by David Mack
Spock considered her point. “When our enemies choose to conquer us,” he said, “they will succeed. And it will be their undoing.” He stepped ahead of her and led the way into the transporter room. An engineer manned the transporter console, and another pair of Spock’s elite guards stood at attention, awaiting his arrival. He stepped onto the platform, accompanied by the two guards who had followed him through the corridors.
Saavik stood between Spock and the transporter operator. Arching one eyebrow, she asked, “Majesty, do you really believe conquering us would cause the fall of the Klingon Empire?”
With perfect surety, he replied, “It is inevitable.”
Then, with a nod, the order was given, and Spock and his guards vanished into the white haze of the transporter beam.
Carol Marcus paced nervously inside the storage bay, awaiting the arrival of the most powerful VIP guest in the Empire. Don’t panic, she kept telling herself. It’s a good proposal, he’s a Vulcan, he’ll see that what you’re asking for is logical. … Don’t panic.
The transporter effect shimmered into existence just a few meters away from her. She froze in place and watched three Vulcanoid shapes materialize, one in front and two behind. As the sparkling glow faded away, she found herself face-to-face with Emperor Spock, the supreme ruler of the Terran Empire.
Though she had been taught as a child how to curtsey, she had never had any need to do so until this moment—and suddenly she found herself awkwardly wobbling over her own crossed feet. “Your Majesty,” she said while looking at the floor. “Welcome to Regula.”
Spock stepped toward her. “Thank you, Doctor Marcus.” He looked around at their immediate surroundings. “Based on your preliminary report, I presume that this is not the second phase of your project.”
“Certainly not,” Marcus said, before adding, “Your Majesty.” The Emperor’s classically aloof Vulcan nature made it hard for her to tell if he was annoyed with her. She gestured toward the exit from this terminal chamber, which was located at the end of a long service corridor. “May I guide you through the rest of the facility?”
“By all means,” he said.
They left the storage bay, their footsteps echoing crisply in the empty space. Indicating the drab, gray surfaces of the corridor, she noted, “It took the Imperial Corps of Engineers nine months to excavate the preliminary facility. Though it was a costly and time-consuming project, it was essential to—”
“I read your proposal for Project Genesis, Doctor,” he said as they neared a T-shaped intersection. “It is not necessary for you to reiterate its contents.”
Concealing her embarrassment, she replied, “Of course not, Your Majesty. My apologies. Obviously, you just want to know whether phase two was a success.” At the intersection she turned right, stopped, and pivoted back to face Spock. “Well … you tell me.”
The Emperor turned the corner and looked out upon Marcus’s handiwork. True to his Vulcan heritage and his personal reputation, he showed no sign of surprise at the verdant splendor of the Genesis Cave. Kilometers across, the roughly ovoid excavation was teeming with vegetation. Ferns and fronds carpeted the lower half of the space, which was thick with stands of jungle trees whose branches were heavy with fruit. Flowers of variegated colors dotted the periphery of the enclosure at seemingly random intervals. Mist hung in gauzy layers, refracting light from the artificial solar generators in an adjacent cave, on the far side from where Marcus and Spock now stood. Off to the right, in the distance, an enormous waterfall cascaded in snowy plumes over jagged rocks, its wholly natural appearance a testament to its meticulous engineering.
“It’s self-contained and self-sustaining,” she said. “All except the solar generators, which need to be refueled every sixty years.” She waited for a reaction from Spock, but none came. “In transforming this limited volume of inanimate matter, the Genesis Wave was completely successful,” she continued. “But to assess its full potential, we need to move on to phase three: a lifeless, geologically inactive planetoid. For that, we’ll need an increase in our funding, and the services of an imperial starship, to help us seek out an appro—”
“No,” Spock said.
His answer caught her off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Your request for funding and operational support is denied.”
She folded her arms and reminded herself not to raise her voice. Though Spock seemed to be a benign and compassionate sovereign, she remained keenly aware he was still the Emperor—and that he could make her disappear with a single word. “May I ask why, Your Majesty?”
“For the same reason I terminated Operation Vanguard—what you propose is too dangerous. If I allow you to carry out your third-phase test, it will provoke an arms race and prematurely ignite our inevitable conflict with the Klingon Empire.”
She knew he was right; the only reason she had dared to continue her work to this stage was because, unlike the opportunistic and belligerent Empress Sato III, Emperor Spock gave every indication of being a leader who would wield a power such as the Genesis Device wisely.
“But think of the potential, Your Majesty,” she said, unable to give up on a project that had consumed the past eighteen years of her life. “We could transform dead worlds into new Class-M planets. We wouldn’t have to compete with the Klingons for habitable worlds anymore.”
“I am aware of its potential, Doctor, but the risks it carries are too great.” He turned his head and looked again at the cave. “How many people will this facility support?”
Still reeling from the rejection, it took Marcus a moment to answer. “Indefinitely? Perhaps a few hundred. Why?”
“Because I want you to duplicate phase two of your project in a number of other sites throughout the Empire—sites whose locations will be known only to the two of us and to a handful of people who will be permanently attached to them.”
She was confused now. “I thought you said you were terminating Project Genesis.”
“I am,” Spock said. “But your work will not go to waste. I need it—and you—for an infinitely more important project.”
Alarmed but curious, she asked, “What kind of project?”
Spock met her questioning stare with his dark, hypnotic gaze. He replied somberly, “The future of our civilization.”
2285
35
A World in Transition
Fingers brush across Lotok’s graying temple. Thoughts half formed whisper from mind to mind, conveyed with equal parts urgency and discretion. Contact is fleeting and subtle, all but imperceptible, its gift unremarked, its purpose unquestioned. The mind-meld ends, and he looks at his grandson, Kerok; now they are co-conspirators, and there is much work to do.
Another dusky sunrise in ShiKahr, the cinnamon daybreak of dawn on Vulcan. Volkar rouses T’Len, his seven-year-old daughter, for school; their hands touch. He brushes a hair from her cheek. In a moment he shares the secret of a lifetime. Looking upon her sire with new eyes, T’Len understands.
Spock is summoning the future, and we must be ready for it.
A sullen storm front churns on the horizon, a dark stain on the crimson sky. Salok, a tenth-year Kolinahr adept, stands on a ledge near the peak of Mount Seleya. The crash of a far-off gong calls him to meditation. His walk across the bridge is long; his only companion is the wind, howling in minor chords, warm and rich with the clean smells of the deep desert.
In the Halls of Ancient Thought, he is handed his ceremonial sash. As the high priest lowers it into Salok’s hands, they make contact. In between two more crashes of the gong, Salok sees the truth, shared by Emperor Spock with Govenor Sarek and passed on to a thousand more minds since: a vision of another reality, an incontrovertible mental image of a universe both like and unlike his own.
The knowledge comes with a price: a call to arms.
Salok is ready.
Rebellion. It’s an idea, a concept, a meme.
Viruslike, it travels and seeks receptive hosts, vessels who will c
arry it, nurture it, spread it.
Freedom. It is contagious in its simplicity, incendiary in its potential, complicated and inherently contradictory. Logic demands it; without the freedom to explore new thoughts and new ideas, knowledge cannot advance; without intellectual freedom, civilization stagnates. Progress halts. Hope dies.
It is only the germ of an idea. But it is spreading.
L’Haan is a defender of the peace, a law enforcement officer, and until three days ago she had held no other loyalty than to the Empire. Then the Emperor’s vision of the future touched her mind. Today she realizes the Empire is doomed, and Emperor Spock’s dangerous vision is the way of tomorrow.
Her first duty now is to the people of Vulcan—and to the future. Time is short, and there are many minds to reach. Already she has encountered several who are already part of the movement. It is reassuring to know who her allies are, but theirs is an evangelical cause. Success will be measured not in the depth of their personal commitment but in their ability to recruit others. And so she continues to search, to seek out those individuals who seem most likely to sympathize with Spock’s plan for the future.
She sees the man she has been looking for. His name is V’Nem. He is a professor at the Vulcan Science Academy, known for being slightly unorthodox. Statistically speaking, he is likely to be a receptive candidate for The Touch.
L’Haan concocts an excuse to detain him for just a moment. She demands to see what he has hidden in the folds of his loose desert robe. Predictably, he resists, citing the new imperial guarantees against warrantless search and seizure. It’s a flimsy pretext for her to accuse him of resisting arrest, but it will do. She grabs his wrist for only a moment, long enough to reach out and try to make contact with his thoughts, to tell him to remain calm, that he is in no danger—
He is a Romulan. An infiltrator. A spy.
V’Nem reaches for a concealed weapon.
L’Haan attacks, a knifing blow of her stiffened hand against V’Nem’s neck, which snaps instantly. His head lolls toward the ground, a limp and heavy mass with dull eyes. She releases his wrist and lets his body fall into the street.
A crowd gathers. There will be an inquiry, but even after Spock’s legal reforms she still has the power of authority, the protection of being an officer of the law. In short order she will be vindicated, even applauded for exposing and disposing of a Romulan agent. The attention this will bring her will prevent her from spreading Spock’s message for a few weeks, or longer.
This was a mistake of youthful inexperience, she knew. In the future, I must be more circumspect in my actions.
T’Meri slips out of her dormitory at the Vulcan Science Academy and steals away in the dark predawn hours. Halfway across the city, the young Vulcan woman finds her way to an unmarked door below street level. She does not knock; instead she scrapes her boot against the base of the door for a few seconds, then stands where she knows the security camera can see her clearly. The rust-mottled portal opens with fluid ease and surprisingly little noise. She slips inside, and the door is shut quickly after her.
T’Prynn is waiting for her. The older Vulcan woman is ex-Starfleet and, from what few fleeting personal glimpses T’Meri has had of T’Prynn’s mind, privy to many terrible secrets. But the one she has shared most vividly with T’Meri is the one she received from Spock himself, of his mind-meld with the man from the alternate universe. She has imparted the vision to T’Meri so the youth can seek out others sympathetic to Spock’s aims and pass it along to them, with the same directive. T’Meri has done exactly that.
She reaches up toward T’Prynn’s face and gently rests her fingertips against the woman’s smooth, pale skin. In turn, T’Prynn’s fingers press delicately upon the side of T’Meri’s bronze-hued face. Their minds touch, and T’Meri shows T’Prynn all the minds to whom she has conveyed Spock’s message. T’Prynn is pleased—then she breaks the psychic link.
T’Meri opens her eyes and finds her face and T’Prynn’s only a few centimeters apart. Their lips are parted and trembling with anticipation. The sensations are a mystery to T’Meri, whose next Pon farr is still four years away—until she realizes T’Prynn is hiding the fires of her own desire, and that some of that ardor has been transferred in the mind-meld.
The urge to kiss the older woman is overpowering. T’Meri searches her thoughts. She realizes T’Prynn desires her. Burns for her.
She feels the heat of T’Prynn’s breath inside her mouth, mingling with her own, but all she can think about is the fact that, despite Governor Sarek’s attempts at liberal social reforms, Vulcan’s laws—preserved for thousands of years by the Council of Elders at Mount Seleya—forbid her and T’Prynn from succumbing to their true natures.
T’Prynn’s lips graze T’Meri’s.
Surrendering to the swell of passion lingering from their mind-meld, T’Meri returns T’Prynn’s kiss and gives herself over to a woman more than three times her age. T’Prynn is voracious in her desire, primal in her way of touching, almost savage in the way she removes T’Meri’s garments.
We are already conspiring to help destroy the Empire, T’Meri rationalizes between desperate, fumbling gropes as T’Prynn pulls her toward a bed. We are already criminals.
2286
36
Wheels Within Wheels
Emperor Spock entered his throne room. The gilded space resounded with a trumpeted fanfare, drowning out the hubbub of courtiers. Most of the eyes in the room turned to watch him as he swept across the dais, his purple cloak fluttering behind him. He draped it with a flourish around his right arm and seated himself on his throne, careful at every moment to comport himself with quiet dignity.
He nodded at the court’s herald, indicating he was ready to receive that day’s invited visitor. The herald responded with a sheepish glance toward the room’s perimeter. Following the herald’s silent cue, Spock understood: In violation of protocol, the guest was already inside the throne room.
Of course he is, Spock mused.
Curzon Dax, a noted diplomat and negotiator from the planet Trill, appeared to be presiding over a miniature court of his own by a fruit-laden buffet table. The handsome young man was flirting shamelessly with a bevy of beautiful women, several of whom Spock recognized as the wives or favored concubines of imperial dignitaries. Dax cracked jokes and playfully touched the women’s cheeks and chins as they laughed.
Clear echoes of their laughter filled the otherwise silent throne room, and Dax and his harem-in-the-making realized they had become the focus of attention. The charismatic youth smiled his apologies to his female admirers as he stepped out of their midst. He placed himself before Spock’s dais and bowed.
“Majesty.”
“Mister Dax,” Spock said. “You are exactly as I imagined you would be.”
Standing tall, Dax asked, “Shall I take that as a compliment, Majesty?”
“I doubt you could be persuaded to do otherwise.”
Even in the face of a mild but public rebuke, Dax’s smile never wavered. He radiated confidence and charm. “Thank you, Majesty, for honoring me with an invitation to your court. How may I serve you, my prince?”
Spock stood and walked to the edge of his dais. His courtiers gasped as he descended its stairs and said to the captain of his guards, “Lower the force field.” The protective barrier flickered into view for a moment as it deactivated. As Spock neared the bottom of the stairs, a platoon of his elite Vulcan guards advanced and surrounded Dax on three sides.
Standing face-to-face with the Trill diplomat, Spock said, “Walk with me.” He led the way toward an adjacent banquet room that had been prepared for the day’s noon meal. Dax remained at Spock’s side, matching his stride rather than lingering the customary half step behind royalty.
“I have followed your career with interest,” Spock said.
Dax cocked an eyebrow. “Really? It’s been less than three years since I joined the Diplomatic Corps. Why notice me?”
“For o
ne so young, you have accomplished much,” Spock said. “You have demonstrated a keen understanding of the Klingon mind-set. In the past year you brokered three cease-fires along our border with their empire, and you resolved numerous treaty disputes, making possible a new trade agreement with Qo’noS.”
The Trill shrugged. “All true.” He smiled. “It’s all about learning how the Klingons think, knowing what they respect, what they respond to.”
Looking askance at Dax, Spock said, “Curious. Most of my courtiers put on shows of humility. They try to deflect praise, but you do not. Indeed, you seem to bask in it.” The banquet room staff stepped aside as Dax and Spock entered. “Is this trait part of what enables you to ‘speak the Klingons’ language’?”
