by David Mack
His ruminations were interrupted as the door of his study flew open and slammed against the wall. Marlena stormed through the open doorway, her elegant features distorted by rage as she strode toward him.
“How could you?” she shouted.
“To what, specifically, do you refer?”
“You know damned well what I’m talking about!” She picked up a crystal sphere from its stand on his desk and hurled it at the wall. It shattered into dust and jagged chunks. “Genocide, Spock! You wiped out an entire species!”
“I personally did no such thing.”
“No, you let your protégée do your dirty work.”
He leaned back and pressed his fingertips together over his chest. “Captain Saavik did what she thought was necessary to safeguard the Empire and its people from an aggressive, dangerous, and previously unknown enemy.”
Marlena asked in pitched disbelief, “Did you even read her report?”
“I did.”
“Really? The one I read said she encountered new life-forms unlike anything anyone’s ever seen before, and then she vaporized them.”
“Since you have read the report, then you must also be aware the Annuated symbionts knew of my people’s secret—and that they themselves had been compromised by a hostile parasitic intelligence. If we had allowed them to live, they would have posed a threat not just to my plans for reform, but to all sentient life in the galaxy. The decision to exterminate them was logical.”
“I understand why the infested ones had to be destroyed, but why all of them, Spock? Saavik may have taken the first step in the Caves of Mak’ala, but you were the one who signed an executive order to hunt down and execute all joined Trill.”
“There was no way to know which symbionts had been compromised and which could be trusted,” Spock said. “To permit even one of those parasites to survive would constitute a grave threat to galactic security.” After a brief pause, he added, “Furthermore, I did not order the deaths of all joined Trill.”
His wife rolled her eyes in disgust. “Oh, yes, I forgot—your token gesture of compassion: you spared Curzon Dax. How magnanimous of you. You’ve ordered the covert murder of hundreds of thousands of joined Trill, but all is forgiven because you struck Dax’s name from your death warrant.” She let her fury simmer a moment. Then she asked, “Why spare his life? Why does he get to live?”
Spock exhaled a breath heavy with regret.
“To remind me of what I have become.”
PART III
Sic Transit Imperium
2288
39
Men of Long Knives
Every warrior in the Great Hall smelled blood. The Terran Empire was starting to flounder, its Emperor Spock shedding power and control the way a gelded targ sheds fur. At long last, the greatest enemy of the Klingon Empire was faltering; it was time to strike.
All that remained now was to decide who would strike, with what forces, where, when, and how. This debate, unfortunately, was dragging on late into the night, and Councillor Gorkon was growing weary of the bickering. Regent Sturka—the latest warrior to hold the throne for Kahless, He Who Shall Return—looked haggard and sullen as Councillors Duras and Indizar argued while circling each other inside the small pool of harsh light in the middle of the Council chamber.
“You Imperial Intelligence types are all the same,” Duras said with a sneer. “Infiltrate the Terrans, sabotage them, conquer them by degrees.” Lifting his voice to an aggrieved bellow, he added, “Where’s the glory in that?”
Keeping one hand on her d’k tahg, Indizar replied with a voice like the growl of a Kryonian tiger. “It’s smarter than your way, Duras. You’d plunge us headlong into full-scale war with the largest fleet in known space. We might emerge victorious, but at what cost? Our fleet would be savaged, our borders weakened. The Romulans would overrun us the moment we finished off the Terrans. … Of course, maybe that’s your real plan, isn’t it, Duras?”
Duras’s eyes were wide with fury. “You dare call me a traitor?” His hand went for his own d’k tahg—
Sharp, echoing cracks. One, two, three. Everyone looked at Sturka, who ceased smashing the steel-clad tip of his staff on the stone floor. “Both of you get out of the circle,” he commanded Indizar and Duras. Then, to the others, he said, “I want to hear realistic strategies. Honest assessments.” He looked at Gorkon, who had served for more than twenty years as Sturka’s most trusted adviser, and who had thwarted an attempt by the late Councillor Kesh to seize the throne for himself. “Have Spock’s reforms weakened the Terrans’ defenses,” Sturka asked, “or merely damaged his own political security?”
Stepping out of the crowd into the heat and glare of the circle, Gorkon gripped the edges of his black leather stole, which rested over a studded, red leather chimere; worn together, the two ceremonial vestments marked him as the second-highest-ranking individual in the chamber. “The Terran Empire,” he began in a stately tone, “is still far too strong for us to risk a direct military engagement.” Before the rising murmur of grumbles got out of hand, Gorkon reasserted his control over the discussion. “However, the reforms instituted by their current sovereign hold the promise of future opportunities.” He began a slow walk along the edge of the circle of light, using his time to size up the commitment of both his rivals and his allies on the Council. “Emperor Spock has made significant reductions in military spending, with many deep cuts in the field of weapons research and development.” He paused as he returned the steely glare of Duras, then moved on. “This will give us a chance to finally take the lead in our long arms race, after more than six decades of lagging behind the Terrans. This opportunity must not be squandered—it might never come again.”
As Gorkon reached the farthest edge of the circle from the Regent’s throne, Sturka asked, “What are you proposing, Gorkon?”
Gorkon grinned at Indizar, his long-time ally, then turned to answer Sturka. “A doubling of the budget for new starship construction and refits, and a separate allocation of equal size for new military research and development.”
Sturka sounded skeptical. “And where will we find the money for this? Or the resources? Or the power?”
“Money is not a warrior’s concern,” Gorkon said, even though he knew it was a politician’s concern. “If we need power, we all know Praxis is not running at capacity—we can triple its output to power new shipyards. As for raw materials and personnel”—he paused and looked around the room, already plotting which of his rivals would bear the brunt of his plans for the future—“sacrifices will have to be made. Hard choices. For the cost of a few worlds and a few billion people conscripted into service, we can transform the quadrant into an unassailable bastion of Klingon power.”
“Whose worlds?” Councillor Argashek blurted. Suspicious growls worked their way around the room. Many of the councillors were already aware what Gorkon had in mind for them should he ever rise to the regency. Leaning over Argashek’s shoulders were Grozik and Glazya, his two staunchest comrades. They sniped verbally at Gorkon. “PetaQ,” spat Grozik, as Glazya cursed, “Filthy yIntagh!”
Councillors Narvak and Veselka conferred in hushed voices near the back of the room, while the Council’s three newest—and youngest—members stepped to the edge of the circle from different directions, flanking Gorkon. Korax had come up through the ranks of the military, much as Gorkon had. Both his friends in this challenge were scions of noble houses: Berik, of the House of Beyhn, and Rhaza, of the House of Guul.
“Bold words, old man,” Korax taunted. “But I bet it won’t be your homeworld that gets ground up for the Empire.”
Gorkon watched the three younger men moving in unison, circling him … and he smiled. “Step into the circle, whelps,” Gorkon said. “And I’ll show you what being ground up really means.”
Again came the thunderous rapping of Sturka’s staff. “Enough. Korax, take your jesters back to the shadows. Gorkon, let them go.”
With a respectful no
d at Sturka, Gorkon said, “As you wish, my lord.” Secretly, he wondered if Regent Sturka had lost his appetite for battle, his love of purifying combat. Twice today he had intervened when custom dictated the strong should reign. Perhaps the Terrans’ leader isn’t the only one losing his edge, Gorkon mused grimly.
Leaning forward from the edge of the throne, Sturka spoke slowly, his roar of a voice diminished with age to a ragged rumble. “Praxis is unstable. Doubling its output would be a mistake; tripling it is out of the question. And if a few of our worlds must be sacrificed to secure our victory over the Terrans, I will decide which worlds to cast into the fire, and when. But for now, this option is rejected.”
Vengeful fury raged inside Gorkon, but his countenance was as steady as granite, his gaze winter-cold. Sturka has lost the will to fight, he realized. He doesn’t have the stomach for casualties, for risk. His fire is gone; he’s just a politician now.
Looking at the Regent, bitter regret filled Gorkon’s heart. Sturka had helped elevate Gorkon to the High Council more than twenty years ago. Since then the Regent had kept him close and taught him how to keep the other councillors fighting among themselves so that he and Sturka could be free to plot grander schemes for the glory of the Empire. Sturka had become like a second father to Gorkon, but now the old statesman was past his prime—enfeebled, vulnerable, and no longer able to lead.
Gorkon knew what had to be done for the good of the Empire. It galls me that it must come to this, he admitted to himself. But better it should be me than that petaQ Duras.
Sturka was still talking. His eyes drifted from one side of the room to the other, gauging each councillor’s reactions as he spoke. As soon as his gaze was turned away, Gorkon adjusted his wrist to let his concealed d’k tahg fall into his grip. His hand shot out and up and plunged the blade deep into Sturka’s chest. A twist tore apart the Regent’s heart. Lavender ichor spurted thick and warm from the ugly, sucking wound, coating Gorkon’s hand. Sturka fell into Gorkon’s arms, hanging on to his protégé as his lifeblood escaped in generous spurts. As he looked up at Gorkon, the Regent’s expression seemed almost … grateful. “I knew … it would … be you,” he rasped through a mouthful of pinkish spittle. His corpse fell off Gorkon’s blade and landed in a blood-sodden heap on the floor.
Gorkon looked around the room to see if anyone wanted to challenge him. No one seemed eager to do so.
He sheathed his d’k tahg and kneeled beside Sturka’s body. He pried the eyelids open and gazed into their lifeless depths. His warning cry for Sto-Vo-Kor built like a long-growing thunderhead, resonating inside his barrel chest. Within seconds, more gravelly hums built in the bellies of those around him. Then he threw back his head and let his bellicose roar burst forth, and the High Council roared with him, the sound of the Heghtay powerful enough to shake dust from the rafters. The ranks of the dead could not say they hadn’t been warned: a Klingon warrior was coming.
Pushing aside the empty husk of Sturka’s body, Gorkon stepped onto the raised dais and took his place on the throne. Immediately, Indizar was at his right side, handing him the ceremonial staff. Alakon, a common-born soldier who had earned his seat on the Council through honorable battle, took his place at Gorkon’s left and made the declaration, which was echoed back by the councillors without a challenge:
“All hail, Regent Gorkon!”
It was too early in Senator Pardek’s political career for him to pick fights on the floor of the Romulan Senate. Fortunately for him, Senator Narviat was stirring up enough controversy in the Senate chamber for both of them.
Narviat shouted above the angry hubbub. “A wise general once said, ‘When you see your enemy making a mistake, get out of his way.’ Well, we’re being given a rare treat: we get to watch two of our enemies making a mistake. So why aren’t any of you smart enough to get out of their way?”
Pardek almost had to laugh; there were days when he was certain Narviat simply enjoyed making the others crazy, especially Proconsul Dralath and Praetor Vrax.
Shouting back from his seat at the front of the chamber, Proconsul Dralath made his voice cut through the clamor. “We missed our chance to strike when the Klingons and Terrans clashed twenty years ago,” he said. “Not again.”
“Even at war with each other, they would still be a threat to us,” Narviat retorted, ignoring the epithets that filled the air: Coward. Quisling. Pacifist. “The best course,” he added, “is to expand our covert intelligence opportunities inside—”
“The same old refrain,” cut in Senator Crelok, her elegant features crimped with contempt. “Another testimonial for the Tal Shiar. The last time I checked, Senator Narviat, the Tal Shiar hadn’t won any wars for the Empire.”
Unfazed, Narviat shot back, “Without us, the military would never have won any wars at all.”
Crelok, a former starship commander, bristled at Narviat’s remark. She seemed poised at the edge of a reply when the Praetor rose from his chair, and the senators who were gathered in the chamber fell silent.
Praetor Vrax turned his head slowly and surveyed the room. Pardek had been a senator for nearly eleven years now, and this was only the fourth time he had seen the Praetor stand to address the Senate. Vrax was more than old; he bordered on ancient. Despite his advanced years, however, he remained a keen political thinker and military strategist.
“The Terran Empire,” Vrax began, speaking slowly, “is on a path to chaos.” He lowered his head and cleared his throat. Looking up, he continued. “The Klingon Empire, now under Gorkon’s control, is arming for war.” He made a small nod toward Crelok. “Some of you say we should strike when the Klingons do.” Vrax glanced at Narviat. “Others say we should use their war to infiltrate them both.” Now Vrax’s voice grew stronger, building as he spoke. “All the estimates I’ve seen tell me the Klingons will win this war, and the Terran Empire will fall. If so, we should let our fleet claim what it can. But other reports, from within the Terran Empire—I must admit they worry me. It is impossible for me to believe Emperor Spock is ignorant of the consequences his actions will carry. But he continues all the same, and his homeworld of Vulcan is drowning in a tide of pacifism. Our spies on Vulcan—the few that haven’t been exposed and executed—cannot explain the spread of that world’s pacifist movement. It has no printed propaganda, no virtual forums for discussion, no broadcast messages, no public meetings.” The Praetor allowed that to sink in, then he followed it with a succinct, pointed inquiry to the Senate: “Why?”
Speaking from the back of the chamber, Senator D’Tran, one of the elder statesmen of the Senate, trepidatiously asked the Praetor, “Why what? Why are the Vulcans becoming pacifists? Or why is it happening outside the normal channels?”
“Start with the method,” Vrax said.
Shrugs and eye rolls were passed from person to person as everyone sought to avoid answering the question. Pardek sighed with disappointment at his fellow senators’ lack of courage. Lifting his voice, Pardek answered Praetor Vrax. “They are avoiding the normal channels in order to flush out spies.”
The soft chatter of the room fell away and everyone looked at Pardek. Praetor Vrax cast an especially harsh glare at the young senator from the Krocton Segment. “Explain,” he said.
“I have my own sources on Vulcan,” Pardek confessed. “Based on the patterns of recruitment, people are seeking out their friends and family members and drawing them into the pacifist movement. It’s not a government-directed initiative; it’s a grassroots campaign, with each person brought into the fold through a chain of accountable kith and kin.”
Vrax nodded at first, then tilted his head as he asked, “But how would such a recruitment model help them expose our spies? Why have we not infiltrated this movement?”
It was a loaded question, one that Pardek dreaded answering. “I do have one hypothesis,” he said carefully.
“Tell us,” Vrax commanded.
Pardek steeled himself for the wave of ridicule he knew would follow. “I believ
e they are vetting new members by means of telepathy.”
No one in the Senate chamber mocked Pardek’s theory. They were all too incapacitated to do so, because they were doubled over with paroxysms of cruel laughter. Much to Pardek’s consternation, he noticed the only two people in the room not guffawing were himself and Praetor Vrax.
It took several seconds for the contagion of hilarity to run its course. When a semblance of decorum at last returned to the Senate chamber, Praetor Vrax coolly raised one eyebrow and said, in an archly skeptical tone, “Senator Pardek … shall I assume you spoke in jest? Or are you seriously suggesting the Vulcans are carrying out a vast planetwide conspiracy by means of a mythical psionic power?”
Before he answered, Pardek picked up his glass from the small desk in front of his seat and took a sip of water. He put down the glass and met Vrax’s accusing stare. “My sources tell me they believe the Vulcans’ psionic gifts might be more than just the stuff of legend, Praetor.”
