“So,” Uhura finally said. “What are we going to do?”

Scott shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do. We don’t have any proof Spock’s been compromised, and Starfleet hasn’t ordered us to take action.”

“Maybe I could declare him mentally unfit,” McCoy said. “I could say his brokering a peace treaty was irrational, and—”

“And he’d give you a half-dozen reasons why it’s completely logical,” Scott cut in. “You should know by now not to argue logic with Spock. It’s a losing proposition.”

Uhura’s temper flared higher by the moment. “Listen to the two of you!” she hissed. Backpedaling away from them, she continued. “ ‘Nothing we can do.’ ‘Losing proposition.’ You’re not men. Men would stand and fight! Men would eliminate Spock now, before his brand of appeasement spreads. But since neither of you seems willing to act like a man”—she drew her dagger from her boot—“I guess I’ll have to do it for you.”

Scott tried to interpose himself between Uhura and the door, but he wasn’t quick enough. She cut him off and started backing out of the room. “Where do you think you’re going, lass? What do you think you’re going to do?”

“What you should have done, Mister Scott,” she replied. “I’m going to kill Captain Spock before he—”

An incandescent flash of light and a lilting, almost musical ringing filled the air around Uhura—and when it faded she was gone.

STAR TREK

MIRROR UNIVERSE

The Sorrows of Empire

DAVID MACK

Based on Star Trek

created by Gene Roddenberry

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine®

created by Rick Berman & Michael Piller

and Star Trek: Enterprise®

created by Rick Berman & Brannon Braga

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For what might yet be,

if we only have enough courage

Historian’s Note

The Sorrows of Empire begins in mid-2267, shortly after the four crew members of the U.S.S. Enterprise crossed over to an alternate universe (“Mirror, Mirror”), and concludes in 2295, two years after the Khitomer Accords were signed by the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire (Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country). All events occur in the mirror universe.

In every revolution, there is one man with a vision.

—Captain James T. Kirk

PART I

Sic Semper Tyrannis

2267

1

The Marriage of True Minds

Crushing Captain Kirk’s windpipe was proving far easier than Spock had ever dared to imagine.

The captain of the I.S.S. Enterprise struggled futilely in the merciless grip of his half-Vulcan first officer. Kirk’s fists struck at Spock’s torso, ribs, groin. His fingers pried at Spock’s hold, clawed the backs of the hands that were strangling him. Spock’s grasp only closed tighter, condemning Kirk to a swift death by suffocation.

Killing such an accomplished officer as Kirk seemed a waste to Spock. And waste, as Kirk’s alternate-universe counterpart had reminded Spock only a few days earlier, was illogical. Unfortunately, as Spock now realized, it was sometimes necessary.

Kirk’s strength was fading, but his eyes were still bright with cunning. He twisted, reached forward to pluck Spock’s agonizer from his belt—only to find the device absent. Removing it had been a grave breach of protocol, but Spock had decided that willfully surrendering to another the means to let himself be tortured was also fundamentally illogical. He would no longer accede to the Terrans’ obsessive culture of self-inflicted suffering. It was time for a change.

Marlena Moreau stood in the entryway of Kirk’s sleep alcove, sharp and silent while she watched Spock throttle Kirk to death in the middle of the captain’s quarters. There was no bloodlust in her gaze, a crude affectation Spock had witnessed in many humans. Instead, she wore a dark expression, one of determination tinged with regret. Her sleepwear was delicate and diaphanous, but her countenance was hard and unyielding; she was like a steely blade in a silken sheath.

Still Kirk struggled. Again it struck Spock how great a waste this was, and the words of the other universe’s Captain Kirk returned to his thoughts, the argument that had forced Spock to confront the futility of the imperial mission to which his civilization had been enthralled. The other Kirk had summed up the intrinsic flaw of the Empire with brevity and clarity.

The illogic of waste, Mister Spock, he had said. Of lives, potential, resources … time. I submit to you that your empire is illogical, because it cannot endure. I submit that you are illogical, for being a willing part of it.

And he had been unequivocally right.

Red stains swam across the eyes of this universe’s Captain Kirk. Capillaries in the whites of his eyes had ruptured, hemorrhaging blood inside the eye sockets. Seconds more, and it would be over.

There had been no choice. No hope of altering this Kirk’s philosophy of command or of politics. His doppel-ganger had urged Spock to seize command of the I.S.S. Enterprise, find a logical reason to spare the resistant Halkans, and convince the Empire it was the correct course.

Spock had hoped he could achieve such an aim without resorting to mutiny; he had never desired command, nor had he been interested in politics. Science, reason, research … these had always been Spock’s core interests. They remained so now, but the circumstances had changed. Despite all of Spock’s best-formulated arguments, Kirk had refused to consider mercy for the Halkans. Even when Spock had proved through logical argument that laying waste to the Halkans’ cities would, in fact, only impede the Empire’s efforts to mine the planet’s dilithium, Kirk had not been dissuaded. And so had come Kirk’s order to obliterate the planet’s surface, to exterminate the Halkans and erase their civilization from the universe.

To speak out then would have been suicide, so Spock had stood mutely by while Kirk grinned and chuckled with malicious self-satisfaction, and watched a planet die.

Now it was Spock’s turn to watch Kirk expire in his grip, but Spock took no pleasure in it. He felt no sense of satisfaction, nor did he permit himself the luxuries of guilt or regret. This was simply what needed to be done.

Kirk’s pulse slowed and weakened. A dull film glazed the captain’s eyes, which rolled slowly back into his skull. He went limp in Spock’s grasp and his clutching, clawing hands fell to his sides. Dead weight now, he sagged halfway to his knees. Not wanting to fall victim to a ruse, Spock took the precaution of inflicting a final twist on Kirk’s neck, snapping it with a quick turn. Then he let the body fall heavily to the deck, where it landed with a dull thud.

Marlena inched cautiously forward, taking Spock’s measure. “We should get rid of his body,” she said. Stepping gingerly in bare feet, she walked over Kirk’s corpse. “And his loyalists—”

“Have been dealt with,” Spock interjected. “Show me the device.” He did not need to elaborate; she had been beside him in the transporter room when the other universe’s Kirk had divulged to him the existence of a unique weapon, one Kirk had promised could make Spock “invincible.” The device, which Marlena called the Tantalus field, had been the key to the swift rise of this universe’s Kirk through the ranks of the Imperial Starfleet.

Marlena led Spock to a nearby wall, on which was mounted a trapezoidal panel. She touched it softly at its lower right corner, then at its upper right corner, and it slid soundlessly upward, revealing a small display screen flanked by a handful of buttons and dials.

“This is how you turn it on.” With a single, delicate touch, Marlena activated the device. “These are the controls.”

“Demonstrate it,” Spock said. “On the captain’s body.”

He observed her actions carefully, memorizing patterns and deducing functions. With a few pushed buttons, she conjured an image of the room in which they stood. Some minor adjustments on the dials narrowed the image’s focus to the body on the floor. Then she pressed a single button segregated from the others inside a teardrop-shaped mounting, and a blink of light filled the room behind them.

Marlena lifted her arm to shield her eyes, but Spock let his inner eyelids spare him from the flash. It was over in a fraction of a second, leaving him with a palpable tingle of electric potential and the lingering scent of ozone mingled with Marlena’s delicately floral Deltan perfume. On the floor there was no trace of Kirk—no hair, no scorch marks, no blood … not a single bit of evidence a murder had occurred. Satisfied, he nodded at Marlena, who shut off the device. “Most impressive,” he remarked.

“Yes,” she replied. “He let me use it a few times. I only know how to target one person at a time, but he told me once it could do much more, in the right hands.”

“Indubitably,” Spock said. The communicator on his belt beeped twice. He lifted it from its half-pocket and flipped it open. “Spock here.”

“This is Lieutenant D’Amato. The ship is secured, sir.”

One detail loomed paramount in Spock’s thoughts. “Have you dealt with Mister Sulu?”

“Aye, sir,” D’Amato replied. “He’s been neutralized.”

“Well done, Mister D’Amato. Spock out.”

Spock closed his communicator and put it back on his belt. He crossed the room to a wall-mounted comm panel and opened an intraship PA channel. “Attention, all decks. This is Captain Spock. As of fourteen twenty-six hours, I have relieved Captain Kirk and assumed command of this vessel. Continue on course for Gamma Hydra IV. That is all. Spock out.” He thumbed the channel closed and turned to face Marlena. “It would seem, for now, that circumstances favor us.”

“Not entirely,” she said. “Last night, Kirk filed a report with Starfleet Command about the alternate universe. He called its people anarchistic and dangerous … and he told Starfleet he suspected you of helping breach the barrier between the universes.”

Her news was not entirely unexpected, but it was still unfortunate. “Did the captain speculate why I might have done such a thing?”

“No,” Marlena said. “But he made a point of mentioning your attempts to convince him to spare the Halkans.”

He nodded once. “It would have been preferable for there to be no official record of the other universe’s existence,” he said. “But what has been done cannot be undone. We must proceed without concern for details beyond our control.” Looking into her eyes, he knew that, for now, she was the only person on the ship—perhaps even in the universe—whom he could really trust, but even her motives were not entirely beyond suspicion … at least, not yet. But if the Terran Empire and its galactic neighbors were to be spared the ravages of a brutal social implosion followed by a devastating dark age unlike any in recorded history, he would have to learn to trust someone beyond himself—and teach others to do the same.

Picturing the shifting possibilities of the future, he knew he had already committed himself, and there was no turning back from the epic task he had just set for himself.

The great work begins.

“Congratulations, Captain,” a passing junior officer said as he saluted Spock, who dutifully returned the gesture while continuing down the corridor to his new cabin.

Pomp and fanfare had never appealed to Spock. Pageantry had its uses in the affairs of the Empire, but aboard a starship it was a needless frivolity, a distraction ill afforded. He preferred to focus on tasks at hand, on the business of running the ship. The crew, sensing his mood, had obliged him. But the human compulsion to laud success was irrepressible, and he accepted it with stoic grace.

His ascendance to command, however, was only the second most compelling item of news aboard the Enterprise—the crew was buzzing with hearsay of the alternate universe. Chief Engineer Scott, Dr. McCoy, and Lieutenant Uhura, despite having been ordered to secrecy during their debriefings, apparently felt liberated to speak freely of it now that Kirk had been assassinated. Spock had made no effort to curtail the rumors or to interdict the crew’s personal communications. The truth was out; attempting to rein it in would be futile. It had a life of its own now, and he decided to let it be.

He arrived at the captain’s cabin, which he had claimed as his own. The door opened with a soft hiss. On the other side of the threshold he was met by the dry heat and dim reddish-amber glow that he preferred for his private quarters, a crude approximation of the light and climate of his homeworld of Vulcan. He was pleased to see the last of Captain Kirk’s belongings had been removed from the compartment, and his own possessions had been moved in. On the far side of the room, Marlena was gently hanging his Vulcan lute on the wall.

Spock stepped farther into the room, clear of the door’s sensor. The portal slid shut behind him. Marlena turned and folded her hands in front of her waist. “I assumed this was where you would want it displayed,” she said.

“It is,” Spock said. He had not expected her to still be there. She had been Kirk’s woman for some time, and though she had sympathized with Spock’s cause, he had anticipated little more from her than silent acquiescence. Apparently, she had taken it upon herself to supervise the transfer of his personal effects and to complete the preparation of his new quarters.

“You’ve received several personal transmissions in the past few hours,” she said, moving to the cabinet where beverages were stored. “Some from other starship captains, some from the Admiralty … even one from Grand Admiral Garth himself.”

“Yes,” Spock replied. “I have already read them.”

She opened the cabinet and took out a bottle of Vulcan port and two short, squarish glasses. “Missives of congratulation, no doubt.” She glanced up at Spock, who nodded in confirmation, then she half-filled both glasses with the bright green liquor.

He accepted the glass she offered him. By reflex, he sniffed it once, to try to discern any telltale fragrance of toxins lurking in its tart, fruity bouquet.

Keen to his suspicion, Marlena smirked. “It’s not poisoned. But if it will make you more comfortable, we can swap glasses.”

“Unnecessary,” Spock said, and he took a drink.

At that, she smiled. “Trust?”

His tone was calm and even. “A calculated risk.”

With slow and languid grace, she reached up and stroked her fingertips across his bearded chin. “I’ve been a captain’s woman, Spock. … Am I still?”

A stirring in the dark corners of his soul, the animal cry of his human half. It felt something for this woman—a hunger, a need. Dominated by his Vulcan discipline and his credo of unemotional logic, his human passions were deeply buried, strange and unfamiliar to him. But they paled in comparison to the savage desires of his ancient Vulcan heritage, whose lethal furies were the reason his people relied on the dictums of logic for their continued survival as a culture.

As if with a will of its own, his left hand rose and cupped Marlena’s cheek, then traveled through her warm, dark hair. It was soft and fell over his fingers like a lover’s breath. Her skin was warm. His fingertips rested on the side of her scalp, while she traced a line with her nails down his throat.

“You are still the captain’s woman,” he said.

Her hand moved along his clavicle, to his shoulder, down the length of his arm, until it came to rest atop his own hand, on the side of her face. “When I was a girl, I heard stories about Vulcans who could touch minds,” she said. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” he said, revealing his people’s most closely guarded secret, one for which entire species—such as the Betazoids and the Ullians—had been all but exterminated. “We hide our powers from outsiders, and such a bond is never performed lightly. The melding of two minds is a profound experience.”

She took a half step closer to him, all the while holding eye contact and keeping her hand pressed against his. “Do both people know it’s happening?”

“They become as one,” Spock said. “No secrets remain.”

Resting her free hand against his chest, she whispered, “I wouldn’t resist if … if you wanted to …”

It was subtle, nimble, and quick. His fingers changed position on the side of her face, spreading apart like the legs of an arachnid, seeking out the loci of neural pathways.

Marlena tensed and inhaled a short, sharp breath. Though she had said she wouldn’t resist, she couldn’t have known what the touch of a Vulcan mind-meld would really feel like. Nothing could have prepared her for the total loss of privacy, the ultimate exposure of her inner self to another consciousness. Even the most willing participants resisted their first time.

“My mind to your mind,” Spock intoned, his rich baritone both soothing and authoritative. “Our thoughts are merging. I know what you know. Our minds become one. We become one.”

The dark flower of her mind bloomed open in his thoughts, and the coldly rational structures of his logic gave form to her chaos of passions and appetites. Fears fell silent, motives were laid bare, and the union of their psyches was complete.

Years, days, and moments wove together into a shared tapestry of their past. The cold disapproval of Spock’s father, Sarek, stood in sharp contrast to the volcanic fury of Marlena’s father, François: an icy stare tore open a silent gulf between a father and son; a broad palm slapped a young girl’s face again and again, leaving the hot sting of betrayal in its wake.

I have made my decision, Father.

I’m sorry, Daddy! Please stop! Don’t!

Defenses took root, grew coarse, became permanent barriers. Marlena’s weapon of choice was seduction; Spock’s preferred implement was logic. He planned ahead, a master chess player thinking two dozen moves beyond his current position; she lived in the moment, moved with the shifting currents of power and popular opinion, never planning for tomorrow—because who knew what the universe would be like by then?

Yin and yang, they stood enmeshed in one another’s thoughts. She, quick to anger, rash to act, desperately seeking one moment of tenderness, one solitary moment of affection, in a life that promised nothing but strife and loneliness. He, aloof and alone, desiring only knowledge and order, but watching the Empire begin an inexorable slide toward collapse and chaos.

All they had in common was the shared experience of meeting the humans from the other universe, the glimpse of a reality so much like theirs yet so different. He admired their discipline, their restraint, their stability. Marlena yearned to live among people of such nobility and compassion. Blending her memories with his own, Spock knew that the qualities he had so respected in the visitors, and the ones that Marlena envied, were inseparable. The others’ self-control and focus in collective effort were made possible by the peaceful ethos they embraced.

Spock also had not forgotten that the visitors’ merciful ways had saved his own life, when the alternate Dr. McCoy had risked being left behind in this cosmos in order to save Spock from what would have been a fatal subcranial hemorrhage. Marlena had witnessed that moment as well, with Kirk’s alien assassination device. What she hadn’t seen was that, after Spock had risen from the table, he had mind-melded with McCoy to force the truth from his weak human brain—and beheld a vision of the universe the visitors called home.

It was not without its conflicts, but the civilization to which the humans belonged was no empire; it was a federation, a democratic society, committed to peaceful exploration and coexistence, eschewing violence except in its own defense or that of others who ask for their aid.

That would be a society worth fighting for. Worth saving.

In every revolution … there is one man with a vision.

Marlena reached up and gently pressed her fingertips against the side of Spock’s face. “I share your vision.”

There were no lies in a mind-meld. Spock knew she spoke the truth; she knew his thoughts, understood what he meant to do, though she likely did not realize all the consequences of what would follow. But her sincerity was unimpeachable, and for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to be simpatico with another being. They were each the first person whom the other had ever truly trusted. Though they knew the galaxy would likely align itself against them and their goals, they were not afraid, because at that moment, in that place, they had one another, they were one another … they were one.

He pulled back from her mind. Loath to be left alone once more, she resisted his departure, clung to his thoughts, pleaded without words for a few more moments of silent intimacy. It was a labor to leave her mind, and for a moment he hesitated. Then discipline reasserted itself, and he gently removed her fingers from his face as he severed their psychic link. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked up at him. His mien, masklike and vaguely sinister, did not betray the swell of newfound feelings he had for her … but then, despite his best intentions, a savage chord in his nature asserted its primal desires. He pulled her close and kissed her with a passion no Vulcan would admit to outside the sacred rites of Pon farr.

She kissed him back, not with hunger or aims of seduction, but with devotion, with affection … with love.

Though he would never have imagined himself destined for such a fate, he realized 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 he would never give her up and 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

“Main shuttlebay doors secure,” intoned a masculine voice over the Enterprise’s intraship address system. “Repressurizing shuttlebay. Stand by.”

Captain Spock, Dr. Leonard 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 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 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 Scott and McCoy 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 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 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 at 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, and 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 arrived in main engineering, which was 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 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 captain of this ship, I have the power to compel your audience—and much more, if I so desire. I respectfully suggest 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 on the table between them and refilled 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 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 provoked a glare 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 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 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 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, and then he 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 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 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 Sarek understood 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 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 defenses 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 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 the Empire cannot endure, but to contend 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.”

“True,” Sarek replied. He breathed deep the perfume of his own tea. They sipped their drinks together for several minutes, each contemplating what the other had said. It was Sarek who finally broke the silence. “I find much of what you propose troubling, Spock. However, given the inevitable decline and fall of the Empire, yours seems the most logical course.”

“Most generous,” Spock said.

“I offer you this caveat, however,” Sarek added. “Even the most thoroughly logical agenda can be confounded by the actions of an irrational political actor—and humans are nothing if not irrational. They can be passionate, vindictive, sometimes even loyal … but more than any other species I have ever met, they are willing to kill and die for ideology. Most any species will fight for territory, resources, or survival. But Terrans, far beyond all the others, will readily slaughter billions and lay waste to entire worlds for the sake of an idea. Choosing the nobler of two paths will not come naturally to them. … They will have to be fooled into acting in their own best interest.”

There was wisdom in Sarek’s words, Spock knew. “Your point is well taken,” he said. “Perhaps it is my own human ancestry that has spurred me on this admittedly ideological course of action. That, most of all, is why I humbly seek to enlist you as my chief political counsel.”

“I would be honored.”

Rising from his seat, Spock said, “There also is one other matter of importance.” Gesturing toward the sleep nook in the back of the cabin, he called out, “Marlena. Join us.”

Sarek also stood as Marlena appeared from the shadows. She was attired in her nightclothes, and her long, dark hair was tousled. She strode to Spock’s side and clutched delicately at his arm. “You shouldn’t have woken me,” she said with a glare. “I was having a good dream for a change.”

Spock ignored her complaint. “This is Lieutenant Marlena Moreau—my fiancée.” Turning to her, he continued. “Marlena, this is Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan … my father.”

She looked quickly from Spock to Sarek, then blushed with shame. “Forgive me, Ambassador. I didn’t mean to … I mean, I wanted to make a better first impression than this. I …” She stammered for a few seconds more without forming any actual words. Spock and Sarek waited, each with one eyebrow raised.

“Emotional, isn’t she?” Sarek noted.

“Indeed,” Spock admitted.

“Why do you wish to marry her?”

With a tilt of his head, Spock gave the only honest answer. “It seems the logical thing to do.”

Sarek nodded. “I understand.” He took two short steps toward the door. “Rest tonight, Spock. We will speak again before the conference.” He glanced once at Marlena, then, almost imperceptibly, signaled his approval to Spock with the barest hint of a nod. “The future awaits us; we have much to do.”

2268

3

The Sleep of Reason

Death was close at hand; Empress Hoshi Sato II felt it. The shadows of her bedchamber vibrated with its icy promise.

Candles flickered on the periphery of the ornately appointed room. A haze of lavender incense smoke lingered like a gauzy blanket above her bed; her Andorian physician, Dr. th’Nellis, had chosen it for its cloying, quasi-medicinal sweetness, in a futile effort to mask the odors of the Empress’s ancient, dying body.

Hoshi II found the fragrance repugnant, but after all Dr. th’Nellis had done to extend her life, she didn’t wish to embarrass him by ordering it removed. The soft-spoken thaan had spent most of the past decade supervising the Empress’s gene therapy, and transplanting vital organs and transfusing fresh blood from lobotomized clones of her predecessor, the original Empress Hoshi Sato. His efforts had verged on the heroic, but there was nothing more to be done.

Her body felt insubstantial, as if it were a feather on the wind. She was as weak as the winter sun, as tired as a dream that wanted to die.

Not yet, she thought, willing herself to live. She had words she needed to speak, a sacred charge she needed to impart.

She beckoned with one withered hand. “Come closer, sister.”

Soft footfalls broke the silence as her teenage twin, Hoshi Sato III, stepped out of the gloom to stand by the bed. The youth caressed a strand of gray hair from her elderly sibling’s cheek with one hand; in the other she held a wineglass filled with cabernet the color of blood. The young woman’s touch was warm, but her expression was cold as she gazed down at the Empress. “I’m here,” she said.

“I don’t have much time left,” the Empress said, her once-melodious voice reduced to a dry rasp.

The cloned echo of her youth replied without pity, “So I see.”

The Empress summoned the last of her failing strength. “I never gave you a chance to know me.”

“I know your reputation.”

“Then you know only a fiction.” A sharp pain in the Empress’s chest stole her breath. When it passed, she continued. “Like the first Empress Sato, I wanted more for the Empire than war and slaughter. I wanted it to be secure. Stable.”

Her heir-apparent let slip a soft snort of derision. “Forgive me for correcting your history, Majesty, but all your predecessor wanted was for her dynasty to be secure, and she saw the Empire as little more than a means to that end. That’s why we exist—because she wanted to make sure her empire had her face forever. We’re nothing more than copies of the biggest narcissist in galactic history.”

“We bear her likeness, but that doesn’t mean we’re doomed to live in her shadow. We can chart our own path, sister.”

The future sovereign smirked. “An ironic statement, coming from you.”

“I ruled according to my conscience, not hers.”

“Strange, then, that your actions and hers proved so similar. In fact, the only substantial difference I see in your respective reigns is that she had to conquer the Empire to became its tyrant. All you had to do was inherit it.”

“A despot is what I became,” the Empress said. “Not what I meant to be.”

“Let me guess: you aspired to a benevolent dictatorship.” She rolled her brown eyes and shook her head. “How banal.”

The sovereign’s voice faltered as she weakened. “I’d hoped to reform the Empire. Curb its excesses. Steer it toward a nobler path.”

“A reformer? You?” Hoshi III laughed angrily. “The Murderess of Andoria? The woman who redefined ‘ruthlessness’ for a generation?”

The Empress exhaled heavily and squeezed shut her eyes in anger and shame. “I confess, I fell for the seductions of power. Couldn’t resist serving my whims … my obsessions … my base desires. It was too much. I … I lost sight of myself.”

Recoiling and adopting a suspicious mien, the younger Sato asked, “Why are you telling me this, Majesty?”

“So you can learn from my mistakes,” the Empress said. “I no longer have the strength or time to chart a new course for the Empire. You do.” She reached out and grasped her twin’s hand, which was smooth and supple with youth. “You can steer the Terran Empire back toward honor.”

Young Hoshi’s brow knitted with confusion and amusement. “Why would I want to do that, Majesty? I’ve spent my whole life preparing to rule. And now, on the cusp of my coronation, you expect me to renounce the plenary power that’s my birthright? To shoulder the burdens of a prince’s throne while denying myself its most cherished perquisites?” She brusquely pulled her hand from the Empress’s grasp. “Have you finally lost your mind?”

“No, I’ve finally found my reason.”

The nineteen-year-old lunged forward as if to pounce on the bedridden sovereign. Perched on her fists, she hovered over her crone of a sister and let her lips curl into a menacing snarl. “You’re just a confused old woman,” she said, her voice freighted with contempt. “Honor? Nobility? You mewl like a coward fresh from a Klingon mind-sifter, or a child on her way to the agony booth.”

Regret swelled in the heart of the Empress. There would be no counseling her successor, no mitigating the ferocity or terror of the reign to come. This new monarch was a child of raw power and old privilege, a twisted product of the corrupt imperial court, a scion of cruel ambition.

“Heed my words, or don’t,” said the Empress. “But do not mock me, child.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I need to rest. Leave me.”

“In a moment,” the teen replied, locking eyes with the Empress.

Empress Sato II inhaled and savored one last breath tinged with lavender incense. She knew what was coming next.

The girl grabbed a pillow from the bed and pushed it down on the Empress’s face, leaning into it with all her weight and strength.

The Empress flailed feebly with her emaciated arms. Through the smothering mass of the pillow, she heard her successor pretend to comfort her.

“Shhh. Sleep, sister. It’ll be over in a moment.”

Within seconds the last spark of the Empress’s will faded, taking with it her panic and fear. Her arms came to rest at her sides.

Poised on the edge of oblivion, she expected to hate her killer.

Instead she felt only gratitude—because the Empire had at last become someone else’s problem.

4

The Fire of Sacrifice

The bridge of the Enterprise was a charred husk, a sparking shell resounding with the groans of the wounded. Thick, acrid smoke shrouded the overhead. The main viewscreen alternated between dull blackness and bursts of static.

Captain Spock pulled himself back into the command chair and sleeved a smear of green blood from the gash on his forehead. “Damage report.”

Lieutenant Kevin Riley struggled to coax a response from the smoldering remains of the navigator’s station. “Excalibur’s weapons fired at full power, sir. We’ve lost shields, and warp drive is offline.”

“Casualties?”

Commander Scott looked up from the sensor display at his station. “Twelve dead, seventeen wounded. Daystrom’s M-5 unit must’ve gone haywire,” he said. “Potemkin’s been destroyed, and Hood and Lexington are in worse shape than we are.”

“Analysis?”

Scott frowned. “One more hit and we’re done for.”

Lieutenant Nyota Uhura swiveled her chair from the communications console to face Spock. “Captain, Commodore Wesley is hailing Excalibur,” reported the striking, brown-skinned human. “He’s receiving no response.”

“Helm,” Spock said, “initiate evasive maneuvers.”

Jabbing at his console with mounting frustration, Ensign Sean DePaul replied, “Helm’s not responding, sir, and phasers have overloaded. Should I arm photon torpedoes?”

Scott protested, “Torpedoes? At this range, without shields? Are you mad?”

“Excalibur’s coming around for another pass,” Riley declared.

Spock had anticipated a scenario such as this weeks earlier, when Enterprise had received its orders to participate in war games to test M-5—famed scientist Richard Daystrom’s latest invention, a multitronic computer he claimed could run a starship not only by itself but also with greater speed and precision than with a living crew. Daystrom’s boast had proved disastrously true. Granted control of one Constitution-class starship, M-5 had destroyed another and crippled three more in a single attack run. Its reaction times and ability to anticipate the responses of the four crewed vessels arrayed against it had been nothing less than superhuman.

Rising from his chair, Spock asked, “Mister Scott, do you have access to our library computer?”

“Aye, sir,” Scott said as Spock joined him at the science station.

“Call up the data charts for Lexington’s and Hood’s command consoles,” Spock ordered.

Keying in the request to the memory banks, Scott said, “Here they come.” The classified schematics appeared on the screen in front of him. He aimed a questioning look at Spock. “Sir … are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“We have no hope of defeating M-5 by orthodox means,” Spock said. “Therefore, logic demands an unorthodox response.”

“But why not call up Excalibur’s console chart?”

Entering his command authorization into the system, Spock said, “Because M-5 has no doubt anticipated this response and changed Excalibur’s prefix codes.”

The first officer’s voice dropped to a fearful whisper. “And if Captain Martinez and Commodore Wesley have done the same … ?”

Arching one eyebrow, Spock replied, “In that case, Mister Scott, we are all about to die.”

Commodore Robert Wesley waved away the smoke stinging his eyes and barked orders at the bridge crew of the I.S.S. Lexington.

“Get those fires out, dammit! Horst, get a fix on Excalibur’s position, now! Number One, tell engineering we need warp speed on the double!”

His crew seemed to be dazed; they responded to his commands as if trapped in slow motion. The commodore pushed his way to the upper deck of his bridge and shook the bloody-faced science officer until the man’s eyes focused. “Snap out of it, Clayton! Get the sensors working and report!” Clayton nodded, turned, and hunched over the sensor console while he worked its controls.

Wesley hurried back to the helm. He pushed the dead woman slumped in the chair to the deck, and then he armed the main phaser bank.

I never should have trusted Daystrom or his crazy machine, he castigated himself. The scientist had seemed less than entirely stable, but his reputation as the genius who had unlocked the secrets of duotronic circuitry decades earlier had been enough to earn a measure of Wesley’s trust. Daystrom had assured Wesley that M-5 could destroy Enterprise during the war games and make it look like an accident, thereby ridding Starfleet of Captain Spock and his sympathizers. Daystrom never said the multitronic system would try to kill the rest of us, too, Wesley raged as he locked his ship’s weapons on the approaching I.S.S. Excalibur.

His first officer, Commander Zeke Dowty, called out from an auxiliary tactical station, “Sir! Enterprise is falling back!”

“Hail them,” Wesley snapped at his communications officer.

The slender Andorian shen frantically flipped switches on her console. “Comms are offline,” she said, turning toward Wesley.

Lexington’s helm went dark under Wesley’s hands even as the ship accelerated into an attack maneuver against the fast-approaching Excalibur.

From the science station, Clayton shouted in alarm, “Our self-destruct package just armed!”

Scrambling to a command console, Dowty asked, “Is it the M-5?”

“Negative,” Clayton said, eyeing a computer readout. “It’s Enterprise!”

Dowty shouted, “Engage the override!”

Damn you, Spock, Wesley fumed.

He knew it would take his crew only moments to overcome the usurpation of their command console’s prefix code. But as he watched Excalibur bear down on his ship and the Hood, he knew those were moments they would never have.

Spock sat facing Enterprise’s main viewscreen and watched Excalibur pummel Hood and Lexington with phaser beams. The two crewed vessels flanked Excalibur at point-blank range and returned fire, their phaser beams flaring impotently against the shields of the computer-driven starship passing between them.

“Now,” Spock said.

Commander Scott pushed a button, and the view-screen flared white as Lexington and Hood exploded—exactly as Spock had programmed them to do.

When the conflagration faded, only fragments remained of the three Constitution-class starships. The cloud of minuscule debris spread slowly against a cold backdrop of space and stars.

“All decks secure from Red Alert,” Spock said.

The crimson lights on the bulkheads ceased flashing.

Moments later, Scott was at Spock’s side with a data slate in hand. “Mister DeSalle says we’ll have warp power restored in two hours, Captain.”

“Very good, Mister Scott. Please continue supervising repairs.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Scott stepped away, Uhura swiveled her chair toward Spock. “Captain? Commodore Enwright is requesting an update on the war games.” She glanced at the viewscreen. “Shall I tell him M-5 lost?”

Arching one eyebrow, Spock replied, “M-5 outfought us three-to-one, Lieutenant. It can hardly be said to have lost.”

“Very well. Should I tell the commodore M-5 malfunctioned?”

“Yes,” Spock said, though he did not believe the supercomputer’s killing spree to have been the least bit accidental. “And you may add that M-5 has been decommissioned.”

“Aye, sir.” Uhura turned back to her station and relayed Spock’s message to the commander of Starbase 6, which had hosted the ill-fated combat exercise.

Spock steepled his fingers in front of him as he pondered the day’s tragic events. I seem to have underestimated the resentment my advancement has provoked, he brooded. All at once it became clear to him the Tantalus field device would not be enough to guarantee his ascent to power.

He was going to need allies.

5

The Quality of Mercy

Elaan, the Dohlman of Elas, paced like a caged tiger. Spock watched the swarthy, lavishly bejeweled beauty prowl back and forth. She threw angry glances in his direction. They were alone together in Lieutenant Uhura’s quarters, which Spock had designated as Elaan’s cabin for the duration of this mission.

Grabbing a small statuette off a nearby shelf, she shouted, “You have no right to keep me here!” She hurled the figurine at Spock, who remained still and let it fly past, confident from the moment she’d thrown it that her hysteria had compromised her aim. “I am a dohlman! On my world, you would be—”

“We are not on your world,” Spock corrected her. “We are aboard the Enterprise. And as a passenger on this ship, you are required to recognize my authority.”

A fiery fit of temper propelled her across the cabin to confront him. Her eyes glistened with tears, and she looked on the verge of weeping. “Have you no mercy? No compassion? I am a dohlman, born to rule … to conquer.” A single tear rolled down her left cheek to her jaw. Spock noted the subtle manner in which she lifted her chin, an invitation for him to wipe away her concocted grief.

He turned his back on her. “I am well acquainted with the reputed properties of Elasian tears, Dohlman.” Spock stepped over to the small table that stood against one wall and set the toppled teacups upright once more. “Let us continue reviewing the protocol for your introduction to the Troyian Caliph.”

Her footfalls were soft, the gentle pattering of bare feet on the carpeted deck. She approached from behind him, and his keen Vulcan hearing was alert for any warning of an attack. Elaan had already stabbed and wounded Petri, the Troyian ambassador who was originally given the task of educating her in Troyian protocol. Because of Petri’s subpar combat reflexes and ensuing convalescence in sickbay, the only person from whom Elaan would consent to receive further instruction in etiquette was the highest-ranking individual on the ship: its captain.

She slipped past Spock, eyeing him first with suspicion, then with perverse amusement. “The Empire’s never taken an interest in our conflict before,” she said, dropping her voice into a slightly lower register, giving her words a smoky, seductive quality. “Some of the Empress’s envoys have even encouraged us to fight.” Moving behind her seat at the table, she continued. “But now you arrive and convince Caliph Hakil to accept a marriage as grounds for a truce and a treaty. Why?”

“A nonviolent resolution to the situation is the most desirable outcome for all parties,” Spock said.

“Not for me,” Elaan shot back. “I’d much rather kill the Troyians, down to their last infant. I’ve dreamed of cleansing their world in fire and salting its ashes. How is this outcome desirable for me?”

Spock pulled his communicator from his belt and flipped it open. A triple chirp signaled his standby channel was open. “Bring him in,” he said into the device, and then he closed it and placed it back on his belt.

Moments later, the door to the corridor opened, and two security guards dragged in Elaan’s bodyguard, Kryton. The young man’s clothes were torn, and his face was bruised and bloody. He was barely conscious. “We caught him sending transmissions to a nearby Klingon cruiser,” Spock said. “He has been conspiring with them to sabotage this mission, because he desires you for himself.”

“Absurd!” Elaan cried. “I am a dohlman!” She stared in horror at Kryton, who hung limply in the hands of the two Starfleet guards. Disgust filled her voice with venom. “You’re but a lowly soldier—you could never be my mate!”

Calmly, Spock explained, “Not as long as you remained Dohlman of Elas. However, once he had helped the Klingons conquer the Tellun system, you would be equals—as slaves of the Klingon Empire. A minor step down the social ladder for Kryton … but a significant demotion for you.”

As she looked back at Kryton, her pity turned to fury. “You will pay dearly for this betrayal, Kryton.”

The bodyguard’s eyes were dull and half-glazed with pain. He lifted his head at the sound of her anger. “I did what my heart bade me, Dohlman,” he croaked through bloody, swollen lips. “I love you. …”

“You are not permitted to love one such as me!” She whirled toward Spock. “Captain, please tell your men to remove this presumptuous worm from my chambers!”

The captain nodded at the guards, who pulled Kryton out of the cabin and took him back to the brig for his imminent execution, which Spock had postponed only until after this planned exhibition. For a change, Elaan was silent. Spock concluded she most likely was brooding over the sudden revelation that her staunchest defender had been about to sell her into slavery.

Finally, she broke her reverie. “Captain,” she asked, “is that Klingon ship still nearby? Do they still plan to attack, to prevent my wedding to Hakil?”

“No,” Spock said. “I have dealt with the Klingons.”

Elaan looked quizzically at him. “I heard no alerts, no sounds of combat. Did they flee? Or did you strike your own bargain with them?”

“They are no longer part of the equation, Dohlman,” he said. “I suggest you leave it at that.”

The less said, Spock reasoned, the better. The Tantalus field device had enabled him to uncover Kryton’s treachery; once the Klingon ship’s precise coordinates had been locked in, Spock had found it remarkably easy with the Tantalus field to eliminate the Klingon crew en masse while leaving their vessel intact. He had already ordered Mister Scott to capture the Klingon cruiser and tow it back to Starbase 12 for a complete analysis, from its disruptors to its spaceframe. It was a fortuitous addendum to his growing list of accomplishments, but his principal objective for this mission remained incomplete.

“I have spared you from becoming a slave of the Klingons,” Spock said. “And I would also spare you the indignity of being enslaved by the Empire. Marry the Caliph of Troyius and end the war between your worlds. United for your mutual defense, you will be able to negotiate from a position of strength for your worlds’ immensely valuable commodity.”

Perplexed, she tilted her head and squinted suspiciously. “What commodity, Captain?”

“This one,” Spock said, reaching forward. He touched the long crystalline jewels that formed her ornate neckpiece, arcing down in a semicircle atop her chest. “Dilithium crystals, more abundant on your planet than on Halkan or even on Coridan. Elas and Troyius are in possession of the largest natural deposits of high-quality dilithium in all of known space.”

“But the imperial engineers surveyed our planets decades ago,” Elaan said, unable to hide her surprise. “They said they found nothing of value!”

“They lied,” Spock said. “Because your two worlds are so well armed and well fortified, it would have been exceptionally costly for the Empire to conquer you in open combat. It was easier to provoke you into a prolonged war of attrition, so that when your worlds became so weakened they could no longer oppose an invasion, the Empire would eradicate you all.”

The more he revealed, the sharper her focus became. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because the Klingons apparently are ready to conquer your worlds by force—an outcome Starfleet cannot permit. My orders are to halt your conflict by force of arms, and to subdue your worlds in preparation for an occupying force.”

“Then the marriage … ?”

Spock nodded his affirmation. “A plan of my own making. If the Klingons attempt to annex your worlds, you will be better able to repel their attacks if your defenses are intact and united. This will also reduce the number of Starfleet vessels and personnel that must be committed to defending you, freeing our resources for other objectives—and preserving your autonomy from direct imperial oversight.”

“Slaughter would have been quicker,” Elaan said.

“But less effective,” Spock replied. “And more costly. Better for all if peace can be achieved without impairing the value of either world to the Empire.”

For the first time since he had met Elaan, she smiled. “You speak almost like a statesman, Captain Spock. And I say ‘almost’ only because I’ve never heard one sound quite so reasonable.”

“Then you accept my proposal? You will wed Caliph Hakil?”

She gave an enthusiastic nod. “I will,” she said with conviction. “And I shall do more besides. Once our worlds are united, I will see to it that the exclusive mining rights for our dilithium are not given to the Empire.” Before Spock could counsel her that defying the Empire might undo all the benefits of uniting with Troyius, she added, “I will, instead, grant them directly to you, Spock.” She strode to the bed and sprawled herself across it. “As a sign of my enduring gratitude.”

“Most kind,” he said, fully aware of the understatement. With control over such an enormous wealth of dilithium crystals, Spock’s path to the Admiralty was all but assured. It was more than he had hoped for; he had intended only to cultivate a future ally in the person of Elaan. Instead, he had acquired himself a patroness—and a very generous one, at that.

Perhaps, he mused, I have underestimated the persuasive value of fairness and mercy. If it can spur such generosity in one, how will it affect the many?

He resolved to find out.

“First the Halkans, then that business with Coridan,” whispered Montgomery Scott. “Now a peace treaty? It’s damned peculiar, that’s what it is.”

Huddled with him were McCoy and Uhura. Their clandestine meeting was safe from eavesdropping in the dimly lit maintenance bay on one of the lowest decks in the secondary hull of the Enterprise. Scott himself had personally rid the compartment of listening devices and set up surveillance countermeasures in the bulkhead around it. There was no place on the ship more private than this.

“I agree,” McCoy said, leaning forward over a scuffed workbench. “Spock’s behaved oddly ever since the Halkan mission, when he asked Captain Kirk not to destroy the planet.”

Uhura got a ferocious look in her eyes. “Our duplicates,” she said. “From the other universe. You think they got to him.”

“I don’t know, lass,” Scott said. “I can’t prove it.”

McCoy’s tone was sharp. “You don’t have to prove it. Starfleet ordered Spock to subdue Elas and Troyius, but he went and made them stronger than ever—then secured their dilithium rights for himself. He disobeyed fleet orders, Scotty—you can assassinate him for that.”

“Not without orders from Starfleet Command,” Scott said. “I keep filing reports, but nothing happens.”

Pushing away from the workbench, Uhura sighed with anger and frustration. “It’s as if he’s protected by the gods,” she said. “He disobeys Captain Kirk, and nothing. Seizes the ship, and nothing. Defies Starfleet Command, and nothing. It’s like they’re afraid of him!”

“Maybe they are,” McCoy said. “After that business with the Klingon cruiser, I’m starting to fear him a little myself.”

Scott nodded. “Aye. You didn’t see it, lass. The whole ship was deserted, like the crew just up and vanished.” His stare became distant and creased with horror, and his voice, already quiet, hushed even lower. “Mess hall tables covered with plates of food half eaten, the gravy still fresh on the knives. A half-buffed pair of boots next to a bunk, the rag and the polish just lying on the deck. You could tell what every man on that ship was doing right before he vanished.” He looked Uhura in the eye. “And not one bloodstain. Not a single phaser burn, no carbon scoring, no sign of a struggle. Just pieces of the lives they left behind. I’ve never seen a weapon that could do that.”

She looked skeptical. “Then what did it, Mister Scott? Magic? Fairies and elves? A genie from a bottle?”

McCoy folded his arms and shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe the legends are true,” he said. “Even in medical school I heard about Vulcan psionics. Some people think they’re telepaths. Others say they can be clairvoyant or precognitive. Hell, I heard that in ancient times Vulcans could kill with a thought.”

Uhura rolled her eyes. “And you really believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” McCoy said. “But what I know is three days ago a Klingon ship was stalking us in the Tellun system. Then, less than an hour after Spock found it, it went adrift, and we boarded it to find every last member of its crew gone without a trace.”

Scott looked from McCoy to Uhura and lifted his brow imploringly. “You have to admit, Uhura, it seems a bit too convenient to be mere coincidence.”

“But we have no proof,” she said. “We can’t send a message to Starfleet Command that says we think Spock is using ancient telepathic powers to crush his enemies.”

“You’re telling me,” McCoy grumbled. “They’d probably give him a medal and call him a hero of the Empire.”

They wandered apart in the shadows and remained silent for a long moment. “So,” Uhura finally said. “What are we going to do?”

Scott shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do. We don’t have any proof Spock’s been compromised, and Starfleet hasn’t ordered us to take action.”

“Maybe I could declare him mentally unfit,” McCoy said. “I could say his brokering a peace treaty was irrational, and—”

“And he’d give you a half-dozen reasons why it’s completely logical,” Scott cut in. “You should know by now not to argue logic with Spock. It’s a losing proposition.”

Uhura’s temper flared higher by the moment. “Listen to the two of you!” she hissed. Backpedaling away from them, she continued. “ ‘Nothing we can do. Losing proposition.’ You’re not men. Men would stand and fight! Men would eliminate Spock now, before his brand of appeasement spreads. But since neither of you seems willing to act like a man”—she drew her dagger from her boot—“I guess I’ll have to do it for you.”

Scott tried to interpose himself between Uhura and the door, but he wasn’t quick enough. She cut him off and started backing out of the room. “Where do you think you’re going, lass? What do you think you’re going to do?”

“What you should have done, Mister Scott,” she replied. “I’m going to kill Captain Spock before he—”

An incandescent flash of light and a lilting, almost musical ringing filled the air around Uhura—and when it faded she was gone. No bloodstain. No phaser burns. No sign she’d ever been there at all.

All Scott could do was stare at the abruptly empty space in the room where Uhura had stood. He tried to control his terror as he realized with a shudder the same fate might be about to befall him, as well.

A glance to his right confirmed McCoy was harboring the same brand of paranoid musing.

Their shared horror was interrupted by the shrill whistling note of the intraship comm, followed by Captain Spock’s baritone voice. “Spock to Mister Scott.”

Trading fearful looks with McCoy, Scott moved to a nearby panel and thumbed open a secure, encrypted channel that would mask his location if anyone happened to be monitoring for such information. “Scott here.”

“Mister Scott,” Spock said over the comm. “Please meet me on the bridge at once. We need to discuss an adjustment to the bridge duty roster.”

A sick feeling churned in Scott’s gut. He knew what was coming, but the protocol of the situation demanded he play along as if he didn’t. “The duty roster, sir?”

Spock’s voice was ominous. “Indeed, Mister Scott. … We appear to have an opening for a senior communications officer.”

Rumors spread quickly on any starship, but some traveled faster than others. “I heard it directly from Doctor M’Benga,” Lieutenant Robert D’Amato said in a nervous whisper across the mess hall table. “And he heard it from Doctor McCoy himself.”

“It’s just not possible,” Lieutenant Winston Kyle said, hunched over his soup. “People don’t just wink out of existence.”

“Mister Scott saw it, too,” D’Amato said. “Just zap—and she was gone. No blood, no ashes, nothing.”

“Big deal,” Kyle said. “A phaser on full power can do the same thing. Seen it a hundred times.”

“But there weren’t any phasers in the room,” D’Amato said. “It’s been torn apart three times, nothing.”

Kyle swallowed a spoonful of his soup and shook his head. “You ask me, I think Scott and McCoy killed her, then they made up this stupid story to cover their tracks.”

Lieutenant Michael DeSalle, who had taken over for Mister Scott as chief engineer, put down his tray next to Kyle’s and joined the conversation. “Be careful what you say,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Captain Spock hears everything.”

Rolling his eyes, Kyle asked, “Now you’re paranoid, too?”

DeSalle shrugged. “Caution pays dividends on this ship. Always has. You know that.” He sliced through a rubbery-looking breast of chicken. “I heard Palmer got Uhura’s job. She’s keeping her distance from Mister Scott, though.”

D’Amato shook his head. “I don’t know. Way I heard it, Scotty’s being set up.”

“Forget ‘set up,’ he did it,” Kyle said. “Don’t you guys remember that flap on Argelius II? Three women dead, all evidence pointing at Scotty, then all the charges got dropped?”

“Thanks to Kirk,” D’Amato said. “Like any of us would’ve gotten that kind of favor.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Kyle continued. “He has a history. And you know McCoy must have helped bury those forensic reports. So it’s a lot easier to believe Scott sliced up Uhura and disintegrated the evidence than to pin it on some kind of crazy Vulcan psychic mumbo-jumbo.”

DeSalle took a sip of his drink and raised his eyebrows at Kyle. “Don’t be so quick to write off the Vulcans’ psionic powers. If they can do half the things I’ve heard, we’re lucky we outnumber them seven to one in the Empire.”

“You ought to hear what M’Benga says about Vulcans,” D’Amato said. “He interned on Vulcan. Saw things you wouldn’t believe. He says they can read minds, plant delayed suggestions, even control weak minds from a distance. And in one of their oldest legends, the most powerful Vulcans used something called the Stone of Gol to kill people with just their thoughts—destroy people’s minds, even erase them from reality.”

“Sounds like someone’s been hitting the Romulan ale again,” Kyle quipped to DeSalle.

D’Amato’s temper rose to the surface. “You don’t believe me? Go ask M’Benga, he’ll tell you.”

“Proving what?” Kyle said. “That he’s crazy, too?”

“I think you’re forgetting something,” DeSalle said.

Turning slowly to face DeSalle, Kyle asked, “What’s that?”

A wan smile crept across DeSalle’s face. “The Kling-on cruiser,” he said. “Its entire crew missing, like they’d been beamed out of their seats into space.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Kyle said. “Can you really not think of a single way that could’ve been done without some kind of magical trick? Occam’s razor, guys. What makes more sense—that cloaked Romulan ships used transporters to kidnap and dematerialize the Klingon crew, or that Captain Spock thought about it really hard and made all the Klingons go poof?”

“There’s no evidence the Romulans were anywhere near here,” D’Amato said.

DeSalle added, “Or that they can use transporters while cloaked.”

Kyle nodded. “Exactly. And there’s no evidence Vulcans have amazing psionic powers that can vaporize people. But which explanation sounds like it has a better chance of being true?” When neither DeSalle nor D’Amato replied after several seconds, Kyle shook his head in disgust, stood, and picked up his tray. “And you call yourselves men of science,” he grumbled, stalking away to turn in his half-eaten lunch.

D’Amato and the chief engineer watched Kyle leave the mess hall, then they continued eating their own lunches. “Kyle’s story does actually make more sense,” D’Amato admitted.

“I know,” DeSalle replied. He washed down another mouthful of chicken before he added, “But I still think M’Benga’s right.”

Checking to make sure no one was eavesdropping, D’Amato whispered back, “So do I.”

It didn’t take long for the stories to spread beyond the confines of the Enterprise. Missives sent via subspace radio carried word of Captain Spock’s eldritch powers throughout the Empire. Tales traded during shore leaves and transfers from crewman to crewman, and from officer to officer, inflated the story with each retelling. Within a few months, Spock’s powers were said to be on a par with those of ancient Vulcan myths. His name became synonymous with power, and the terror he inspired made his growing reputation for mercy, compromise, and restraint all the more beguiling. Why, many wondered, would a man who could destroy any foe choose to promote peace?

That question now preoccupied Empress Hoshi Sato III. At the head of an oblong table, she presided over a meeting of her senior advisers in the war room of the imperial palace on Earth. Sheltered deep below the planet’s surface, the vast, oval chamber was illuminated solely by the glow of its massive display screens, which ringed the walls.

“Grand Admiral Garth,” she said, eyeing the notorious flag officer from Izar. “Where is Captain Spock now?”

Side conversations around the table fell away to silence as Grand Admiral Kelvar Leonard Garth straightened his posture and replied to the young monarch. “Your Majesty, Captain Spock and the Enterprise have just returned from their successful mission to the Rom-ulan Neutral Zone. They are en route to Starbase 10 with a captured Romulan bird-of-prey in tow.”

“And the disposition of the Romulan crew?” Sato asked.

Garth shifted slightly before he answered. “Eliminated, Your Majesty. The ship is empty.”

A nervous murmur worked its way around the table. Empress Sato did not like the fearful tune this report was striking up among her cabinet. In a pointed manner she inquired, “By what means were they dispatched, Admiral?”

Garth cocked his head nervously. “The boarding party was not able to determine that, Your Majesty.”

“But the ship was manned when Enterprise made contact with it, yes?”

The admiral nodded. “Yes, Majesty.”

Sato nodded slowly. Pressing the question further would serve no purpose but to embarrass Admiral Garth and make herself seem insecure or fearful. She had ascended to the throne less than nine months earlier and was determined not to be perceived as weak. What would my first royal namesake have done? She adjusted her tactics to turn this scenario to her advantage—or, at the very least, to postpone the crisis until she had amassed sufficient political capital to entertain greater risks.

“If memory serves, Admiral, similar circumstances attended Captain Spock’s capture of a Klingon cruiser just a few months ago, correct?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Garth said.

“And his family and heirs have secured the dilithium mining rights in the Tellun system?”

Again, Garth dipped his chin and confirmed, “Yes, Majesty.”

“Then it seems to me that Captain Spock is an officer of greater resources than we thought,” Sato proclaimed, projecting her voice to the far end of the table. “Admiral Garth, move Captain Spock to the top of the list for new Admiralty appointments.”

“As you wish, Majesty,” Garth replied, “but granting him that kind of power could be dangerous.”

Sato frowned. “Clearly, Spock is already dangerous,” she said. “Prudence would suggest we try to make an ally of him.”

Apparently, Garth was unconvinced. “And if elevating his rank only fuels his ambition … ?”

“In that case,” she said, her melodic voice laced with menace, “we shall make an example of him, instead.”