiral Matthew Decker hurled an expensive bottle of Romulan ale against the wall of his quarters, showering Commander Hiromi Takeshewada with broken glass and pale blue liquor.
A few seconds later, she felt reasonably certain none of the glass had penetrated her eye. A light sweep of her hand wiped the splatter of liquid from her sleeve. The grand admiral, meanwhile, was almost literally tearing at his gray hair while thumping his forehead heavily against the bulkhead.
