by Various
An accurate assestment, she mused as she stepped out of the cell and bent over the unconscious MACO. “You’ve secured a transport?”
“A long-range shuttlecraft,” Staal replied, nodding as he returned his attention to the corridor outside the brig. “The shuttlebay should be unguarded.”
T’Pol reached down to retrieve the unconscious guard’s dagger and phase pistol. “We cannot leave yet. There is something I must acquire first.”
“Commander,” Staal protested, “there’s very little time.”
T’Pol was in no mood to argue with her rescuer. “You’re with me, Ensign.” She turned to Phlox. “Doctor?”
“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” the Denobulan asked, stepping from the cell.
T’Pol ignored him, instead setting off down the corridor with Staal behind her, both of them with phase pistols at the ready. Phlox gave an exasperated look to no one in particular and decided to follow them.
The bridge shuddered under the force of yet another salvo. Defiant’s shields were repelling the attack, but Hoshi knew they were steadily weakening. She caught herself tapping the armrest with her index finger and clenched her fist tight, forcing herself to stop.
“Mister Mayweather,” she said with a trace of impatience.
Hunched over his targeting scanner, the sergeant did not look away as he replied, “We’ll be over the target in forty-five seconds.”
“Two battleships are taking position, dead ahead,” reported the navigator.
Behind her, Newbill called out from the communications station, “I’m intercepting a signal from Admiral Gardner.” The crewman hesitated before adding, “He’s ordering a suicide run.”
Her eyes widening, Hoshi was forced to admit that the audacious strategy was a sound one. Imperator was disabled, severely damaged but still intact. Defiant had reduced two of the NX-class battleships to vapor and debris, but their sister ships—Broadsword and Khan’s Wrath—could do real damage if either ship collided with the Federation vessel. With this rate of attrition, Hoshi realized that her Starfleet might soon be comprised of a single ship.
A new alarm echoed throughout Defiant’s bridge, a sound Hoshi did not recognize. “Collision alert!” the navigator shouted. “It’s the Broadsword, one hundred eighty kilometers and closing at full impulse.”
“Target them,” Hoshi ordered, gripping the armrests of her chair.
“Evasive maneuvers?” Mayweather asked.
“Negative. Present minimum aspect and divert emergency power to forward shields.”
On the viewscreen, the magnification factor automatically adjusted downward as Broadsword hurtled directly toward them. Lights flickered across the bridge, and Hoshi was sure she heard the drain on the starship’s impulse engines as Defiant launched a furious barrage at the oncoming battleship. Explosions rippled across its hull, chunks of the vessel tearing away and spinning into the void, but Broadsword maintained its collision course.
“Impact in ten seconds,” Mayweather reported, his voice tight.
“Continuous fire, all weapons!” Hoshi ordered.
Everyone on the bridge watched as out in space, the massive onslaught of Defiant’s weapons finally overloaded Broadsword’s polarized hull plating, tearing through the vessel’s superstructure. Its warp reactor went critical and the battleship was instantly transformed into several million molten chunks of duranium and plastiform, a hailstorm of superheated debris that smashed against Defiant’s forward screens. On the bridge, the crew struggled to remain in their seats as the ship lurched in response to the maelstrom.
With the muzzle of her phase pistol pressed against the base of his neck, T’Pol watched as Commander Charles Tucker entered the final sequence of commands in the small desktop computer interface. As he worked, she glanced out the small window looking out from the environmental systems control room. Below in main engineering the members of Tucker’s team scurried about the massive chamber, their attention focused on maintaining the ship’s systems as the battle was being waged.
Only moments before, Tucker had informed T’Pol of what had transpired on the bridge nearly twenty decks above them—word of the change in command had traveled at warp speed through Defiant’s intraship comm system. If anything, the news that Hoshi Sato had claimed the throne made T’Pol’s flight from this ship even more urgent—the new Empress would probably shoot the Vulcan herself.
Another phase cannon blast rocked the Defiant, and T’Pol steadied herself against the bulkhead. Tucker looked up in response to the newest assault, shaking his head in mounting aggravation. “I need to be out there,” he said, growling every word.
Then she heard the telltale string of beeps signifying that the computer had completed its task. Tucker removed the data card from its slot and offered it to her without turning from the workstation.
“Sato’s going to kill me when she finds out I gave you these schematics,” he said as T’Pol reached for the proffered data card and slipped it into a pocket on her uniform.
Two days ago, T’Pol had discreetly downloaded Defiant’s schematics onto a similar card—imprinted with detailed schematics of the vessel’s warp and power systems, weapon yields, shield strength. It was her intention to turn the specs over to the rebels, giving them the means to defend themselves against this futuristic technology, and perhaps replicate it for themselves. T’Pol should have anticipated that Captain Archer’s ever-resourceful comm officer would be monitoring her station on the bridge—T’Pol was arrested shortly thereafter.
“I have every confidence that an engineer of your skill can erase any evidence of your illegal access to the ship’s computer,” she replied. “Or, I could simply kill you now. It would be more merciful than anything the new Empress might devise.”
Ignoring the weapon aimed at him, Tucker turned his head so that he could look at her, his expression a mix of confusion and anger made all the menacing by the way his drooping right eye narrowed as he regarded her. It was but one aspect of the man’s features—marred by discolored, swollen scar tissue along the right side of his face—that bore mute testimony to the physical damage inflicted upon his body. The disfigurement was but one consequence of his exposure to delta radiation after years spent working in the poorly shielded engineering spaces of various Imperial starships.
“Who are you working for now?” he asked, his mouth curling into a snarl. “You’re a rebel! Why don’t you admit it?”
“You are wrong,” T’Pol answered, her words low and sharp as she stepped back from him. It was not a lie, at least not yet, as she had no guarantee that any resistance cell—assuming she could find one—would admit her to their ranks. Her mother, T’Les, had joined the rebellion years earlier, but T’Pol had not been in contact with her since that time. Indeed, her service to Starfleet and the Empire would be seen as a threat to any rebels she might locate. They would be almost as likely to shoot her on sight.
Still, I must try.
An obstinate smile formed on Tucker’s misshapen face. “You think Hoshi’s going to let you fly away with the keys to her kingdom? When she learns you’ve stolen those specs, our beloved Empress will send every ship in the fleet after you.”
She regarded him evenly. “Then it would be best if I left no witnesses.”
Tucker laughed. “After all we’ve been through, you’re gonna kill me?”
T’Pol had to admit that she held some lingering emotional attachment to the engineer. He had helped her through a difficult period—her most recent Pon farr. But the price she had paid was steep—she had developed a telepathic bond with this Terran, something she had not believed to be possible. He now haunted her during her nightly meditations; sometimes she could see him in her mind while in the middle of a duty shift. Tucker had admitted experiencing similar visions, but she convinced him they were merely waking dreams, or a delusion. She did not tell him that she shared this “delusion”—and that when she saw him in her mind’s eye, his face and body
were whole, unmarred by radiation scars.
She was forced to accept that some deeply buried part of her was in love with this human.
T’Pol had been uncharacteristically emotional—even vulnerable—during this last Pon farr. For reasons she did not entirely understand, she had decided to confide in Tucker, making him aware of the existence of certain Vulcan psionic techniques. Few off-worlders had ever learned of Vulcan telepathic abilites—to her everlasting regret, in a moment of intimacy, she had even chosen to meld with this human.
It was something of an unspoken agreement among all Vulcans to keep their mental abilities a closely guarded secret, particularly from Terrans. History was rife with examples of telepathic species persecuted by those who feared their abilities—humans as a whole may be powerful, but they were also paranoid. T’Pol had been fortunate—to her knowledge, Tucker had not told anyone of her secret.
She realized this was an opportunity to cover her escape and correct an indiscretion—or as Terrans are wont to say: “Killing two birds with one stone.” Eliminate Tucker, and her secret dies with him.
T’Pol’s grip tightened on the phase pistol, and the derisive smirk faded from Tucker’s face—would she kill him after all?
Her thumb moving across the phase pistol’s power setting, T’Pol pressed the firing stud and the energy blast struck Tucker square in the chest. As he went limp, she reached out and caught his unconscious form before he could fall to the floor. Pushing him back in his chair, she studied his partially disfigured face, relaxed and vulnerable.
She could not kill him, but neither could she leave the ship without first seeing to it that he could not betray her, willingly or as a consequence of whatever prolonged, excruciating interrogation he was sure to suffer. T’Pol was certain the Empress needed him alive, at least in the near term. His currently unmatched knowledge of the Defiant and its advanced systems ensured his survival.
With a final glance through the control room’s small window to ensure she remained unobserved, T’Pol holstered her phase pistol and leaned closer to Tucker. The fingers of her right hand reached out until their tips found the katra points on his face. Even through the blanket of unconsciousness, she felt the engineer’s mind rouse at her touch.
“My mind to your mind,” she whispered.
T’Pol found Staal and Phlox outside the triangular access way leading to Defiant’s hangar deck, a MACO crumpled on the ground nearby. Through the open double doors T’Pol could see a muscular, warp-powered shuttlecraft rising on the elevator pad—the markings of its hull identified it as the McCool, NCC-1764/4.
Phlox was kneeling at the side of the dead MACO, the soldier’s neck twisted grotesquely. “You had to kill him,” he dryly noted to Staal. “Another crime to add to our resume.”
“I’ve overridden security lockouts on the hangar doors,” Staal said to T’Pol as the shuttle elevator locked into position. “It won’t be long before the bridge discovers my tampering.”
“Prepare for departure,” she replied. Staal walked briskly toward the craft. T’Pol turned to Phlox, still bent over the MACO—he was showing uncharacteristic concern for this dead Terran.
“There’s nothing you can do for him, Phlox. We must leave.”
Shaking his head, the Denobulan didn’t meet her gaze. “I’m not going.”
“You’ll be executed,” T’Pol replied, not without a trace of concern.
“If I run, the Empire will seek revenge against my family. I won’t let them pay for my mistakes.”
They had all heard the stories of how Imperial Intelligence used torture against relatives in order to find insurgents and traitors. Disappointed, T’Pol accepted his decision.
“I understand.” She raised her hand, fingers splayed in salute. “Live long and prosper, Phlox.”
“Good luck.”
She touched a panel, and the access doors began to close, the doctor’s expression one of determination and uncertainty. It would certainly be her last view of him—the one person she had truly called friend during her tenure aboard Enterprise.
T’Pol was certain he would be dead within a matter of days, perhaps sooner.
Multiple recoils reverberated through the hull, and Hoshi felt the vibrations under her feet as Defiant unleashed another barrage.
“Torpedoes away,” Mayweather reported.
On the viewscreen she could see an aerial view of the placid, picturesque Horseshoe Bay. Hoshi watched as deadly blossoms silently appeared one by one across the landscape. She was pleased to see that Mayweather had spared the northern section of the Golden Gate; it would have been a shame to see harm come to the historic bridge. The eruptions ceased, leaving a haze of destruction hanging over what had been Starfleet Headquarters. If Hoshi did not know better, she might have thought the buildings were merely obscured by a thickening cloud layer.
“Get me the fleet captain,” she ordered.
Robinson’s image replaced the scene of destruction, his hair matted down by sweat. Imperator’s bridge seemed the worse for battle; a damaged console sparked behind the captain, black fumes filled the air.
“There’s been a shakeup at Starfleet Command,” Hoshi said, adopting a deliberately casual air. “Gardner and his senior staff have been relieved.”
“I saw it,” came the bitter reply.
Leaning forward in the command chair, Hoshi said, “I need someone with experience to take over—someone I can trust to put Starfleet back together and end this war. Know any good candidates?”
Robinson said nothing, his brow creasing as he comprehended her meaning.
“I’m promoting you to Starfleet chief of staff,” she said after a moment. “Congratulations, Fleet Admiral. That is, assuming you want the job.”
She watched as Robinson glanced about his shattered bridge, carefully considering his next words. His crew had stopped work mid-motion, watching their captain’s next actions very closely. Finally, he rose from his command chair, appearing weary as he snapped to attention and placed the closed fist of his right hand over his heart before extending the arm in salute.
“Long live Empress Sato.”
On the viewscreen, Hoshi saw Imperator’s bridge crew trade nervous looks before apparently deciding to follow their leader’s example.
“Long live the Empress!” came the chorus of pledges. Around her, Hoshi watched as—under the fierce scrutiny of Sergeant Mayweather—Defiant’s remaining bridge crew joined in the salute.
The reign of Empress Sato had begun.
1
S erenity.
It was the only thing Her Imperial Majesty, Sato I, required of the oikeniwa surrounding Kyoto Palace. The tranquility offered by the meticulously maintained arrangement of ponds and gardens allowed her a brief respite from the demands of ruling the Terran Empire. The residence of Japan’s imperial family between the fourteenth and nineteenth centuries, the palace had served as a tourist attraction since the end of the second world war. Hoshi had visited the grounds many times, having spent much of her childhood in Kyoto. Upon her return to Earth six months ago, the palace had naturally become her chosen home. It amused her that the city of her birth was now the center of the universe.
Hoshi watched the sun rise above the horizon, illuminating the lake beyond her veranda. She observed this simple morning ritual whenever possible, enjoying the few moments of solitude before turning her attentions to the issues of the day. It was one of the few indulgences she granted herself, but it also was her favorite, since she could enjoy it without interruption.
Most of the time, at least.
“Your Majesty,” a voice, deep and masculine, said from behind her. So lost in thought was Hoshi that she had failed to hear the approach of the man, an oversight that might prove fatal anywhere else but here. In this place, however, she was perfectly safe.
Turning in her seat, Hoshi looked up to see Solomon Carpenter, her personal bodyguard, standing several paces away near the entrance to her bedchamber. In keeping w
ith her directives, the bodyguard was dressed in dark trousers with the cuffs tucked into polished boots that came up to his knees, and a vest that left bare his muscled chest and arms. Around his waist he wore a wide leather belt, strapped to which was a dagger in its sheath as well as one of the phaser weapons taken from Defiant’s armory.
Just one of the many treasures to be found aboard that wondrous vessel.
“What is it?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Given the schedule for today, there was only one reason Carpenter would come to her at this time of the morning.
“I apologize for the intrusion, Your Majesty,” the guard replied, “the general has arrived.”
“Show him in.” Hoshi rose from her seat, pulling the folds of her blue silk kimono tighter around her trim form. While she knew this meeting was necessary, it was one she had been anticipating with more than a bit of dread. After all, the next few minutes might well decide the future of the Terran Empire.
The Empress smoothed the wrinkles from her robe, realizing as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps that the motion made her appear nervous or tentative or—worst of all—weak. Momentarily irritated with herself for the lapse, Hoshi clasped her hands behind her back, drawing herself to her full height as Carpenter reappeared from inside the villa, followed closely by three Andorians.
All of the new arrivals were dressed in identical black leather uniforms, with varying numbers of small silver rectangles affixed to either side of their collars. Two of the Andorians, obviously subordinates, each carried a rectangular box perhaps one meter in length. The leader of the group would have been easy to identify even if Hoshi did not know him; his status was evident by the numerous medals pinned to his uniform. His left eye was a pale, dead orb, and he was missing his right antenna. Other, smaller scars adorned his face, the most visible signs of a long and distinguished military career.
