by David Mack
“Vulcans aren’t direct,” Chang said, “but they are cunning. If he wants us to go to war now, he must believe he has the upper hand. But before we engage the Terrans, we should guarantee we hold the advantage.”
Gorkon understood exactly what Chang meant. For years the general had been overseeing a secret starship-design team, which was working on a bird-of-prey prototype that could fire torpedoes while cloaked. “How close is the prototype to being ready for assembly-line production?”
“Immediately,” Chang said. “All we need to start building a new fleet is enough power to cloak the Praxis shipyard from the Terrans’ spy arrays.”
“I’ll give the order to triple energy production at Praxis as soon as possible,” Gorkon said. “How long will it take to build a fleet capable of crushing the Terrans in a single offensive?”
Chang stroked at the two tufts of mustache above the corners of his mouth. After several seconds, he said, “Nine years.”
“That’s a long time to wait, General.”
With a rueful grin, Chang replied, “The Terran Empire is vast, my lord. Subduing it in one sneak attack will take many ships. We could expand our starship production to other shipyards, but the more facilities that receive the prototype’s design, the greater the risk of espionage.”
“Very well, then,” Gorkon said. “Keep the program secret at the Praxis facility. But work quickly, General. It’s time for us to wipe the Terran Empire off the map, and I am eager to begin.”
“As am I, my lord,” Chang said. “As am I.”
2290
41
Vanishing Point
The Regula I space station had become a shell of its former self. On every level Lurqal saw its inhabitants working in a frantic rush. They had spent the last seven days dismantling systems, packing up components, archiving their data, and packing it all into crates—all on the orders of Carol Marcus.
Even the station’s basic onboard systems were being scavenged for parts. Entire levels of the station had been sealed off after they were deprived of life-support systems and power. Corridors were steeped in shadows because Marcus’s engineers had appropriated most of the light fixtures. Comms on almost every deck were offline because someone had torn out all the optronic data cables.
Hearing the sound of people approaching, Lurqal ducked into a cold, empty compartment that once had been a chemistry lab. She wrinkled her nose at the odor of old chemicals, which stank like a mix of vinegar and ammonia.
Through a cracked-open door, she watched a dozen scientists and technicians walk past, guiding shipping containers on antigrav sleds toward the station’s cargo bay. “Hurry up,” said Dr. Tarcoh, who seemed to be in charge. “Carol wants everything ready by nineteen hundred.”
All signs pointed to an evacuation, but Lurqal had no idea where they were going or how they were getting there. The only thing Carol Marcus had told the group was that they were abandoning the station and blowing it up behind them. When that was done they would go into permanent seclusion, after which they would have no further contact with anyone outside the project.
For all practical purposes, they were about to vanish.
This might be my last chance to speak to my people, Lurqal realized.
Breaking through the station’s scrambling field had not been impossible, but it had been time-consuming. Once done, however, she had been able to make regular reports to Imperial Intelligence. During the seven years she had lived and worked undercover on Regula I, she had relayed hundreds of scraps of information. None of the disjointed snippets she had obtained had made much sense or appeared to be related to the others—until now.
In the confusion of the evacuation, Lurqal had accessed systems that previously had been off-limits to her, and she believed she had found a critical piece of information that tied together everything else she had learned. Her latest discovery made it imperative she find a safe place from which to upload her final burst transmission to the Zin’za.
Outside the door, the sounds of the passing group receded. Lurqal pushed the lab’s door shut and locked it. Huddled in the darkness, she fished the parts of her disguised comm unit from her lab coat’s deep pockets, assembled it with an ease born of practice, and activated the device. She opened a channel and waited for the signal to be acknowledged by the Zin’za.
Several seconds passed without a response.
The door behind her, which she was certain she had locked, slid open. She turned and hid her comm unit behind her back.
David Marcus stood in the doorway, one side of his face illuminated by a flickering light, the other lost in shadow. He held a Starfleet phaser, which he aimed at Lurqal. “Doctor Sandesjo,” he said. “Imagine finding you here.”
Feigning innocence, Lurqal replied, “I just needed a few minutes away from the craziness. All this activity gets me kind of wound up.”
“I’m sure it does,” replied the young scientist. “It must be especially vexing now that the Zin’za’s gone—isn’t it, Lurqal?”
Her face slackened. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“The Reliant and her task force destroyed the Zin’za two weeks ago,” Marcus said. He smiled. “I guess you could say they’d outlived their usefulness.” Gesturing with his phaser, he added, “You won’t need your comm unit anymore.”
She gave up trying to conceal the device and stepped into the open to face her enemy directly. “What will you do with me?”
“I guess we should thank you,” he said. “Without you, we never could have fed that much disinformation to the Klingons for this long without being detected.” She tried to mask her shock at Marcus’s revelation, but some tic in her face must have given her away, because his smile took on an evil cast. “I just pity the bastards who’ll try to use those botched formulas you stole,” he continued. “The first time they try to produce a Genesis reaction, they’ll be in for a rude surprise.”
Lurqal had suffered enough of the human’s gloating. She snarled at him and said, “Just get it over with.”
His smiled faded, and the gleam in his eyes turned cold. “As you wish.”
He fired the phaser, and a flash of white light delivered her into darkness.
2291
42
A Whisper to Caesar
Curzon Dax waited outside the door of Emperor Spock’s residence, surrounded by four of the palace’s armored Vulcan elite guards. He lifted his brow and smiled at the nearest of them. “Hi, there.” His friendly overture was met with a blank stare.
The door opened. A middle-aged Vulcan guard whose armor bore command insignia stood inside and nodded at Dax. “The Emperor will see you now.”
“Thank you,” Dax said, stepping into the main hall of the Emperor’s home. Three of the guards from the foyer entered behind him. He threw an amused look at them. “Really? Do I look that threatening?”
“No,” said the guard captain who had opened the door. “You do not.” Apparently satisfied he had quashed Dax’s attempt at humor, the captain added, “Follow me.” He led Dax and his guards into the great room.
Walking behind the captain, Dax admired his surroundings with wide eyes and a lopsided smile. His footfalls were loud on the polished granite floors and echoed under its lofty ceilings, which were decorated with murals rendered in an ancient Terran style. The walls were adorned only sparingly, with a few paintings and some illustrated silk tapestries depicting placid nature scenes. Small, delicate statues of mythical creatures, carved from pristine white marble, stood atop pillars of alabaster. Golden sunlight poured through the room’s towering, arched windows, which were flanked by burgundy-colored curtains.
Standing in front of one window with his back to Dax was the Emperor.
“Welcome, Ambassador,” Spock said in a resonant baritone. Turning his head, he said to the guard captain, “Leave us.”
The guard captain saluted. “Majesty.” Then he about-faced, nodded at his men, and marched them out of the great room. He shut the
door as he left.
Cutting to business, Dax asked, “Why did you send for me, Majesty?”
“To ask for your resignation,” Spock said.
“Have I wronged you, my prince? Or failed you in some way?”
Spock shook his head. “No.”
“Then why recall me from Qo’noS?”
Folding his hands together, Spock said, “Because I intend for you to become part of something greater, and far more important.” He stepped away from the window and nodded for Dax to follow him.
The Emperor led him to a pair of comfortable chairs set facing each other across a low table. On the table was a tray bearing two ceramic cups illustrated with colorful, coiled serpents, and a matching teapot. Spock sat down and motioned for Dax to take the other chair. Dax settled into it warily.
Lifting the teapot, Spock said, “You will retire from diplomatic service.” He filled Dax’s cup. Wisps of fragrant white vapor snaked up from the amber liquid. Spock set down the teapot. “Then you will go into seclusion.”
Dax picked up the teapot. Remembering the protocol of the ceremony, he filled Spock’s cup. “For how long must I be secluded, Majesty?”
“The rest of your life.” Spock picked up his cup and sipped his tea, signaling Dax it was safe for him to drink, as well. “I know you carry a symbiont named Dax,” the Emperor said, catching Dax off guard. “I know also you are the seventh Trill to serve as host to the Dax symbiont.”
Masking his discomfort, Dax felt a riposte was in order. “As long as we’re confessing, Majesty, I should say I know you were the one who sent Captain Saavik to Trill, sanctioned her slaughter of the symbionts and their Guardians, and issued the covert assassination order for the rest of my kind.”
“I did not broach this subject for the purpose of claiming credit or laying blame, but to preface what I must tell you now: You are the last of your kind, Curzon Dax. You are the last joined Trill, carrying the last living symbiont.”
The news hit Dax more profoundly than he had expected. With trembling hands, he set down his teacup. “You’re sure? That I’m the last?”
“I am quite certain.” Spock put down his cup, as well. “The Trill are known to revere the continuity of memory and the accurate accounting of history. These traits are vital to the mission for which you have been selected. You will serve as an embodiment of history, a living form of institutional memory for the benefit of future generations. A few dozen Trill couples will join you in seclusion, to ensure your symbiont has access to new hosts even while it remains hidden from the galaxy at large.”
Dax chuckled ruefully, then asked, “When am I to embark on this great journey to nowhere?”
“Immediately,” Spock said. “You will not be allowed to share news of this with anyone. I regret that events must transpire in this manner, but operational secrecy demands it.”
“I see,” Dax said, brooding over the truth left unspoken: I simply have no choice. “Before I go, can you tell me why you had the symbionts put to death?”
Spock frowned. “It was a complicated matter—one you will have ample time to study once you settle into your new retreat.”
Nodding with resignation and disgust, Dax replied, “No doubt.”
Though Dax had not heard the Emperor summon the guards from outside, the door opened, and Spock stood as he beckoned his armored defenders. “Escort Ambassador Dax to his transport.” Dax stood as the guard captain snapped to attention beside him. He threw a look at Spock, who added, “Farewell, and safe travels, Your Excellency.”
Contempt rendered Dax speechless while the guards walked him to the door of the great room. There he paused, turned, and looked back at the Emperor.
“Remember the example of Caesar, my prince,” Dax said. “When he returned to Rome from his wars of conquest—riding in his gilded chariot, being showered with rose petals, and leading his army in a grand parade—he kept a slave at his back to whisper in his ear, Sic transit gloria mundi: ‘Thus passes the glory of this world.’”
“Thank you, Ambassador Dax,” Spock replied, “but I am well acquainted with history’s lessons. They are the reason why, when I sanctioned the genocide of your people, I let you live: Your life shall forever be the whisper in my ear.”
2292
43
After Such Knowledge
News of Sarek’s arrival on Earth reached Spock only after the fact. He had not expected his father to call on him. Consequently, Spock had been engaged in a number of high-level strategic conferences with members of his cabinet, leaving him unavailable to welcome Sarek to the imperial palace in Okinawa.
Spock returned to the palace just before dusk and was informed his father was waiting for him in the gardens on the west side of the palace. Striding unescorted through the maze of hedges, sculpted topiaries, and floral arrangements, the Emperor resisted the urge to speculate on the reason or purpose behind Governor Sarek’s impromptu visit.
He found Sarek standing beside a Zen rock garden, or karesansui. The elderly Vulcan cast his stately gaze across the rectangular field of raked white gravel, at the off-center slabs of jagged black obsidian rising from its midst. The slabs were ringed by perfect circles evocative of ripples in a pond.
Taking his place beside his father, Spock said, “I apologize for making you wait, Governor.”
“It is of no consequence,” Sarek said.
“Your presence here is unexpected,” Spock said.
Sarek nodded. “Yes, I know.”
A cool, stiff wind rustled the leaves of trees bordering the garden and shook loose a pink-and-white flurry of cherry blossoms.
“There is much to do as our endgame approaches,” Spock said. “Why risk coming to Earth at a time when so many elements of our plan are in motion?”
Answering his son but keeping his eyes on the distant black stones, Sarek said, “It is precisely because of the magnitude of the events at hand that I made this journey now. Soon it will no longer be possible. I expect this to be the last time you and I will meet, my son, and there is something I am compelled to say to you.”
Father and son turned to face each other as Sarek continued.
“I know you ordered your mother’s assassination, Spock.” He cut off Spock’s reply with a raised hand. “Do not deny it or justify it.” He frowned and looked away. “I suspect I know why it was necessary. She had during her final days become suspicious of me—and also of you.” He bowed his head. “Given the threat she represented, you no doubt did what was logical and appropriate.”
Spock did not know how to respond. As an emperor, he owed explanations for his executive decisions to no one; as a son, he could not excuse what he had done. He stood in silence, watching his father visibly struggling to contain his savage emotions.
Finally, reining in his anger, Sarek said, “Before we begin the end of your grand experiment, I need you to know this, Spock: I have not absolved you, and I do not intend to do so. She was my wife. My love. I forgive nothing.”
Nodding, Spock said, “I understand.” He let a moment pass before he asked, “Are you withdrawing from the plan?”
“No,” Sarek said. “I have spoken my mind. Truth is served.” He cast a grim stare at the sea of raked gravel. “Now we continue.”
2293
44
Glory’s Requiem
Regent Gorkon sat stewing in his own rage while the High Council erupted into useless violence. Councillors shouted over each other until their voices bled into a meaningless din. They pushed each other in the shadows surrounding the pool of harsh light that shone down on the imperial trefoil adorning the floor. The room stank of sweat and liquor, and it echoed with curses and recriminations.
Of course they’ve gone mad, Gorkon brooded. Our home-world is dying.
Councillor Alakon stood at Gorkon’s left side, and Councillor Indizar kept to her place on Gorkon’s right. While the rest of the High Council devolved into a brawl, they remained above the fray with their Regent, looking dow
n at the nervous, silent trio of scientists standing in the middle of the chamber, trapped beneath the revealing glare of the overhead light.
Tired of the commotion, Gorkon rapped the steel-jacketed tip of his ceremonial staff three times on his throne’s stone dais. The sharp cracks put a halt to the mayhem along the room’s periphery. Order restored, Gorkon fixed his weary glare on the three scientists. “At the risk of inciting another riot,” he said, “would you care to explain why Praxis exploded and poisoned our homeworld?”
