Glass Empires

by Various

  Though he would never have imagined himself destined for such a fate, he realized that he might almost be able to let himself reciprocate her feelings. How ironic, he mused, that after all the times I have chided Sarek for choosing a human mate, I should now find myself emulating his behavior.

  Embracing Marlena, he knew that he would never give her up and that she would never betray him. Whether that would be a strong enough foundation upon which to erect a new future for the people of the Empire, he didn’t know, but it was an ember of hope, one with which he planned to spark a blaze that would burn away a failed civilization already in its decline, and make way for a new galactic order that would rise from its ashes.

  For the love of a woman, Spock would destroy the Empire.

  He would ignite a revolution.

  2

  The Inevitability of Change

  M ain shuttlebay doors secure,” intoned a masculine voice over the Enterprise’s intraship address system. “Repressurizing shuttle-bay. Stand by.”

  Captain Spock, Doctor McCoy, and the Enterprise’s newly promoted first officer, Commander Montgomery Scott, walked together down the corridor to the ship’s main shuttlebay. The three men were attired in their dress uniforms, as were the members of the security detachment that was gathered at the shuttlebay door. As soon as the guards saw Spock, they snapped to attention, fists to their chests; then they extended their arms, palms forward, in unison. Spock returned the salute.

  “Shuttlebay repressurized,” the voice announced.

  With a nod, Spock said, “Positions, gentlemen.”

  The guards entered the shuttlebay single file, forming an unbroken line from the door of the shuttlebay to the hatch of the just-returned Shuttlecraft Galileo. Phasers drawn and clutched reverently to their chests, they stood at attention, eyes front. A group of Vulcan delegates debarked from the shuttlecraft, boarding the Enterprise for transport to the imperial conference on the planet code-named Babel.

  At the front of the procession, moving with confidence and radiating personal power, was the head of the Vulcan delegation: Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan, Spock’s father. Trailing behind him was Amanda, his human wife, followed by the junior members of his diplomatic entourage. They all carried with them the spicy scents of the Vulcan homeworld. It had been four years since Spock had last been there, and eighteen years since he had last exchanged words with his father. It was likely, Spock knew, that Sarek would resist any overture of reconciliation he might offer, but he would not be able to avoid interacting with Spock now that he was the captain of the Enterprise. Under different circumstances, Spock might have found the necessity of contact to be distasteful, but as matters now stood it was a fortunate arrangement, and one he intended to exploit.

  Sarek halted in front of Spock, eyed the gold tunic that Spock wore, and made a silent note of the rank insignia. He looked Spock in the eye and said in a level voice, “Permission to come aboard, Captain.”

  Spock lifted his right hand in the Vulcan salute and waited until Sarek reciprocated the gesture before he replied, “Permission granted, Ambassador Sarek.” He nodded at his two fellow officers. “Our chief medical officer, Doctor McCoy, and our first officer, Commander Scott.” Scott and McCoy nodded curtly to Sarek, who returned the gesture.

  Speaking more to them than to Spock, Sarek motioned to the retinue that followed him. “My aides and attachés, and she who is my wife.” He held up one hand and extended his index and middle fingers together. Amanda joined him directly and pressed her own fingertips to his. They both were stoic in their quiet companionship. It was a quality of their relationship that Spock had always found admirable.

  “Commander Scott will escort you and your wife to your quarters, Mister Ambassador,” Spock said. “Once you are settled, I look forward to offering you a tour of the ship.”

  “Captain, I’m certain you must have more pressing matters to attend to,” Sarek said, as verbally agile as ever. “Perhaps one of your junior officers could guide us.” He clearly did not want to interact with Spock any more than was necessary to complete his assignment for the Vulcan government, but the protocols of military and diplomatic courtesy prevented him from saying so.

  Spock intended to turn that limitation to his advantage. “It would be my privilege, Mister Ambassador,” he said. “I insist.”

  Of course, Sarek could simply decline the invitation entirely, but Spock knew that Sarek’s devotion to the minutiae of decorum would prevent that. A subtle exhalation of breath signaled Sarek’s grim acceptance of the inevitable. “Very well,” he said. “My wife and I shall look forward to receiving you at your earliest convenience.”

  “Ambassador,” Spock said with a half-nod, bringing the discussion to a close. Sarek looked to Commander Scott, who led the middle-aged Vulcan and his wife away, toward a turbolift that would take them to their quarters. The rest of the diplomatic team was escorted from the shuttlebay by the security team, as much for their own protection as that of the other Babel Conference delegates currently aboard the Enterprise.

  McCoy turned and smirked at Spock. “Your father didn’t look too happy to see you, Captain.”

  “My father is a Vulcan, Doctor. He feels neither happy nor unhappy.”

  The doctor snorted derisively. “You can tell yourself that if you want, sir, but that man is not looking forward to seeing you later.” He frowned. “Pure logic, my ass. I know a grudge when I see one.”

  “Perhaps,” Spock said. “But be that as it may, I will not tolerate being interrogated on the subject by a subordinate—particularly not by one who tortured his own father to death.”

  McCoy bristled at the mention of his father. “Dammit, I was under orders! You know that. I was under orders.”

  “Indeed, Doctor. As are we all.”

  The tour of the ship passed quickly. Spock escorted his parents from their quarters first to the bridge, then through the various scientific and medical laboratories in the primary hull. Sarek made a point of limiting his remarks to no more than a few words—“I see,” or, “Sensible,” or, “Most logical”—never asking follow-up questions, and suppressing any attempt Amanda made to engage Spock in more than the most perfunctory manner.

  After a brief visit to the astrophysics labs and sickbay, they had arrived in main engineering, which had been busy with activity, most of it directed from the bridge by Commander Scott, who still groused to anyone who would listen that he had been forced to leave his beloved engines in less capable hands.

  Less than an hour later, the tour was finished, and Spock escorted his parents to his own quarters. He walked a step ahead of them, moving in long strides that he knew his father would easily match. Stopping in front of his door, Spock turned and said curtly, “Mother, I wish to meet privately with Sarek. Please excuse us.”

  “Of course, Spock,” she said, and started to step away.

  Sarek caught her arm and stopped her, all the while keeping his hard, dark eyes fixed on Spock. “No, my wife. Stay with me.”

  Undeterred, Spock steeled his tone. “I must insist, Mister Ambassador. It is a matter of great urgency.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Spock,” Sarek declared. “You made your decision, and you must live with the consequences.”

  Amanda looked torn between them. “Sarek, please, listen…”

  “Be silent, Amanda,” Sarek said, his voice quiet but forceful. Returning his attention to Spock, he continued. “You could have been a leader on Vulcan, Spock. A man of power and influence. You rejected that for this? Most illogical.”

  Spock hardened his resolve. “I disagree.”

  “Naturally,” Sarek said. He tried to walk away. “Let us pass. It has been a long day for my wife. We should retire.”

  “Ambassador,” Spock said sharply, “I will speak my mind to you, and you will listen. As the captain of this ship, I have the power to compel your audience—and much more, if I so desire. I respectfully suggest that the wiser course of action would be not
to force me to resort to such barbaric tactics.”

  For several seconds Sarek regarded Spock and took his measure. Spock waited while his father pondered his options. At last, Sarek folded his hands together and sighed. “As you wish, Captain. I am most interested to hear what you consider to be of such grave importance.” He turned to Amanda. “I will rejoin you when my conversation with Spock is finished.” She nodded her understanding and walked away.

  Spock unlocked the door. It swished open, and he stepped aside to let Sarek pass. “After you, Mister Ambassador.”

  Inside Spock’s cabin, the thermostat had been adjusted to a much warmer level than normal, and almost all traces of humidity had been extracted from its air—both changes being for Sarek’s benefit. Seated across a small table from Spock, Sarek’s face was steeped in long vertical shadows from the dim, crimson-hued overhead illumination. He shook his head.

  “Your proposal is not logical, Spock,” he said. “It is grounded in sentimental illusions.”

  “I assure you,” Spock replied, “it is not.” He picked up the ceramic urn of hot tea that rested on the table between them and refilled both their cups as he continued. “You yourself have admitted that conquering Coridan for its dilithium resources will inevitably consume more time, personnel, and resources than it can repay. Advocating a policy of waste is illogical.” He set down the tea urn and looked Sarek in the eye. “However, enticing Coridan to join the Empire of its own volition, particularly if it can be accomplished without resorting to threats or force, would represent a significant and immediate gain for the Empire, at a relatively moderate long-term cost.”

  Sarek sipped his tea slowly, then set down his cup. “Even if I acknowledge the logic of your analysis, Spock, you must concede that negotiating such an agreement with a planet we could just as quickly invade would make the Empire appear weak. If our enemies come to believe that we would rather talk than act, they will not hesitate to strike. Introducing supplication into our foreign policy will only invite attack.”

  “Your analysis is flawed, Sarek.”

  The accusation almost provoked a glare of anger from the elder Vulcan. He reined in his temper, then said, “Explain.”

  “I agree that opening talks with Coridan will cause the Klingons and the Romulans to question our motives,” Spock said. “But their scanners will still show our border defenses to be intact, and our fleet vigilant. They will not attack.”

  Pensive now, Sarek folded his hands in front of his chest. “The other delegates will not be receptive to this idea.”

  “Then you must persuade them,” Spock said. “It will cost the Empire less than conquest, and reap it greater benefit.”

  Spock almost thought he noticed a frown on Sarek’s face as the older man rose from the table and paced across the cabin. Watching his father stroll the perimeter of the room as though it were an activity of great interest reminded Spock of his youth, growing up in Sarek’s home on Vulcan. Whenever Sarek had become displeased with him, he’d paced like this. “As it ever was, so it remains,” Sarek said, half under his breath. “You have served the ambitions of humans all your life—no doubt thanks to the influence of your mother and your own human DNA. Assuming command of a starship has only made your devotion to the Terrans’ cause more strident.”

  “Why do you assume it is their interests that I serve?”

  Spreading his arms to gesture at the space around them, Sarek said, “You command one of their starships. You ask me to help increase their power and wealth by proposing that we invite Coridan into the Empire. What other conclusion should I draw?”

  “You have heard only the first step in my proposal,” Spock pointed out. “I think you will find its later stages intriguing, for their anticipated effect upon the status quo.”

  “I am well acquainted with how the Terrans adjust the status quo,” Sarek replied. Many times had Spock listened patiently while Sarek recounted, with thinly veiled bitterness, the manner in which humans, immediately following their first contact with the crew of a Vulcan scout ship, had captured the scouts and tortured them into divulging the secrets of interstellar navigation. In short order, the Terrans had turned the Vulcans’ knowledge to their own aims, laying the foundation for their nascent star empire.

  “You assume facts not in evidence, Sarek.” He waited until he once again commanded Sarek’s full attention, then continued. “Strengthening the Empire is not my objective. In fact, I aim to do quite the opposite.”

  A twinge of emotion fluttered across Sarek’s countenance. Fear, perhaps? He moved slowly, positioning the table between himself and his son. In a milder tone than he had used before, he said, “Speak plainly, Spock.”

  “Fact: The Empire’s policies of preemptive warfare and civil oppression are not sustainable, and will soon collapse.”

  Cautiously, Sarek nodded. “Stipulated.”

  Emboldened, Spock pressed on. “Fact: Within approximately two hundred forty-three Earth years, uprisings will compromise the security of the Terran Empire from within, even as it wages a war against multiple external threats. The ensuing collapse will most probably destroy millennia of accumulated knowledge, triggering an interstellar dark age without precedent in the history of local space.”

  Sarek nodded gravely. “Vulcan’s Council has reached the same conclusion. The Empire’s collapse is inevitable.”

  “Agreed,” Spock said. “The Empire cannot be saved. But the civilization that it supports can be—with a different, more benign form of government.”

  The upward pitch of Sarek’s tone would barely have been noted by a non-Vulcan, but to Spock it registered as indignation. “You speak of treason, Spock.”

  “I speak of the inevitability of change, Sarek.” He picked up Sarek’s half-full cup of tea from the table and held it before himself. “The Empire will fall. And when it does—” He let the cup fall to the deck. It broke into dozens of small jagged fragments, spilling tea in an irregular puddle across the carpet. “All within it will be lost. Unless—” He picked up his own cup from the table, opened the lid on the ceramic pot in the middle of the table, and poured his leftover tea back inside. Then he casually hurled the cup against the wall, where it shattered into countless tiny earthen shards.

  Several seconds passed while Sarek considered Spock’s point. The metaphor had been obvious enough that Spock had not felt the need to elaborate after throwing the empty cup. He was certain that Sarek understood that he meant to transition the imperial civilization to a new form of government before making a sacrifice of the Empire itself, casting it aside after it had been gutted and reduced to a hollow shell of its former self.

  “My son,” Sarek began, sounding as though he were selecting each word with great care. “I ask this with genuine concern: Do you suffer from a mental infirmity?”

  The question was not unexpected. Spock shook his head once. “I am in full possession of my faculties, Father.” He took one step toward Sarek. “It will take time for my plan to come to fruition. I must cultivate allies and fortify a power base. But it can be done—and if we wish to prevent the sum of all Vulcan thought and achievement from being erased less than three centuries from now, it must be done.”

  Sarek emerged from behind the table. He stepped slowly between the shards of the broken cups. “For the sake of our discussion, let us assume that you can seize power over the Empire, and maintain your hold long enough to push it toward its own demise. What do you propose should replace it?”

  “A constitutionally ordered, representative republic,” Spock said. As he’d expected, Sarek recoiled from the notion.

  “Most illogical,” Sarek replied. “The Empire is too large to be governed in such a manner. It would fall into civil war.”

  Nodding, Spock said, “As an Empire, yes. But as a coalition of sovereign worlds, united for their mutual benefit, much of its administration could be localized. Each planet would be responsible for its own governance and would contribute to the interstellar defe
nses of the republic.”

  “Madness,” Sarek retorted. “You would never be able to maintain control.”

  “Irrelevant,” Spock said. “When it is in each world’s best interest to remain united with the others, it will no longer be necessary to compel their loyalty. Self-interest will dictate that the good of the many also benefits the few—or the one.”

  The elder Vulcan stopped in front of the food slot and pushed a sequence of buttons to procure more tea. High-pitched warbles of sound emanated from behind the device’s closed panel. “The populace is not ready for self-rule, Spock. After centuries of dictatorship, the responsibilities of civic duty will be alien to them. They will reject it.” The food-slot panel lifted, revealing a new ceramic pot and two empty cups on a tray. Sarek picked up the tray and moved it to the table. “And our enemies will capitalize on the chaos that follows from your reforms.”

  “I am not suggesting we dismantle Starfleet,” Spock said. He moved to the table and stood opposite his father. “If reform is to have a chance to succeed, foreign interference must be prevented.” He gestured for Sarek to be seated. As his father sat, so did Spock. He reached forward, lifted the teapot, and filled his father’s cup with a slow, careful pour. “I do not propose to effect my changes all at once,” Spock said. “Progress must come by degrees.” Spock set down the teapot. “By the time our rivals are aware of the true scope of my intentions, they will be ill-prepared to act.”

  Leaning forward, Sarek said, “But when they do act, Spock, their reprisal will be catastrophic.” He picked up the teapot and, with the slow measured motions of an old man in no hurry to reach the end of his life, poured tea into Spock’s cup. “It is logical to conclude that the Empire cannot endure, but to contend that the solution to that problem is to prematurely destroy the Empire is…counterintuitive, at best.”

  “Indeed,” Spock replied as he watched Sarek set down the teapot. Spock picked up his cup and savored the gentle aroma of the herbal elixir. “But to do nothing is more illogical still.”