Glass Empires

by Various

  Shran, you bastard, she seethed. You’ll regret you didn’t kill me.

  Another blast rocked the ship, and this time the lights flickered as Hoshi gripped the doorjamb for balance. The yacht was under attack, but by whom? Surely not imperial forces. Shran would not have gone to all this trouble if his intention was simply to kill her. Unless this attack was part of a cover story. Shran may have arranged to destroy her yacht, so he could blame her death on the insurgents.

  Whoever it was, Hoshi had no intention of remaining trapped in her cabin waiting for the bulkheads to explode around her.

  Blinking away the mental fog, the Empress looked around the lavishly furnished room, considering her options. An inspection conducted during one of her more lucid moments—yesterday, or perhaps the day before—had confirmed the removal of anything that could be used as a weapon. Although it was still possible that her captors had overlooked something.

  The deck shifted and her stomach lurched as the yacht suffered another impact. This time Hoshi heard the near-omnipresent hum of the ship’s warp drive begin to fade, followed by a shudder as the vessel dropped out of subspace. Reduced to impulse power, the yacht wouldn’t last long.

  Another frantic search of her desk and dresser turned up nothing. Hoshi had already checked the closet, but her attention now returned to it. The clothing included five sets of ceremonial robes. She felt a tinge of hope as she searched through the extravagant garments. How thorough would Shran’s guards have been? Would they have been familiar with some of the ritualistic fashions she had adopted? Stepping closer to the wardrobe, Hoshi slipped one hand into the inner pocket of one robe, smiling as her fingers wrapped around the metal kanzashi.

  She extracted her prize—a pair of long, ornate hair pins that were a gift from the citizens of Denobula, if she remembered correctly. Clutching them close to her chest, Hoshi reached into the closet for one of the robes before rushing back to the still-locked door. She eyed the control panel set into the bulkhead before wedging the tip of one kanzashi into the panel’s seam. Straining, and with the smooth pin sliding in her grasp, she forced the point deeper into the seam until she felt a satisfying snap and the faceplate popped free, revealing the panel’s internal circuitry. Pausing to draw a deep breath, Hoshi wrapped the robe around her hand and renewed her grip on the kanzashi before jamming them into the panel’s main processor.

  She pulled her hand and the pins free as sparks and smoke belched from the small compartment, followed an instant later by the satisfying sight of the door opening. It was still sliding aside as she plunged through the widening gap, her eyes locking on the Andorian guard standing with his back to her. He was still reacting to the sound of the door when Hoshi slammed into him, sending them both careening into the opposite bulkhead.

  The Empress screamed in pent-up rage, lashing out at the guard and catching his face with the points of the kanzashi. Hoshi heard the Andorian grunt in pain as twin cuts appeared below his right eye. He tried to reach for his weapon, but Hoshi struck at him again, driving her knee into his groin before taking one of the long pins in each hand and plunging their length into either side of his neck. She felt blood on her face and heard a gurgled wheezing as the guard struggled for breath. Hoshi maintained her grip on the kanzashi, shouting through gritted teeth as she forced the Andorian against the bulkhead and held on until she finally felt his body go limp.

  Only when the guard had dropped in a lifeless heap to the deck did Hoshi release her hold on him, leaving the pins still in his neck. She reached for his Imperial-issue phase pistol, and considered her options. Should she try to make her way to the bridge? There would probably be no point. The yacht had been out of warp space for several minutes now. If they had been attacked by pirates, then boarding parties were probably on the way if they had not already arrived.

  Let them come, Hoshi decided. Better to die fighting, here and now, than to accept the exile that awaited her on some miserable planet.

  As Hoshi pushed down the corridor, she heard weapons’ fire from somewhere below and behind her, probably a lower deck near the yacht’s stern. Had their assailants boarded the ship through the aft airlock? It was possible the Andorians on the bridge may have left their posts to intercept the intruders. If so, then perhaps the bridge was unmanned. If she could reach it, Hoshi would need only a few moments—just long enough to dissolve the magnetic barrier between the matter and antimatter in the vessel’s reactor core. She was determined to deprive the attackers of whatever spoils they were seeking. That she would also kill the entire boarding party with the ship’s destruction was merely an unexpected bonus.

  Approaching the end of the corridor, she saw the entrance to the maintenance shaft that ran vertically through the yacht’s four decks. Its length was spanned by a narrow metal-rung ladder that Hoshi knew would allow her access to the bridge. She was reaching for the ladder when she heard the telltale beeping of a scanner, growing louder with each passing moment and accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of someone—several someones—descending the ladder.

  They’re searching. For me?

  She quelled her rising panic, backing away from the ladder and turning to head back up the corridor when she stopped short. Ahead of her, blocking her path, were four Vulcans: three large males—all armed with what Hoshi recognized as Starfleet-issue pulse rifles—and one lithe female whom the Empress immediately recognized.

  T’Pol.

  Dressed in a simple, earth-toned woven shirt and matching pants, T’Pol regarded her with what Hoshi was certain was restrained amusement. Her right eyebrow arching, she nodded in mock greeting.

  “It is agreeable to see you again, Your Majesty.”

  Hoshi felt renewed rage as she beheld her former crewmate, this traitor to the Empire. Jonathan Archer believed T’Pol was working with the rebels all along, and it now appeared his suspicions were correct. The Empress seethed, furious with herself for not killing the Vulcan when she had the chance.

  I’m not making the same mistake again. Hoshi felt her jaw clench in determination as she raised her phase pistol.

  T’Pol’s companions moved to react, but Hoshi’s finger never found the weapon’s firing stud. Instead she felt pressure at the junction of her neck and shoulder before everything gave way to blackness.

  Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, one hand holding a data padd containing the latest in an unending series of status reports, General Shran looked out from the window of what had once been Empress Sato’s office in the Kyoto palace. His eyes fell on the almost-repaired perimeter wall on the far side of the oikeniwa. The gardens had been restored in a matter of weeks. Shran could understand why Hoshi was enamored with this place. For a brief moment, he could almost forget the near-total destruction of the structures that stood just beyond the palace walls.

  From the corner of his good eye, Shran noticed one of his personal guards standing at the entrance to the office. “What is it?”

  “The Imperial Adviser on Technology has answered your summons, General.”

  “Show him in,” Shran said, smirking a bit at hearing the offi-cious title Doctor Soong had insisted upon. The gray-haired, bespectacled human shuffled into the office, cradling a pair of data padds to his chest.

  “Your Excellency.” Soong bowed his head.

  Shran tossed his padd on a desk covered with flimsies, battle maps, and more padds. “I trust you bring good news, Doctor.”

  Soong’s excitement was such that he could hardly contain himself. “General, General. The components I removed from that ship—I could spend the rest of my life examining them!”

  “Your prediction will come true sooner than you think if you don’t deliver results.”

  Soong used his hands as he spoke, as if disassembling an imaginary component in midair. “I’ve taken apart one of the food synthesizer units—its power is completely self-contained. You could feed half a continent with one of these devices. I turned a pile of organic goo into a prime rib steak
better than anything your personal chef has ever…”

  Shran moved to him, threatening. “I’m interested in weapons, Doctor. Technology with tactical applications. Have you managed to reproduce any of the Federation weapons?”

  The doctor hesitated. Although he had some good news to report, there was precious little of it and he was uncertain how Shran would react. “The development of the ship-mounted phasers is showing a lot of promise,” Soong offered hopefully. “The biggest obstacle right now is reproducing the trifaceted crystal in the discharge emitter—without it, the beam would be scattered, unfocused. Useless. But I’m confident we’re very close to duplicating this crystal.”

  “How close?”

  “Another week at most.”

  Shran nodded, neither pleased nor displeased. “The torpedoes?”

  Soong smiled nervously. “They’ve proven to be a little more of a challenge.”

  “Why should that be? The Klingons already have similar weapons.”

  The doctor winced. “Ah…they’re not so much alike, it turns out. Defiant’s photon torpedoes aren’t giant “capsules” like our standard warheads. They’re really nothing more than a magnetic bottle containing slugs of antideuterium—it’s like a miniature warp reactor without the reactor casing. Now imagine that field of energy hurtling through space at relativistic velocities and you’ll have an idea of the technology I’m trying to duplicate!”

  “You have a reputation as the most brilliant human alive,” Shran said. “If the task I’ve given you is too difficult, perhaps I should turn it over to an Andorian.”

  Soong swallowed hard. “I have no doubt your scientists are the best in their respective fields—but if they have to start over you’ll lose months, General, and that’s something you can’t afford.”

  “Why would they have to start over? They’ll simply use the data you’ve gathered.”

  “All of my data and research is encrypted with a zeta-level algorithm—for security purposes, of course,” Soong said pointedly. “Wouldn’t want the rebels to get their hands on it, would we, Your Excellency?”

  He eyed the doctor, impressed. If Shran decided to eliminate his chief technology adviser, all of the work Soong had done would be lost. A wise insurance policy, Shran thought.

  “All right, Doctor. What do you need from me? Personnel? Resources?”

  “I need time.”

  Shran grabbed one of the data padds from his desk and hurled it into the window, which cracked from the impact. Soong held his tongue, wondering if the next thing he would hear would be the sound of the general removing his phase pistol from its holster.

  “How long until our shipyards can build another Defiant? I want a realistic estimate.”

  Soong considered his response carefully. His next words could be his last. But at least they would be honest words. “Twenty-five years,” he finally said. “If I was permitted to tear Defiant apart, I could probably cut that estimate in half.” The look on Shran’s face caused Soong to hastily add, “Keep in mind that everything we’re learning will enable us to build new vessels with vastly improved tactical capabilities. They just won’t be in the same class as Defiant.”

  Shran weighed what he heard as he contemplated the spider-web pattern he had made in Hoshi’s window. She would no doubt be very upset that he had spoiled the view.

  I need those ships now, not a year from now, not twenty-five years in the future.

  “General, I must confess I’m puzzled,” the doctor said. “From what I hear on the official broadcasts, the war’s going well. Three rebel outposts destroyed, their leaders captured—”

  “Lies and propaganda, all of it.”

  “So…we haven’t destroyed any outposts?”

  “Actually we did,” Shran said evenly. “P’Jem, Weytahn, Tantalus V—every structure on those planets reduced to dust.” He turned to look directly at Soong, his tone almost confessional. “There’s only one minor complication—as it turns out, none of those colonies actually harbored any rebels.”

  This surprised even Soong. “P’Jem is a monastery, I believe.”

  “It was. One of the most revered among all Vulcans.”

  Soong read the general’s tone and body language carefully—this was no lapse in intelligence gathering. Starfleet had targeted these worlds fully aware there were no rebel elements present.

  Shran picked up a decanter of blue liquid and started to pour a glass for himself, asking him casually, “Could I interest you in a glass of ale, Doctor?”

  Soong nodded. The Andorian poured. “Humans are an unforgiving species,” Shran finally said. “The citizens demanded vengeance. I gave them what they asked for.”

  The public had responded to the attacks just as Shran had anticipated—instead of filling the streets in protest, they came out to praise their Empress for her resolve. Shran’s actions had ironically renewed the people’s faith in Hoshi. It’s a shame that my dear wife is not present to appreciate the effectiveness of her leadership.

  He handed Soong the glass of liquid. “Hearts and minds, Doctor. That’s what it’s all about. The public’s appetite for blood is sated. I’ve bought the Empire a little bit of time. A real victory still eludes us—fortunately, it eludes the rebels as well.”

  Soong quickly downed the drink, stifling a gasp at the nearly two hundred proof fermented beverage. After a moment he managed to squeak out his next words. “I have every confidence you’ll end this war, General.”

  “One way or the other,” Shran said with resignation. He put down his drink, rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hand. “What of our other project, Doctor?”

  Soong perked up at the change of subject. “I was hoping you’d ask. Genetic engineering has been something of a pet project of mine for years.” He entered a sequence of commands on one of his data padds. “There were a few minor difficulties, but Mister Paxton’s research proved most helpful during the post-fertilization resequencing.” He handed the device to Shran. “In about thirty weeks, the Empire will have an heir to the throne.”

  Shran took the proffered data padd. On the miniaturized display appeared an image of a gray, metallic cylinder with four translucent panels. Inside, a viscous green fluid circulated. Shran pressed a key to enhance the image, and saw suspended within the fluid the unmistakable silhouette of a humanoid fetus.

  A child of my own once again.

  Long-suppressed feelings of paternal pride and excitement welled within him, sensations he had buried long ago after the death of his daughter, Talla, killed in a tragic accident before she had even been able to walk.

  It had been a distasteful proposition, obtaining a selection of eggs from the Empress. The proceedure itself was something Shran had been anticipating ever since Sato had told him of the historical record of the child they would bear together. Even after her lie was revealed, Shran was surprised to realize that he still wanted this child. Its joint human-Andorian heritage would make it ideally suited as an acceptable future leader of the Terran Empire. Assuming he would allow the child to reach adulthood.

  “General Shran?”

  His personal guard had entered the office again. Rather than waiting at the entrance as he had before, the subordinate crossed the tiled floor and held out his hand. He carried a memory card, which he offered to Shran. “Imperial Intelligence has just delivered this, General. It’s coded urgent.”

  Shran accepted the card and inserted it into the data padd. The image of the gestating fetus was replaced by a jumble of random, scrolling symbols, indicating an encryption scheme at work. With a sudden knot of unease, the general entered his personal access code, and the display coalesced into a short message rendered in Andorian alpha numerics.

  “My wife never arrived at Deneva,” he said, the words barely a whisper.

  Soong leaned forward in his chair. “What’s happened?” Soong asked with concern.

  Shran read the message to himself again. “All contact with the yacht has been lost.” He set the d
ata padd on his desk. Feeling a chill on his skin, he looked to his personal guard.

  “Get me Admiral Talas.”

  10

  D espite her best efforts, it was impossible for Hoshi to keep track of the twists and turns as she was hustled through the narrow, dimly lit subterranean passageway. Shadowy rock walls and ceiling were almost a blur in her vision, with the two muscled Vulcan males charged with transporting her to their as yet unknown destination barely letting her feet touch the ground. Hoshi knew that resistance was useless; even if she somehow were able to escape her escorts and free herself of the manacles around her wrists and ankles, she would doubtless become lost in the maze of tunnels and chambers that seemed to be the primary feature of whatever planet, moon, or asteroid her captors had chosen for this, their current hiding place.

  The corridor’s illumination increased as they rounded yet another curve, the tunnel itself widening into a sizable cavern that Hoshi guessed was what passed for the command post for T’Pol and her cadre of rebels. Cargo containers were stacked nearly to the chamber’s jagged, uneven ceiling. Power and data transfer cabling crisscrossed the stone floor, or was strung in haphazard fashion from bolts driven into the rock walls. Portable computer and communications equipment was positioned atop simple, utilitarian worktables and cargo crates from which they had been extracted. She heard the muffled hum of a power generator from farther back in the cavern.

  This was the first time she had seen such an arrangement in the weeks that had passed since she had fallen into captivity, but it was obvious to her that her hosts preferred practicality to aesthetics in the finest Vulcan fashion, the entire scene suggesting that the rebels were ready to pack up everything and evacuate at the first sign of trouble.