by Various
As Gorkon reached the edge of the circle that was farthest from the Regent’s throne, Sturka asked, “What are you proposing, Councillor Gorkon?”
Gorkon grinned to 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 undeniably a politician’s concern. “If we need power, we all know that 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 end up bearing 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 out. Suspicious growls worked their way around the room. Many of the councillors no doubt were already aware of what Gorkon had in mind for them should he ever rise to the regency. Leaning over Argashek’s shoulders, Grozik and Glazya, his two staunchest comrades, sniped verbally at Gorkon. “PetaQ,” spat Grozik, as Glazya hissed, “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 smirked at them.
“Step into the circle, whelps,” Gorkon challenged. “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 and go back to the shadows. Gorkon, let them go.”
With a respectful nod to 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 low, ragged rumble. “Praxis is unstable. Doubling its output would be a mistake. 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 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 that 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 forward, into Gorkon’s arms, hanging onto 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, then 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 fully open and gazed into their lifeless depths. His warning cry for Sto-Vo-Kor built like a long-growing thunder-head, resonating inside his barrel chest. Within seconds, more gravelly hums were building in the bellies of all 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 the 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 up onto the raised dais and took his place upon the throne. Immediately, Indizar was at his right side, handing him the ceremonial staff. Alakon, a common-born soldier who had earned his place here 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 ire 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 that 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 anonymously hurled 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 w
hen 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 that Emperor Spock is ignorant of the consequences his actions will carry. But he continues all the same, and his homeworld of Vulcan is awash 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 for a moment, 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 grass-roots 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 believe 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 that 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 and peter out. 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 that you spoke in jest? Or are you seriously suggesting that 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 have told me that they believe the Vulcans’ psionic gifts might be more than just the stuff of legend, Praetor.”
Nobody laughed this time. Praetor Vrax ceased his pretense of civility and became openly sarcastic. “I suppose, Senator Pardek, that you’ll next be telling me that Emperor Spock really does possess tremendous psionic abilities, and that it was the power of thought alone that enabled him to slaughter the Empress Hoshi Sato III and her entire Imperial Guard corps?”
Dead silence. A few stifled coughs echoed, then were lost amid the dry scrape of shuffling feet.
“No,” Pardek said as diplomatically as he could. “I think that the Vulcans, who long resented sharing power with the Terrans who enslaved them, made a major leap forward in the arms race—and Spock chose that moment to show the Vulcans’ hand.”
Mumbles of agreement bubbled up in isolated patches around the Senate Chamber. Taking note of it, Vrax nodded. “Agreed. And until we know more about that weapon, I am inclined to support Senator Narviat’s recommendation for discretion.” He looked back at Pardek. “As to the spread of the pacifist movement on Vulcan…do you really have no better hypothesis, Senator Pardek?”
Abashed, Pardek answered, “Not at this time, Praetor.”
Vrax shook his head. “Thank you, Senator Pardek. I would prefer an explanation that does not require me to believe in magic or mythology. You may sit down.”
It hadn’t been permission so much as a directive, and Pardek settled into his seat. The debate continued around him. He made no effort to conceal his disgruntled glowering.
So they don’t believe my theory, he consoled himself. Not surprising; I’m not sure I believe it, either. But there’s one thing I am certain of: Spock is deliberately setting up his people to take a fall, and I have no idea why.
Pardek considered a thousand reasons why Spock might sabotage his own empire; none of them made sense. As a junior senator, there was little he could do directly to guide the affairs of the Romulan Star Empire. Weighing his options, he decided he would back Senator Narviat’s proposal of military disengagement when it came time to vote. Pardek doubted that the Tal Shiar would be able to infiltrate Vulcan any better than it had so far—which was to say, barely at all—but emphasizing covert intelligence rather than overt conquest would keep the Romulan Star Empire out of the Terran-Klingon cross fire. Pardek simply hoped it would buy his people enough time to determine what Emperor Spock was really up to.
“I must say, Admiral Cartwright,” remarked Colonel Ivan West as he sat down at the dinner table, “this is by far the best-catered secret meeting I’ve ever been to.”
Admiral Lance Cartwright chuckled as he settled in at the head of the table. Colonel West’s observation had struck a chord because it was true. The table was dressed with crisp white linen and set with dishes of fine crystal and utensils of solid, polished silver. Cartwright’s domestic servants had just cleared the appetizer course—a salad of baby greens tossed with warm slices of braised pear, walnuts, and a light vinaigrette—and brought out the next course, bowls of creamy pumpkin soup. Special dishes were served to the nonhuman guests.
Laughing with Cartwright were six visitors, high-ranking military officers who had been invited to his home this evening. They swapped small talk as a Bolian waiter refilled their glasses. Cartwright, West, and Admiral Thomas Morrow all were drinking cabernet. General Quiniven of Denobula was abstaining from liquor this evening and nursed a glass of Altair water instead. Admirals Robert Bennett and Salliserra zh’Ferro gladly accepted refills of their illegally imported Romulan ale. Commodore Vosrok, the Chelon director of Starfleet Intelligence, was half sitting, half kneeling on a piece of furniture designed for his nonhumanoid anatomy and drinking n’v’aa, a beverage from his homeworld that, up close, reeked of brackish vinegar. Cartwright made a mental note never to drink at Vosrok’s home.
The banter remained light while the servants moved through the lavishly decorated dining room, serving soup, refilling water, replacing sullied utensils, and setting out freshly baked rolls and glass dishes of whipped butter.
“I’ll give you credit,” Morrow said to Cartwright. “You know how to live like a grand admiral.”
Raising his glass in appreciation, Cartwright replied, “The amazing part is that I do it on a fleet admiral’s salary.” More polite laughter filled the moment. He watched the last of the servants exit, and the doors swung closed behind them, leaving him and his guests in privacy. “To business, then,” he said, and his guests nodded in agreement. “I’ve sounded out each of you individually, so I imagine you’re all aware why I’ve asked you here tonight.” After a pause for effect, he stated plainly, “Emperor Spock is determined to destroy the Empire
to which we have all devoted our lives. Before he’s done, he’ll kill us all. He must be stopped.”
Cautious mumbles of assent traveled around the table, as each guest looked around to make certain they weren’t alone in speaking treason against the Emperor. Their mutual affirmation seemed to encourage them. West, who sat to Cartwright’s left near the head of the table, was the first to respond directly.
“I’m sure we all agree with you, Admiral,” West said. “But opposing Spock won’t be easy. I know of a few more admirals who are ready to turn against him, but most of the officer corps and almost all the enlisted men still support him.”
Jumping in, Admiral Bennett said, “And don’t forget how popular he is with the people. Assassinating him might just make him a martyr. A coup against Spock could start a rebellion.”
Quiniven waved his hand dismissively. “No matter,” he said with arrogant surety. “The people can be kept in line.”
“Oh, really?” was Vosrok’s sarcastic reply. “Have you forgotten that Spock granted the people such rights as—”
“Rights given with a word can be revoked just as easily,” Quiniven said. “The citizens of the Empire have never had to shed blood to secure their rights. They wouldn’t know how.”
