2269
“Welcome to Elba II, Captain Spock,” said Grand Admiral Garth, or,
as he was more commonly known, Garth of Izar. The handsome,
silver-haired flag officer gestured to his seductively attired
female Orion companion. “This is my prime consort, Marta.” The
green-skinned woman curtsied to Spock and flashed a grin that
hinted at the madness lurking behind her eyes.
Spock greeted Garth and his concubine with polite nods. “Thank you,
Admiral. Allow me to introduce my wife, Lieutenant Commander
Marlena Moreau.” He gestured at Marlena, who bowed her head at
Garth before shooting a quick but poisonous glance at
Marta.
“A pleasure,” Garth said, returning Marlena’s slight bow. Gesturing
at the dignitary-packed ballroom behind him, he said, “Your banquet
awaits, Captain.”
Garth and Marta led Spock and Marlena into the thick of the party.
Among the guests crowded into the gilded room of the Elba II
governor’s mansion were many high-ranking members of the Starfleet
Admiralty, as well as a dozen or so local planetary governors. All
were accompanied by their spouses or lovers, and several also were
attended by one or more aides-de-camp.
Marlena clutched Spock’s arm excitedly as they walked together. “Isn’t it magnificent?” she
asked, her eyes darting from one splendor to the next.
“Admiral,” Spock said to Garth, “I wish to thank you for personally
officiating at my advancement ceremony. It is a great honor to be
so recognized.”
The Grand Admiral of Starfleet gave Spock a cordial slap on the
back. “The honor is all mine, Captain. Your defeat of M-5 is almost
as famous as my victory at Axanar.” Lowering his voice and cocking
one eyebrow, he added with obvious admiration, “And might I say,
your victory was twice as ruthless.
Sacrificing Hood and Lexington was genius, Captain. If that oaf Wesley
had thought of it, this would be his
banquet instead of yours.”
“Indeed,” Spock said. He let the grand admiral make the
introductions as they circuited the cavernous room. The socially
mandated exchange of pleasantries took significantly longer than an
hour. As they reached the end, Marlena’s demeanor had devolved from
weariness to boredom to outright surliness.
It seemed fortunate, then, that the ceremony itself was brief and
perfunctory. Standing with Spock in the center of the room, Garth
said only as much as Starfleet regulations required for the
promotion to be official, and then he pinned Spock’s new rank
insignia on his uniform.
Garth beckoned a waiter, plucked two flutes of Deltan champagne
from the Bolian’s tray, and handed them to Spock and Marlena. Then
he took two more for himself and Marta before shooing away the
server. Raising his drink and his voice, he announced, “A toast to
Starfleet’s newest flag officer! Admiral Spock, may your record be
one of strength and glory!”
In near unison the crowd echoed, “Strength and glory!”
Spock bowed his head in humble
recognition of the accolade as the room’s occupants sipped from
their drinks in his honor.
The only VIP in the room to whom Spock and Marlena had not yet been
introduced emerged from the crowd and smiled at them. “Admiral
Spock, Commander Moreau,” said the well-dressed human man with
distinctly Asian features. “I’m Governor Donald Cory. I apologize
for missing the ceremony, but I was occupied on official business.”
He offered his hand to Spock.
“No apology is necessary, Governor,” Spock said, shaking the man’s
hand.
“Governor,” Marlena said, holding out her hand to Cory, who lifted
it and kissed the back of it lightly.
Cory’s demeanor turned somber. “Let me also extend my condolences
on the passing of Doctor McCoy. Xenopolycythemia is a terrible way
to die.”
“Indeed,” Spock said. “It was unfortunate to lose such a skilled
surgeon in his prime. Fortunately, Doctor M’Benga has proved an
able successor.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Cory said. He nodded at Garth. “At the
grand admiral’s request, I offer you both my suite for the night,
as the first of your many rewards for ascending to the
Admiralty.”
“Too kind, Governor,” Spock said. “We are honored to
accept.”
“Excellent. The room’s prepared. You may retire at your
leisure.”
“Thank you, Governor,” Spock said, adding with a nod at Garth,
“Admiral.”
Spock took Marlena’s arm gently and guided her away from the duo
and toward a nearby buffet table. As they crossed the room, Spock
sensed Garth and Cory continuing to
observe him and Marlena. As soon as they seemed to be out of
earshot, Marlena whispered to Spock, “I don’t trust
them.”
“Nor do I,” Spock said. “The fact Admiral Garth arranged in advance
for us to reside overnight on the planet’s surface suggests he has
an agenda that hinges on our continued presence.”
Picking up a clean plate and wearing an insincere smile, Marlena
said, “In other words, we’re being led into a trap.”
“Precisely,” Spock said.
She grabbed a serving fork and speared a ring of pineapple from a
platter of sliced fruit. “Then let’s eliminate Garth and Cory now—a
preemptive strike.”
“No,” Spock said. “Our actions must be circumspect and our
reactions proportional. Until the grand admiral reveals his
intentions, we will bide our time.”
“So, we’re to do nothing?” Marlena asked before taking a bite of
pineapple.
Casting a subtle look back at Garth and Cory, Spock replied,
“Biding our time does not mean lowering our guard.” He met
Marlena’s conspiratorial stare. “The next move is Garth’s. The
last move will be ours.”
Standing naked in the bedroom of his private suite inside the Elba
II governor’s mansion, Garth said to Marta, “It’s time.”
Using cellular-metamorphosis powers he had learned decades earlier
from the Antosians, Garth changed his shape into a nearly identical
likeness of Admiral Spock. Speaking with a pitch-perfect imitation
of the Vulcan’s baritone, he asked his Orion concubine, “How do I
look, my love?”
She ran her hands over his chest and
gazed lustfully up at him. “Good enough to eat,” she said, her
voice almost a growl. Pushing in a futile effort to force him onto
the bed, she added, “I think I’m going to like this
game.”
Garth grabbed Marta by the shoulders and shoved her aside. “This
isn’t foreplay, darling. This is war.”
“Spoilsport,” she said, pouting as she sat on the bed, rebuffed and
angry.
He turned and studied the fine details of his appearance in a
mirror. “I spent years keeping an eye on Kirk,” he said. “I never
dreamed it would be his Vulcan first officer I’d have to worry
about.” Noting one of his eyebrows resting at too sharp an angle,
he adjusted it with a thought. “Ever since Kirk deposed Pike, I’ve
suspected he had some kind of secret weapon.” Satisfied with his
appearance, he turned toward Marta. “Judging from Kirk’s service
record, it was probably something he found in Doctor Adams’s house
of horrors on the Tantalus colony.”
“And now you think Spock has it,” Marta said, sounding pleased with
her own meager powers of deduction.
Mimicking his subject, he raised one eyebrow. “Indeed.” He picked
up a communicator programmed to duplicate the signal encryption
used on Spock’s device. “If I’m right, and Spock captured some kind
of superweapon from Kirk, then he’s ten times more dangerous than
Kirk ever was. Kirk was a thug; all he wanted was power and glory.
But this Vulcan … he calls himself a reformer. Power won’t satisfy
him; he won’t stop until he tears down the Empire.”
Marta replied, “So? Kill him, then.”
Garth-as-Spock smirked at his impetuous paramour. “Not until I find
that weapon, my love.” He gently pinched
her chin and lifted it so she would look into his eyes. “I plan to
beam up to the Enterprise as Spock, search
his quarters, and find that device.” Stroking her cheek, he added,
“Once I have it, I’ll terminate him, his wife, and his senior
officers.” He ran his fingers through Marta’s hair, which was as
black as a starless night. “And then, my flower, we’ll pay a visit
to Empress Sato III—and take her throne for ourselves.”
He flipped up the communicator’s grille and opened a channel.
“Spock to Enterprise.”
“Scott here,” came the reply. “Go ahead, Admiral.”
“One to beam up,” Garth said.
“Aye, sir,” Commander Scott said. “Queen to queen’s level three.”
In no mood to banter, Garth snapped, “Mister Scott, I said beam me
aboard.”
Unfazed, Scott answered, “I said, ‘Queen to
queen’s level three.’ ”
Why was the Enterprise’s first officer
being so obstinate? “We have no time for chess problems, Mister
Scott. Beam me aboard.”
“I’m following your orders, Admiral. Queen to queen’s level
three.”
Garth struggled to suppress his rage. Spock had somehow learned of
his shape-shifting ability and taken a precaution against its being
used to impersonate him on his own ship. After a brief pause, Garth
said, “Very good, Mister Scott. I will contact you later. Spock
out.” He flipped shut the communicator’s cover, then pounded his
empty fist against the wall and let out a roar of fury as he
transmuted back to his own form. At last he bellowed, “Damn that
half-Vulcan bastard! I might not be able to bluff my way onto the
Enterprise, but
I can still order it blown to pieces!” He flipped open the
communicator and reset its frequency to hail his flagship. “Garth
to Imperious.”
They were the last words he ever spoke.
Before his XO could reply, a flash of light consumed him, and the
last thing he heard was Marta’s terrified scream.
Marlena brushed the tip of her index finger over the
teardrop-shaped trigger of the Tantalus field device a second time
and put an end to Marta’s hysterical shrieking.
She returned the device to its standby mode. Its resonant hum
filled her and Spock’s quarters on the Enterprise until its concealing wall panel lowered
into place. Then the only sound in the compartment was the low
thrumming of the ship’s impulse engines and the white noise of its
ventilation system.
Her task completed, she took a communicator from her belt and
flipped its cover open. “Marlena to Spock.”
“Spock here.”
“You’re clear to return.”
“Acknowledged. Stand by.”
The channel clicked off, and Marlena closed her communicator.
Seconds later, the room brightened as a swirling column of light
shimmered into view a few meters from where she was standing. The
air rang with the musical drone of the transporter effect as Spock
materialized. As soon as the last sparkles faded from his person,
he stepped toward Marlena. “Well done,” he said.
He passed her and walked into their bedroom. She followed him. “How
did you know about Garth’s ability?”
“It was one of many secrets I found in
Captain Kirk’s logs after I killed him,” Spock explained, removing
the tunic of his dress uniform. “He had been researching Garth’s
history on Antos IV as a prelude to moving against him. Though I
had not been able to confirm the grand admiral’s shape-changing
ability prior to this visit, it seemed prudent to safeguard against
it.”
Flush with adrenaline from the kill, Marlena pressed herself
against Spock’s back. “A wise decision, my love. Now that he’s
gone, the fleet can answer to you as its grand admiral.”
Spock stepped away from her and turned about. “No,” he
said.
Marlena’s brow creased with anger and confusion. “Why
not?”
“It is too soon,” Spock said. “I have been an admiral for less than
five hours. If I lay claim to that title now, I will earn the
contempt of every flag officer in Starfleet. Furthermore, the rank
of grand admiral is bestowed only by imperial decree. If the
Empress denies my claim to advancement, my own crew will be
obligated to execute me for treason.”
Slumping onto the bed, Marlena felt a tide of disappointment wash
over her. “In other words, you’ll never
become grand admiral.” Her remark drew a hard look from Spock.
Feeling as if she needed to explain herself, she added, “You know
the Empress will never permit it.”
“Yes, she will,” Spock said. “Because when the time comes for me to
take control of Starfleet, I will make certain she has no other
choice.”
Dr. Carol Marcus had just spoken truth to power, and she expected
to regret it.
Hidden within Starbase 47—also known as Vanguard—was a top-secret
laboratory known as the Vault. The high-security facility had been
designed as a repository for secrets Starfleet had unearthed in the
Taurus Reach, but to Marcus it felt more like a prison. She and
more than two dozen of the Terran Empire’s greatest scientific
minds, military and civilian alike, had been shanghaied into
service a few years earlier aboard the enormous station, which was
situated hundreds of light-years from Earth in a hotly contested
sector of space. Her team members were the Empire’s experts in a
range of disciplines, but they shared one mission: Unlock the
secrets of the Shedai, a precursor race that once had reigned
supreme over a vast interstellar civilization in this region of the
galaxy.
The process had started with a string of alien genetic information
that had come to be known as the Taurus Meta-Genome. Later,
Starfleet discovered a signal pulse they called the Shedai Carrier
Wave and an energy wave known as the Jinoteur Pattern. All these
breakthroughs were related to artifacts known as Conduits, which
had been found on dozens of worlds across the sector.
It was a tantalizing mystery, but Carol
Marcus was tired of it.
Defying orders, the advice of her peers, and her own better
judgment, she had decided enough was enough. For spite’s sake as
much as for principle, she would not—could not—bring herself to
continue applying her knowledge and insight to advance Starfleet’s
belligerent agenda and serve the barbaric whims of Vanguard’s
commanding officer. And she had said so. To the
commodore.
That, she suspected in hindsight, had probably been a
mistake.
The lab’s secure inner door opened, and Commodore Diego “Red” Reyes
stormed in. His fists and jaw were clenched, and dark veins
throbbed on his shorn head. The garish collection of awards and
insignia decorating his tunic jangled as he stomped across the
Vault’s open main compartment, and a long-barreled energy weapon
bounced against his hip. He reached Marcus and bellowed, “Who the
hell do you think you are?” She turned her head because looking at
his right eye—a red-lensed, polished-steel cybernetic
replacement—unnerved her.
Before she could reply, Reyes continued his harangue. “You think
because you’re the chief egghead down here, that gives you the
authority to refuse my orders? I thought you were a genius, Doctor
Marcus, but if you can’t tell the difference between an empty title
and real authority, you must be an idiot savant.” Reyes looked past
Marcus and saw the Vault’s team of scientists trying to slink away.
“All of you, get back here,” he snapped. The others did as he
commanded.
Turning back to Marcus, Reyes jabbed his finger at her face. “I’m a busy man, Doctor. I can’t have
you shutting down my research division when there’s work to be
done.”
“The reason I halted—”
“I don’t care what your reason was,” Reyes
cut in.
“You should,” Marcus said, her voice sharp and her gaze unyielding.
“You’ve got us playing with fire, and we don’t have enough
safeguards.”
Recoiling as if in disbelief, Reyes said, “That’s what this is about? You shut down the most
important classified laboratory in Starfleet because you’re
scared?”
“It’s bigger than that,” Marcus said. “The entity your people
captured on Mirdonyae V is too powerful to be contained inside that
experiment chamber. We need to think about how to dispose of it
before it gets out.”
Reyes stepped forward and backed Marcus against the circular,
transparent-steel wall that encased the Vault’s central experiment
chamber. Behind her swirled an ever-changing mass of dark vapors
and fluids—Vanguard’s prisoner, the Shedai that called itself the
Wanderer. “Dispose of it?” echoed Reyes. “Are you out of your
goddamned mind, Doctor? That thing is the key to the Empire’s
future control of this sector, and maybe even the galaxy. We can
use it to unlock every piece of Shedai technology in the Taurus
Reach and bring the Klingons and Tholians to their knees—and you
want to get rid of it?”
“We have to,” Marcus said. “The longer we hold it, the higher the
risk of its escape. And if it ever gets out of that chamber, it’ll
kill us all.”
The commodore’s smile was thin and humorless. “Then you’d better
make damned sure it never gets out.”
“You’re not listening! You’re courting
disaster keeping that thing here!”
Locking one beefy hand around Marcus’s throat, Reyes replied, “No,
Doctor, you’re the one courting disaster—by not following my
orders.” He closed his grip just tightly enough to restrict
Marcus’s breathing but not enough to stop it. “You don’t seem to
appreciate the big picture here, so permit me to explain it to you.
We’re in an arms race with the Klingons, the Tholians, and the
Romulans. I don’t have the luxury of playing it safe or catering to
the fears of weak-kneed eggheads like you. The Empress gave me
three things when she posted me here: a clearly defined mission, a
deadline, and absolute authority in the Taurus Reach. Time is a
factor, Doctor. I need results now, and I need you to deliver
them.”
Struggling for air, Marcus remained defiant. “I can’t deliver
anything if I’m dead,” she said in a choked-off rasp. “And neither
can you.”
Reyes nodded. “I see. You need more encouragement. I figured you
would.” He released her throat, grabbed the lapel of her lab coat,
and dragged her away from the experiment chamber to a nearby
computer terminal. He jabbed at the console’s keys and opened a
channel. “Reyes to ops.”
“Cooper here,” answered the station’s
dark-haired executive officer as he appeared on-screen. “Go ahead, sir.”
“Patch the feed from the brig to my screen, Commander.”
“Aye, sir.”
The image on the screen wavered and shifted to reveal an agony
booth in Vanguard’s brig. Locked inside was Marcus’s eight-year-old
son, David. The tow-headed boy was screaming to be set free, his
palms pressed plaintively against the
torture device’s transparent-aluminum walls.
Marcus felt her stomach churn with fear. She wanted to lunge at
Reyes and shout curses at the top of her lungs, but she felt
paralyzed, as if she were made of stone and cemented to the
floor.
“This is why you’re going back to work,” Reyes said. “One word from
me and your son will experience more pain than anyone else in
history.” Jabbing his finger in Marcus’s face, he added, “One more
word out of you, and that’s how he’s going
to die.”
Carol Marcus collapsed on top of Clark Terrell and relaxed into his
thickly muscled brown arms. “Thank you,” she said, aglow with
postcoital perspiration.
“That’s my line,” he said, chortling softly and stroking her blond
hair.
“I needed to get off the station for an hour,” Marcus said. “I’m
just glad your ship’s in port for resupply.”
Terrell smiled. “That makes two of us.” He shifted the curtain of
his bunk and checked the chrono on the bulkhead of his quarters.
“You’ll have to go soon. I have third-shift watch at
zero-hundred.”
“Just let me stay a little longer,” she said, pleading softly. “I
feel safe here.”
He nuzzled the top of her head. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he
said. “There are no safe places, here or anywhere else in the
Empire.”
She sighed. “I know.”
While she appreciated Terrell’s attempt to caution her, she wished
he hadn’t spoiled her illusion of privacy. He was easygoing, a
trait he shared with most of his thirteen crewmates aboard the
long-range Starfleet scout ship I.S.S.
Sagittarius. His calm demeanor often put Marcus at ease in a
way few other things ever could.
She whispered in his ear, “How can I
ever be free of him?”
Hugging her closer, he said, “Free might be too much to hope
for.”
“I just can’t understand why the Empress would give so much power
to such a malignant sociopath,” Marcus said. “He’s a rank
opportunist. As soon as he has enough power or leverage, he’ll turn
it against her.”
Terrell shrugged one shoulder. “Of course he will.”
“Then why give him the chance?”
“Because he’s what she needs out here,” Terrell said. “Hundreds of
light-years from home, with little or no backup, it takes someone
like Reyes to stand up to the Tholians and the Klingons at the same
time. I don’t like him any more than you do, but you have to admit,
he’s uniquely suited to this mission.”
She shook her head. “He’s a monster.”
“Maybe. But he’s Empress Sato’s monster, and as long as he doesn’t
sink his fangs into her, she’ll let him do as he likes.”
No longer feeling safe or comforted, Marcus threw off the bedsheet
and pulled aside the bunk’s privacy curtain. “What he likes, Clark,
is threatening my son.” Tears of rage welled in her eyes as she
looked back at Terrell. “As long as Reyes can hold David hostage, I
can’t risk defying him.”
“If you ask me, you shouldn’t have tried in the first place.”
Holding up his hands to ward off Marcus’s rising tide of anger, he
added, “What I mean is, you shouldn’t have tipped your hand so
soon. If you want to face off against a man like Reyes, you need to
do it from a position of strength. Find your advantage first,
then make your stand.”
“Too late now,” Marcus said, pulling on
her shirt. Reaching down to pluck her trousers from the deck, she
added, “Have you seen that green goon who parades around the
station with Reyes? What the hell’s up with that?”
Rolling his eyes, Terrell replied, “That’s Ganz. Some kind of boss
in a crime syndicate from the Orion colonies.” He pushed a hand
over his head of close-cropped, wiry black hair as he continued. “I
wondered how long it’d take before someone like him started
throwing his weight around.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
He watched Marcus finish getting dressed while he spoke. “A lot of
missions Reyes sends us on these days involve scouting safe routes
for shipping. Courses that use stellar phenomena to scramble
sensors, that kind of thing. Once we plot safe paths, we usually
notice Orion smugglers using them within a few weeks. And the crew
of the Endeavour says they’ve been ordered
to run interference for Orion merchantmen that wandered too close
to the Klingon border.”
Marcus was hardly able to believe what Terrell was telling her.
“Reyes is in league with the Orion pirates?” Flummoxed, she ran her
hand through her hair. “That bastard’s not just amassing power—he’s
lining his pockets.” She turned toward Terrell. “If he hoards
enough wealth and recruits enough Orion corsairs, he could set up
Vanguard as his own personal fiefdom.”
“I think that’s the idea,” Terrell said, nodding grimly.
Unable to stop herself, Marcus began pacing inside Terrell’s
quarters. “This far from the Empire, with that kind of power,
there’s no telling what Reyes might be capable of.” She kneeled beside Terrell’s bunk.
“Promise me something.”
“If I can,” he said, taken aback.
“Promise if Reyes goes renegade, you’ll get my son off this station
and back to the Empire, no matter what happens to me.”
Dismayed, Terrell said, “I can’t promise that, Carol.”
“Please, Clark. You’re the only one I’d trust. At least tell me
you’ll try.”
He pushed back the bedsheet and reached out for her hand as he sat
up on the edge of his bunk. “Look, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that, okay?”
Marcus was having none of her lover’s artful evasions. “So you
won’t even try to help my son?”
Terrell sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Reyes is just too strong.
The more power he grabs, the more the Admiralty pats him on the
back for it.” Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, he added, “It’s not
that I don’t want to help your boy; I do. I
just don’t know how much I can do against a man like Reyes. If he
decides to secede, I’ll be lucky to survive with my
skin.”
She pulled her hand free of his grasp. “I understand.”
He got out of bed as she walked to the door, which hushed open
ahead of her. “I promise I’ll do what I can,” he said. “I just
can’t say what that’ll be.”
Standing in the open doorway, Marcus looked back at her naked
lover, who had the body of a boxer and the mind of a scientist.
“That’s all any of us can say,” she said, regretting the impossible
position in which she’d placed him. She stepped into the corridor
and added guiltily as the door shut, “Thank you, Clark.”