by David Mack
On the main viewer, Empress Sato III watched with wide-eyed attention but said nothing. The bridge crew of the Constellation looked to Spock for direction. “Stations,” he ordered, and everyone leaped into motion. “Commander Takeshewada, secure from general quarters. Lieutenant Ponor, request status updates from the ships of the fleet.”
While the officers around him scrambled to collect data and remove the dead bodies from the bridge, Spock settled easily into the center seat and waited, patient and stoic, for word of whether his plan—triggered prematurely by Decker and the Empress’s blatant move against him—was unfolding as intended. He passed the minutes looking at the Empress on the screen. For her part, she seemed equally willing to reciprocate his stare.
Finally, Takeshewada concluded her conference with Ponor and stepped down into the middle of the bridge, next to Spock. “We have reports from all sectors, sir,” she said. “Officers loyal to you have successfully taken control of sixty-one-point-three percent of the ships in Starfleet. The remaining vessels are under the control of officers who have expressed a desire to remain neutral.”
“What is the disposition of the other ships in Admiral Decker’s attack fleet?”
She handed him a condensed report on a data slate. “All are with you except for Yorktown and Repulse, but their captains have ordered their crews to stand down.”
“Very well,” Spock said. He stood and took two steps toward the main viewer. He put his closed fist to his chest, then extended his arm in salute to the Empress. “Your Majesty,” he said, lowering his arm. “In accordance with the imperial rules of war, and Starfleet regulations regarding the criteria for advancement, I hereby assume the rank of Grand Admiral of Starfleet, and designate Enterprise as my flagship.”
It was done. He had thrown the gauntlet and appointed himself the supreme military commander of the Terran Empire. Now all he could do was await the Empress’s response. She could refuse to grant him the title, but to challenge him would spark a civil war—and with the majority of Starfleet supporting his bid for control, and the bulk of the remainder choosing to sit out the confrontation rather than risk becoming caught in a crossfire, the odds favored Spock’s triumph. Alternatively, she could implicitly endorse his coup, thereby cementing his hold on power and legitimizing his control of the Empire’s vast military arsenal. If she was as shrewd as his observations had led him to suspect she was, she would not elect to plunge her Empire into a disastrous internecine conflict.
The monarch’s neutral expression never changed as she spoke. “Grand Admiral Spock, redeploy your fleet to fortify our defenses on the Klingon border near Ajilon,” she said.
“As you command, Your Majesty,” Spock replied.
“Then,” Empress Sato III added, “set your flagship’s course for Earth. It’s customary for a promotion of this magnitude to be honored with a formal imperial reception. I look forward to welcoming you to my palace on Earth in seven days’ time.”
Spock bowed his head slightly, then returned to attention. “Understood, Your Majesty. My crew and I are honored by your invitation.”
Without any valediction, the Empress cut the channel, terminating the discussion. The collective anxiety on the bridge diminished palpably the moment the viewscreen reverted to the placid vista of a motionless starscape. Spock turned away from the screen. “Captain Takeshewada,” he said, granting an instant promotion to his chief ally aboard the Constellation, “take this attack fleet and proceed at best speed to the Ajilon system. From there, redeploy to secure the border. The Kling-ons will see this change in our military leadership as an invitation to test our discipline and organization. Encourage them not to try more than once.”
“Aye, sir,” Takeshewada said.
“I return now to the Enterprise,” Spock said. He raised his right hand and spread the fingers in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Captain Takeshewada.”
“And the same to you, Grand Admiral Spock,” she said. Then she took her place in the center seat and beamed with pride.
He took his communicator from his belt and flipped it open. “Spock to Enterprise.”
It was Lieutenant Xon who answered. “Go ahead, sir.”
“One to beam over, Lieutenant,” Spock said. “Energize.”
24
The End and Object of Conquest
“Enter,” said Grand Admiral Spock from the other side of the door to his quarters. It opened and Saavik stepped inside.
As soon as she crossed the threshold she felt more comfortable. Inside, the light was dimmer and tinted red; the heat was dry and comforting; even the gravity was slightly greater. It was as accurate a facsimile of Vulcan’s climate as the ship’s environmental controls could create. She stepped farther inside, and the door shut behind her.
Saavik turned and saw Spock. His back was to her. He was wearing his full dress uniform, complete with regalia and medals, and standing in front of a mantel on which stood a smoking cone of incense. Without turning to look in her direction, he said, “Join me, Ensign.”
Hands folded together behind her back, she walked slowly to his side. Several seconds passed while she stood beside him. “We have received your transport coordinates from the imperial palace,” she said, breaking the silence. “They are standing by for your arrival.”
“I am well aware of our itinerary,” Spock said.
Duly chastised, Saavik lowered her chin. “Aye, sir.”
This time she respected the silence until he spoke.
His eyes remained fixed on the twists of pale smoke rising from the ashen cone of mildly jasmine-scented incense. “Do you know why I asked you here?”
She followed his example and stared at the serpentine coils of dense smoke. “No, sir.”
“Do you know why the Empress ordered us to Earth?”
Electing to eliminate obvious answers, Saavik replied, “To honor your promotion to Grand Admiral of Starfleet.”
A soft, low harrumph was Spock’s first reaction. “That was her stated purpose for the invitation.”
Saavik cast a furtive, sidelong glance at her Academy sponsor and mentor. Phrasing her supposition as a statement rather than as a question, she said, “You believe the Empress’s invitation is a prelude to an assassination attempt.”
He gave a brief nod. “I do.”
“If you are correct,” Saavik said, “do you concede her decision is logical? You have, after all, orchestrated a coup of Starfleet and usurped a rank traditionally appointed by the throne.”
Turning to face her, he replied, “I concede her decision to eliminate me is consistent with her objectives. But as I consider her long-term goal to be untenable, I am forced to conclude the entirety of her agenda and the actions she takes to support it are illogical.”
“Then the rumors are true,” Saavik said. “You intend to challenge her for control of the Empire.”
His expression betrayed nothing as he stepped away from her to a nearby table, on which sat a tray that held a ceramic teapot and two low, broad cups of a matching style. He poured a cup of tea, then lifted it and held it out toward Saavik. She walked over, accepted the tea, and then returned the gesture by filling the other cup and offering it to him. He took it from her with a solemn bow of his head. They sipped the herbal libation together. Finally, he said, “Share your thoughts.”
Challenging him felt improper; she was a lowly ensign, and he was the supreme military commander of the Empire—at least, he was for the next hour, until his audience with the Empress. His invitation had sounded genuine, however, so she collected her thoughts and began cautiously. “I am familiar with the predicted future collapse of the Empire,” she said. “And I agree it is not logical to continue expending time, resources, and lives on an entity we know to be doomed.” Growing bolder, she continued. “But I have grave misgivings about your proposed solution, Admiral. Many of your ideas seem laudable for their nobility, but I think they will ultimately prove impractical.”
“Should we
instead do nothing?” Spock asked.
She put down her tea. “Perhaps your domestic adjustments could be accommodated with a more graduated time frame. But your platform of diplomacy and exclusively defensive power as the basis for a new foreign policy strikes me as politically naïve at best, and possibly suicidal at worst.”
“And yet, by employing those very tactics within Starfleet, I have amassed more direct support than any officer ever to precede me in this role.”
“Enacting reforms within Starfleet is hardly analogous to effecting a total reversal of the Empire’s foreign policy.”
Setting aside his own tea, he asked, “On what do you base your assumption that our adversaries will reject diplomacy? Or that renouncing wars of choice would provoke them?”
“I have based my arguments on my observations and studies of the Klingons, Cardassians, and Romulans as large-scale political actors,” Saavik said. “Each is ambitious and highly aggressive. Historically, none of them has been receptive to diplomatic efforts. As for your civil reforms, the regional governors would certainly revolt, and you might lose much of your current support within Starfleet.”
He paced slowly away from her and stopped beside a wall in the middle of the cabin. “Put aside what you know, Saavik,” he said, “and consider this hypothetical question: If there existed a means by which my power could be assured, and my enemies kept at bay, would you support a more logical approach to the governance of the Empire?”
“Hypothetically?” Arching one eyebrow, she replied, “Yes.”
“And if I were to place the fate of the Empire into your hands,” he said, “which path would you choose?”
“The one that was most logical,” Saavik said, almost as if by instinct.
With one hand, he beckoned her. As she stepped over to join him, he reached up toward an empty trapezoidal frame on his wall. He touched its lower right corner, then its upper right corner. The main panel of the frame slid upward, revealing a small device: just a screen, a few knobs, a keypad, and a single button set apart in a pale, sea-green teardrop of crystal. “This,” he said, “is the control apparatus for an alien weapon known as the Tantalus field. With it, the user can track the movements of any person, even from orbit.” He activated the device and called up an image of Empress Sato III, in her throne room on Earth. “It can strike even within such protected domains as the imperial palace.” He pointed at the various controls. “These are used to switch targets, these are for tracking. And this one”—he pointed at the button inside the teardrop crystal—“fires the weapon. It can eliminate a single target as small as an insect … or everyone in a desired zone of effect. To the best of my knowledge, there is no defense.”
Saavik stared at the device, transfixed by the macabre genius of it. Undoubtedly, this had been the secret of Spock’s swift ascent to power, and the source of the legends about his terrifying psionic gifts. Then she realized knowing about the Tantalus field might make her a liability to him. “Admiral,” she asked carefully, “why are you showing me this?”
“Because, Saavik, when I meet with the Empress, you will have three choices.” He stepped close to her, invading her personal space and towering over her. “One: Serve your own agenda—let the imperial guards kill me, then take the Tantalus field device for yourself. Two: Assassinate me yourself, and try to curry favor with the Empress. Or three: Defend me from the Empress, and help me initiate the logical reformation of the Empire. … The choice is yours.”
It took several seconds before Saavik understood the exact nature of the responsibility Spock had just entrusted to her. He was one of the most powerful men in the Empire, and he was about to make himself infinitely vulnerable to her whim. It was one of the most illogical decisions she had ever seen a Vulcan make. “I do not understand, Admiral,” she said. “You would actually trust me to remain here, alone with this unspeakably powerful weapon? You would entrust your life … to my goodwill?”
“No, Saavik,” he replied. “I am entrusting my life to your good judgment. Logic alone should dictate your correct course.” He frowned, then continued. “We live in a universe that tends to reward cruelty and self-interest. But I have seen irrefutable evidence that a better way exists—and if our civilization is to endure beyond the next two centuries, we must learn to change.”
His assertion fueled her swelling curiosity. “You say you have seen ‘irrefutable proof.’ What was that proof, Admiral?”
“A mind-meld,” he said. “With a human from an alternate universe, one much like our own.” He lifted his hand and gently pressed his fingertips against her temple and cheek. “Open your mind to me, and I will share what I have seen.”
He had already volunteered so many secrets that Saavik saw no reason for him to lie now about his intentions. She lowered her psionic defenses one layer at a time and permitted his mind to fuse with her own.
And then she saw it.
Flashes of memory, a third mind, fleetingly touched but now forever imprinted in Spock’s psyche. Another Dr. McCoy. A man of compassion and mercy. From a Starfleet whose officers don’t kill for advancement, but are willing to die to protect each other.
A Federation founded on justice, equality, and peace, and, like the Terran Empire, beset by powerful, dangerous rivals. But unlike the Empire, this Federation amasses its strength by means of consensus and alliances of mutual benefit, and it assuages its wants and its injuries through mutual sacrifice.
Stable. Prosperous. Strong. Free.
Spock withdrew the touch of his mind and his hand, leaving Saavik with lingering images of the alternate universe. It was no psionic illusion; it was genuine. Just as Spock had said, it was irrefutable. And yet … it was not this universe. Its lessons, its ideals—they weren’t of this reality. To think two such divergent universes could belatedly be steered onto the same course struck Saavik as dangerously wishful thinking.
She was still considering her reaction when Spock stepped back from her and said, “The choice is yours.” Then he walked away, out the door, to keep his appointment with the Empress.
With a few simple turns and taps of the device’s controls, Saavik conjured an image of Spock on its viewer. She watched him stride through the corridors of the Enterprise, on his way to the transporter room and not at all resembling a man willingly walking into a trap. I could eliminate him right now, she realized, her fingers lightly brushing the outline of the teardrop crystal. No one would ever know.
Ultimate power lay in Saavik’s hands—and she had less than five minutes to decide what to do with it.
Flanked by a trio of his most trusted Vulcan bodyguards, Spock rematerialized from the transporter beam. He and his men were on the edge of a vast plaza, at the gargantuan arched entryway on the southern side of the imperial palace. The polished titanium of the massive, domed structure reflected the lush green vista of the Okinawa countryside—and the legion of black-and-red-uniformed soldiers standing at attention in formation on the plaza, to Spock’s left. He turned and faced the ranks of imperial shock troops. As one, thousands of men brought their fists to their chests, then extended their arms in formal salute. He returned the salute, then turned and entered the palace proper, his guards close behind.
Like so many edifices dedicated to human vanity, the palace was a conspicuous waste of space and resources. Thoroughfares that receded to distant points were bordered by walls ascending to dizzying heights. From the floors to the lofty arches of the ceiling, the interior of the palace appeared to have been crafted entirely of ornately gilded marble. In contrast to the muggy, hazy summer air outside, the atmosphere inside the palace was crisp and cold and odorless. Heavy doors of carved mahogany lined the cathedral-like passageway, and on either side of every door stood two guards, more imperial shock troops.
A steady flood-crush of pedestrians hurried in crisscrossed paths, all racing from one bastion of bureaucracy to another, bearing urgent missives, relaying orders, coming and going from meetings and appointments.
/> Then a booming voice announced over a central public address system: “Attention.” The madding throng came to a halt. “Clear the main passage for Grand Admiral Spock.” As if cleaved by an invisible blade, the crowd parted to form a broad channel through the center of the passageway, and an antigrav skiff glided quickly toward Spock.
Its pilot was another member of the Imperial Guard. He guided the skiff to a gliding stop in front of Spock, finishing with a slow turn so that the open passenger-side seat faced the grand admiral. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “I’m here to escort you to Her Majesty, Empress Sato III.”
Spock nodded his assent, climbed aboard the skiff, and sat down. His guards occupied the rear bench seat. The vehicle accelerated smoothly, finished its turn, and sped back the way it had come. The corridor and the faces that filled it blurred past.
Less than a minute later, the skiff arrived at the towering duranium doors of the imperial throne room. Waiting there for Spock was his entourage, whose members the Empress had summoned in the more formal invitation she had extended during Enterprise’s journey to Earth: Lieutenant Commander Kevin Riley, the newly promoted first officer of the I.S.S. Enterprise; Lieutenant Xon; Dr. Jabilo M’Benga; and chief engineer Commander Montgomery Scott.
