39

Men of Long Knives

Every warrior in the Great Hall smelled blood. The Terran Empire was starting to flounder, its Emperor Spock shedding power and control the way a gelded targ sheds fur. At long last, the greatest enemy of the Klingon Empire was faltering; it was time to strike.

All that remained now was to decide who would strike, with what forces, where, when, and how. This debate, unfortunately, was dragging on late into the night, and Councillor Gorkon was growing weary of the bickering. Regent Sturka—the latest warrior to hold the throne for Kahless, He Who Shall Return—looked haggard and sullen as Councillors Duras and Indizar argued while circling each other inside the small pool of harsh light in the middle of the Council chamber.

“You Imperial Intelligence types are all the same,” Duras said with a sneer. “Infiltrate the Terrans, sabotage them, conquer them by degrees.” Lifting his voice to an aggrieved bellow, he added, “Where’s the glory in that?”

Keeping one hand on her d’k tahg, Indizar replied with a voice like the growl of a Kryonian tiger. “It’s smarter than your way, Duras. You’d plunge us headlong into full-scale war with the largest fleet in known space. We might emerge victorious, but at what cost? Our fleet would be savaged, our borders weakened. The Romulans would overrun us the moment we finished off the Terrans. … Of course, maybe that’s your real plan, isn’t it, Duras?”

Duras’s eyes were wide with fury. “You dare call me a traitor?” His hand went for his own d’k tahg—

Sharp, echoing cracks. One, two, three. Everyone looked at Sturka, who ceased smashing the steel-clad tip of his staff on the stone floor. “Both of you get out of the circle,” he commanded Indizar and Duras. Then, to the others, he said, “I want to hear realistic strategies. Honest assessments.” He looked at Gorkon, who had served for more than twenty years as Sturka’s most trusted adviser, and who had thwarted an attempt by the late Councillor Kesh to seize the throne for himself. “Have Spock’s reforms weakened the Terrans’ defenses,” Sturka asked, “or merely damaged his own political security?”

Stepping out of the crowd into the heat and glare of the circle, Gorkon gripped the edges of his black leather stole, which rested over a studded, red leather chimere; worn together, the two ceremonial vestments marked him as the second-highest-ranking individual in the chamber. “The Terran Empire,” he began in a stately tone, “is still far too strong for us to risk a direct military engagement.” Before the rising murmur of grumbles got out of hand, Gorkon reasserted his control over the discussion. “However, the reforms instituted by their current sovereign hold the promise of future opportunities.” He began a slow walk along the edge of the circle of light, using his time to size up the commitment of both his rivals and his allies on the Council. “Emperor Spock has made significant reductions in military spending, with many deep cuts in the field of weapons research and development.” He paused as he returned the steely glare of Duras, then moved on. “This will give us a chance to finally take the lead in our long arms race, after more than six decades of lagging behind the Terrans. This opportunity must not be squandered—it might never come again.”

As Gorkon reached the farthest edge of the circle from the Regent’s throne, Sturka asked, “What are you proposing, Gorkon?”

Gorkon grinned at Indizar, his long-time ally, then turned to answer Sturka. “A doubling of the budget for new starship construction and refits, and a separate allocation of equal size for new military research and development.”

Sturka sounded skeptical. “And where will we find the money for this? Or the resources? Or the power?”

“Money is not a warrior’s concern,” Gorkon said, even though he knew it was a politician’s concern. “If we need power, we all know Praxis is not running at capacity—we can triple its output to power new shipyards. As for raw materials and personnel”—he paused and looked around the room, already plotting which of his rivals would bear the brunt of his plans for the future—“sacrifices will have to be made. Hard choices. For the cost of a few worlds and a few billion people conscripted into service, we can transform the quadrant into an unassailable bastion of Klingon power.”

“Whose worlds?” Councillor Argashek blurted. Suspicious growls worked their way around the room. Many of the councillors were already aware what Gorkon had in mind for them should he ever rise to the regency. Leaning over Argashek’s shoulders were Grozik and Glazya, his two staunchest comrades. They sniped verbally at Gorkon. “PetaQ,” spat Grozik, as Glazya cursed, “Filthy yIntagh!”

Councillors Narvak and Veselka conferred in hushed voices near the back of the room, while the Council’s three newest—and youngest—members stepped to the edge of the circle from different directions, flanking Gorkon. Korax had come up through the ranks of the military, much as Gorkon had. Both his friends in this challenge were scions of noble houses: Berik, of the House of Beyhn, and Rhaza, of the House of Guul.

“Bold words, old man,” Korax taunted. “But I bet it won’t be your homeworld that gets ground up for the Empire.”

Gorkon watched the three younger men moving in unison, circling him … and he smiled. “Step into the circle, whelps,” Gorkon said. “And I’ll show you what being ground up really means.”

Again came the thunderous rapping of Sturka’s staff. “Enough. Korax, take your jesters back to the shadows. Gorkon, let them go.”

With a respectful nod at Sturka, Gorkon said, “As you wish, my lord.” Secretly, he wondered if Regent Sturka had lost his appetite for battle, his love of purifying combat. Twice today he had intervened when custom dictated the strong should reign. Perhaps the Terrans’ leader isn’t the only one losing his edge, Gorkon mused grimly.

Leaning forward from the edge of the throne, Sturka spoke slowly, his roar of a voice diminished with age to a ragged rumble. “Praxis is unstable. Doubling its output would be a mistake; tripling it is out of the question. And if a few of our worlds must be sacrificed to secure our victory over the Terrans, I will decide which worlds to cast into the fire, and when. But for now, this option is rejected.”

Vengeful fury raged inside Gorkon, but his countenance was as steady as granite, his gaze winter-cold. Sturka has lost the will to fight, he realized. He doesn’t have the stomach for casualties, for risk. His fire is gone; he’s just a politician now.

Looking at the Regent, bitter regret filled Gorkon’s heart. Sturka had helped elevate Gorkon to the High Council more than twenty years ago. Since then the Regent had kept him close and taught him how to keep the other councillors fighting among themselves so that he and Sturka could be free to plot grander schemes for the glory of the Empire. Sturka had become like a second father to Gorkon, but now the old statesman was past his prime—enfeebled, vulnerable, and no longer able to lead.

Gorkon knew what had to be done for the good of the Empire. It galls me that it must come to this, he admitted to himself. But better it should be me than that petaQ Duras.

Sturka was still talking. His eyes drifted from one side of the room to the other, gauging each councillor’s reactions as he spoke. As soon as his gaze was turned away, Gorkon adjusted his wrist to let his concealed d’k tahg fall into his grip. His hand shot out and up and plunged the blade deep into Sturka’s chest. A twist tore apart the Regent’s heart. Lavender ichor spurted thick and warm from the ugly, sucking wound, coating Gorkon’s hand. Sturka fell into Gorkon’s arms, hanging on to his protégé as his lifeblood escaped in generous spurts. As he looked up at Gorkon, the Regent’s expression seemed almost … grateful. “I knew … it would … be you,” he rasped through a mouthful of pinkish spittle. His corpse fell off Gorkon’s blade and landed in a blood-sodden heap on the floor.

Gorkon looked around the room to see if anyone wanted to challenge him. No one seemed eager to do so.

He sheathed his d’k tahg and kneeled beside Sturka’s body. He pried the eyelids open and gazed into their lifeless depths. His warning cry for Sto-Vo-Kor built like a long-growing thunderhead, resonating inside his barrel chest. Within seconds, more gravelly hums built in the bellies of those around him. Then he threw back his head and let his bellicose roar burst forth, and the High Council roared with him, the sound of the Heghtay powerful enough to shake dust from the rafters. The ranks of the dead could not say they hadn’t been warned: a Klingon warrior was coming.

Pushing aside the empty husk of Sturka’s body, Gorkon stepped onto the raised dais and took his place on the throne. Immediately, Indizar was at his right side, handing him the ceremonial staff. Alakon, a common-born soldier who had earned his seat on the Council through honorable battle, took his place at Gorkon’s left and made the declaration, which was echoed back by the councillors without a challenge:

“All hail, Regent Gorkon!”

It was too early in Senator Pardek’s political career for him to pick fights on the floor of the Romulan Senate. Fortunately for him, Senator Narviat was stirring up enough controversy in the Senate chamber for both of them.

Narviat shouted above the angry hubbub. “A wise general once said, ‘When you see your enemy making a mistake, get out of his way.’ Well, we’re being given a rare treat: we get to watch two of our enemies making a mistake. So why aren’t any of you smart enough to get out of their way?”

Pardek almost had to laugh; there were days when he was certain Narviat simply enjoyed making the others crazy, especially Proconsul Dralath and Praetor Vrax.

Shouting back from his seat at the front of the chamber, Proconsul Dralath made his voice cut through the clamor. “We missed our chance to strike when the Klingons and Terrans clashed twenty years ago,” he said. “Not again.”

“Even at war with each other, they would still be a threat to us,” Narviat retorted, ignoring the epithets that filled the air: Coward. Quisling. Pacifist. “The best course,” he added, “is to expand our covert intelligence opportunities inside—”

“The same old refrain,” cut in Senator Crelok, her elegant features crimped with contempt. “Another testimonial for the Tal Shiar. The last time I checked, Senator Narviat, the Tal Shiar hadn’t won any wars for the Empire.”

Unfazed, Narviat shot back, “Without us, the military would never have won any wars at all.”

Crelok, a former starship commander, bristled at Narviat’s remark. She seemed poised at the edge of a reply when the Praetor rose from his chair, and the senators who were gathered in the chamber fell silent.

Praetor Vrax turned his head slowly and surveyed the room. Pardek had been a senator for nearly eleven years now, and this was only the fourth time he had seen the Praetor stand to address the Senate. Vrax was more than old; he bordered on ancient. Despite his advanced years, however, he remained a keen political thinker and military strategist.

“The Terran Empire,” Vrax began, speaking slowly, “is on a path to chaos.” He lowered his head and cleared his throat. Looking up, he continued. “The Klingon Empire, now under Gorkon’s control, is arming for war.” He made a small nod toward Crelok. “Some of you say we should strike when the Klingons do.” Vrax glanced at Narviat. “Others say we should use their war to infiltrate them both.” Now Vrax’s voice grew stronger, building as he spoke. “All the estimates I’ve seen tell me the Klingons will win this war, and the Terran Empire will fall. If so, we should let our fleet claim what it can. But other reports, from within the Terran Empire—I must admit they worry me. It is impossible for me to believe Emperor Spock is ignorant of the consequences his actions will carry. But he continues all the same, and his homeworld of Vulcan is drowning in a tide of pacifism. Our spies on Vulcan—the few that haven’t been exposed and executed—cannot explain the spread of that world’s pacifist movement. It has no printed propaganda, no virtual forums for discussion, no broadcast messages, no public meetings.” The Praetor allowed that to sink in, then he followed it with a succinct, pointed inquiry to the Senate: “Why?”

Speaking from the back of the chamber, Senator D’Tran, one of the elder statesmen of the Senate, trepidatiously asked the Praetor, “Why what? Why are the Vulcans becoming pacifists? Or why is it happening outside the normal channels?”

“Start with the method,” Vrax said.

Shrugs and eye rolls were passed from person to person as everyone sought to avoid answering the question. Pardek sighed with disappointment at his fellow senators’ lack of courage. Lifting his voice, Pardek answered Praetor Vrax. “They are avoiding the normal channels in order to flush out spies.”

The soft chatter of the room fell away and everyone looked at Pardek. Praetor Vrax cast an especially harsh glare at the young senator from the Krocton Segment. “Explain,” he said.

“I have my own sources on Vulcan,” Pardek confessed. “Based on the patterns of recruitment, people are seeking out their friends and family members and drawing them into the pacifist movement. It’s not a government-directed initiative; it’s a grassroots campaign, with each person brought into the fold through a chain of accountable kith and kin.”

Vrax nodded at first, then tilted his head as he asked, “But how would such a recruitment model help them expose our spies? Why have we not infiltrated this movement?”

It was a loaded question, one that Pardek dreaded answering. “I do have one hypothesis,” he said carefully.

“Tell us,” Vrax commanded.

Pardek steeled himself for the wave of ridicule he knew would follow. “I believe they are vetting new members by means of telepathy.”

No one in the Senate chamber mocked Pardek’s theory. They were all too incapacitated to do so, because they were doubled over with paroxysms of cruel laughter. Much to Pardek’s consternation, he noticed the only two people in the room not guffawing were himself and Praetor Vrax.

It took several seconds for the contagion of hilarity to run its course. When a semblance of decorum at last returned to the Senate chamber, Praetor Vrax coolly raised one eyebrow and said, in an archly skeptical tone, “Senator Pardek … shall I assume you spoke in jest? Or are you seriously suggesting the Vulcans are carrying out a vast planetwide conspiracy by means of a mythical psionic power?”

Before he answered, Pardek picked up his glass from the small desk in front of his seat and took a sip of water. He put down the glass and met Vrax’s accusing stare. “My sources tell me they believe the Vulcans’ psionic gifts might be more than just the stuff of legend, Praetor.”

Nobody laughed this time. Praetor Vrax ceased his pretense of civility and became openly sarcastic. “I suppose, Senator Pardek, you’ll next be telling me that Emperor Spock really does possess tremendous psionic abilities, and that it was the power of thought alone that enabled him to slaughter the Empress Hoshi Sato III and her entire Imperial Guard Corps?”

Dead silence. A few stifled coughs echoed then were lost amid the dry scrape of shuffling feet.

“No,” Pardek said as diplomatically as he could. “I think the Vulcans, who long resented sharing power with the Terrans who enslaved them, made a major leap forward in the arms race—and Spock chose that moment to show the Vulcans’ hand.”

Mumbles of agreement bubbled up in isolated patches around the Senate chamber. Taking note of it, Vrax nodded. “Agreed. And until we know more about that weapon, I am inclined to support Senator Narviat’s recommendation for discretion.” He looked back at Pardek. “As to the spread of the pacifist movement on Vulcan … do you really have no better hypothesis, Senator Pardek?”

Abashed, Pardek answered, “Not at this time, Praetor.”

Vrax shook his head. “Thank you, Senator Pardek. I would prefer an explanation that does not require me to believe in magic or mythology. You may sit down.”

It hadn’t been permission so much as a directive, and Pardek settled into his seat. The debate continued around him. He made no effort to conceal his disgruntled glowering.

So they don’t believe my theory, he consoled himself. Not surprising; I’m not sure I believe it, either. But there’s one thing I am certain of: Spock is deliberately setting up his people to take a fall, and I have no idea why.

Pardek considered a thousand reasons why Spock might sabotage his own empire; none of them made sense.

As a junior senator, there was little Pardek could do directly to guide the affairs of the Romulan Star Empire. Weighing his options, he decided he would back Senator Narviat’s proposal of military disengagement when it came time to vote. Pardek doubted the Tal Shiar would be able to infiltrate Vulcan any better than it had so far—which was to say, barely at all—but emphasizing covert intelligence rather than overt conquest would keep the Romulan Star Empire out of the Terran-Klingon crossfire. Pardek simply hoped it would buy his people enough time to determine what Emperor Spock was really up to.

“I must say, Admiral Cartwright,” remarked Colonel Ivan West as he sat down at the dinner table, “this is by far the best-catered secret meeting I’ve ever been to.”

Admiral Lance Cartwright chuckled as he settled in at the head of the table. Colonel West’s observation had struck a chord because it was true. The table was dressed with crisp white linen and set with dishes of fine crystal and utensils of solid, polished silver. Cartwright’s domestic servants had just cleared the appetizer course—a salad of baby greens tossed with warm slices of braised pear, walnuts, and a light vinaigrette—and brought out the next course, bowls of creamy pumpkin soup. Special dishes were served to the nonhuman guests.

Laughing with Cartwright were six visitors, high-ranking Starfleet officers who had been invited to his home this evening. They swapped small talk as a Bolian waiter refilled their glasses. Cartwright, West, and Admiral Thomas Morrow all were drinking cabernet. General Quiniven of Denobula was abstaining from liquor this evening and nursed a glass of Altair water instead. Admirals Robert Bennett and Salliserra zh’Ferro gladly accepted refills of their illegally imported Rom-ulan ale. Commodore Vosrok, the Chelon director of Starfleet Intelligence, was half sitting, half kneeling on a glenget, a piece of furniture designed for his nonhumanoid anatomy, and drinking N’v’aa, a beverage from his homeworld that, up close, reeked of brackish vinegar. Cartwright made a mental note never to drink at Vosrok’s home.

The banter remained light while the servants moved through the lavishly decorated dining room, serving soup, refilling water, replacing sullied utensils, and setting out freshly baked rolls and glass dishes filled with whipped butter.

“I’ll give you credit,” Morrow said to Cartwright. “You know how to live like a grand admiral.”

Raising his glass in appreciation, Cartwright replied, “The amazing part is that I do it on a vice admiral’s salary.” More polite laughter filled the room. He watched the last of the servants exit, and the doors swung closed behind them, leaving him and his guests in privacy. “To business, then,” he said, and his guests nodded in agreement. “I’ve sounded out each of you individually, so I imagine you’re all aware why I’ve asked you here tonight.” After a pause for effect, he stated plainly, “Emperor Spock is determined to destroy the Empire to which we have all devoted our lives. Before he’s done, he’ll kill us all. He must be stopped.”

Cautious mumbles of assent traveled around the table as each guest looked around to make certain he or she was not alone in speaking treason against the Emperor. Their mutual affirmation seemed to encourage them. West, who sat on Cartwright’s left near the head of the table, was the first to respond directly.

“I’m sure we all agree with you, Admiral,” West said. “But opposing Spock won’t be easy. I know of a few more admirals who are ready to turn against him, but most of the officer corps and almost all the enlisted men still support him.”

Jumping in, Admiral Bennett said, “And don’t forget how popular he is with the people. Assassinating him might just make him a martyr. A coup against Spock could start a rebellion.”

Quiniven waved his hand dismissively. “No matter,” he said with arrogant surety. “The people can be kept in line.”

“Oh, really?” was Vosrok’s sarcastic reply. “Have you forgotten that Spock granted the people such rights as—”

“Rights given with a word can be revoked just as easily,” Quiniven said. “The citizens of the Empire have never had to shed blood to secure their rights. They wouldn’t know how.”

Cartwright sipped his dry red wine as the conversation took on a life of its own. Admiral zh’Ferro looked down from her end of the table and quietly remarked, “We will also have to kill Empress Marlena.”

“Easily done,” Colonel West replied.

Admiral Morrow, who had been enjoying his soup one carefully lifted spoonful at a time, set down his spoon and cleared his throat. “Neutralizing Spock and Marlena is only the first step,” he said. “And I don’t mean to say doing so will be easy. But before we take that step, we should know what we intend to do next. Once they’re gone, who should take their place?”

“Not another Vulcan,” West said. “That’s for damned sure.”

Quiniven’s upswept eyebrows and facial ridges gave a sinister cast to his broad grin. “And who would you rather see on the imperial throne, Colonel West?”

Defiantly lifting his chin to the Denobulan’s challenge, West replied, “Someone who deserves it. … A human. Someone of noble lineage, verified ancestry.”

“Please,” implored Admiral zh’Ferro, “tell me you aren’t suggesting who I think you are.”

“Why not?” West retorted. “He was born to rule!”

Within seconds, it was apparent that everyone else in the room knew exactly of whom West spoke, and that no one agreed with his recommendation. All shook their heads in mute refusal. Despite trying to remain neutral, Cartwright himself joined the chorus of rejection. “I’m sorry, Ivan,” Cartwright said. “They’re right. We can’t put Ranjit Singh on the throne. It’d be a disaster.”

West pushed away his bowl of soup and fumed. “Ridiculous,” he said. “He’s a direct descendant of Khan Noonien Singh. No one has a better claim to the Terran throne than he does.”

Quiniven tempered his usual haughtiness, no doubt in an effort to reach an accord. “With all respect, Colonel, bowing to the whims of megalomaniacs is what got us into this predicament. Installing another one as emperor is hardly the ideal solution.”

“The general’s right,” Morrow said. “Besides, if I know our host, I think you’ll like his plan for the Empire even better than your own.”

With new curiosity, Colonel West turned slowly and looked at Admiral Cartwright. “Do you have a plan, Admiral?”

Cartwright dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “It’s more a vision than a plan,” he said. “We need a military government at the imperial level. Martial law, no civilians. Kill Spock, the Senate, the Forum … all of them.”

Shocked silence followed Cartwright’s declaration. General Quiniven was the first to recover his composure. “Assassinating Emperor Spock and his wife might be logistically feasible,” the Denobulan noted. “But to wipe out the Forum and the Senate would require destroying the imperial palace, and that’s far more difficult. Its shields can stand up to half the fleet—and Earth’s orbital defense network would shred us before we could breach its defenses.”

“All very true,” Cartwright said. “Fortunately, we have an alternative.” He looked down the table at the director of Starfleet Intelligence. “Commodore Vosrok, would you kindly tell the other guests what you told me last week, about S.I.’s latest innovation?”

Vosrok was a hard person to read by means of body language. His leathery face betrayed little or no emotion, and his thickly scaled body was stiff and slow-moving. Even as the other guests fixed their attention upon him, he seemed like a dark, vaguely amphibian statue at the end of the table. Blinking his topaz-colored eyes, he said, “Starfleet Intelligence has discovered and refined a new explosive compound called trilithium. So far, it’s undetectable by any of the security scanners inside the palace. It won’t take much to incinerate everyone in the Forum chamber—maybe a few kilograms. As I’m sure you’re aware, the search protocols at the palace are quite stringent. To smuggle the explosive in, it will have to be disguised as something else, something above reproach that will not be searched and that can get close enough to Emperor Spock and Empress Marlena to ensure their annihilation.”

At the first sign of Vosrok’s pause, Admiral Bennett asked, “And that ‘something’ is what, exactly?”

The Chelon paused to sip his drink. Cartwright appreciated the sly sadism of Vosrok’s dramatic timing. In molasses-slow motion, Vosrok put down his glass, swallowed, and took a breath. “The trilithium,” he continued, “will be disguised as the armor of one of Spock’s elite imperial guards. Our assassin will wear it into the Forum during a joint session of the legislature, and, on a signal from myself, turn the entire government to dust in a single blast.”

Vosrok’s plan was met with the same incredulous stares that had stifled Colonel West’s proposition. Quiniven shook his head and looked almost ready to laugh. “One of Spock’s guards? Are you mad? He recruits only Vulcans and makes them spend years proving their loyalty before they can serve in the palace. You will never infiltrate his guard corps.”

Vosrok looked at Cartwright, who broke the news to the table: “We already have.”

2289

40

Missives and Messengers

Korvat was more than just a desirable place to start a colony, and it was more than the Klingon Empire’s first solid foothold inside what had once been inviolable Terran space. Listening to General Kang address the assembly of Klingon and foreign dignitaries as the Kling-ons asserted their claim to sovereignty over the planet, Regent Gorkon knew this annexation was nothing less than a test of the Terran Empire’s collective will.

The Terrans’ sole representative at the ceremony, Ambassador Curzon Dax, arrived late and made no effort to be inconspicuous. Quite to the contrary, he seemed intent on disrupting General Kang by walking brazenly up the center aisle, his footfalls snapping sharp echoes. Gorkon watched from the balcony level as, down below, Dax forced himself into a front-row seat, jostling aside several high-ranking Klingons in the process. Kang, to his credit, ignored the obnoxious Trill and continued his address, the force of his voice stealing back the attention of the audience and subduing its angry mutterings about the latecomer.

“This world,” Kang bellowed, “has been the rightful territory of the Klingon Empire for more than a century. Too long has it been neglected, left under the careless dominion of the Terrans. By right, we have reclaimed it in honorable combat. But the Terrans, unable to defend this world by force of arms, now wish to beg for its return with diplomacy!” The large number of Kling-ons seated in the auditorium roared with indignation, exactly as Kang had incited them to do. “Once, the Terrans were warriors, and they understood warriors do not talk, they act. They were an enemy we could respect.” Grumbles of glum agreement rolled like an undercurrent through the crowd. “But now they are weak and fearful, plying us with concessions and bribes. They are not the warriors we used to know; they are nothing more than jeghpu’wI, waiting for us to put our boots on their necks!” Furious howls of approval and a thunder of stomping feet filled the hall.

Dax sat with his arms folded, looking bored. As the bellicose chanting of the crowd began to subside, the Trill stood and walked up the nearby stairs onto the stage with Kang. The room fell silent as the two men faced each other. Kang returned Curzon’s unblinking stare, then Curzon spat at the ground in front of Kang’s feet.

“Pathetic,” Dax said with naked contempt. To the crowd, he added, “All of you!” He prowled like a hunting beast across the front of the stage as he hurled his sarcastic verbal attacks. “Such mighty warriors! You conquered an unarmed farming colony less than a light-year from your border. This is the greatest victory you’ve scored against the Terran Empire in sixty years?” He shook his head and sneered. “What a miserable empire you have. Congratulating yourselves for the least audacious victory in our shared history. I’m ashamed to think I once respected you as soldiers.” Now he turned and directed his comments at Kang. “I wasn’t sent to beg for Korvat; I was sent to negotiate the safe return of its people. But I’ve changed my mind, General. I hereby request you execute our colonists—because they would be shamed to death if they had to return home and admit they were conquered by petaQpu’ like you.” Dax walked back to the stairs and looked out at the Klingons in the audience. “You want me to call you warriors? Bring your fleet to Ramatis. We’ll send it back to your widows in a box.” The Trill descended the stairs and strode back down the center aisle, ignoring the hostile jeers and overlapping threats. All the way to the exit, he never looked back. Then he was out the door, and the Terran-Klingon negotiations for Korvat were ended before they had begun.

Energized and enraged, the crowd surged with a magnetic fervor, but Regent Gorkon found himself more interested in General Kang’s reaction. Kang paced to the back of the stage, where he stood alone and silent, peering through the shadows into some dark corner of himself.

General Chang, Gorkon’s senior military adviser, leaned over from the seat next to the Regent’s and said in a low voice, “The Trill got under Kang’s ridges.” Gorkon grimaced at Chang, who sat on his left. The general always sat on Gorkon’s left side, to make sure his intact right eye—and not his triangular, leather eyepatch-faced the Regent.

“For a diplomat,” Gorkon said, “Dax goes out of his way to provoke us. Why would Spock send us such an envoy?”

Chang picked up a bottle of warnog and refilled his stein with the pungent elixir. “Perhaps Dax was chosen in haste,” he said, offering to refill Gorkon’s stein. The Regent declined. Resealing the bottle, Chang added, “It’s possible Spock did not realize how the man would comport himself.”

“That doesn’t sound like Spock,” Gorkon said. “It also doesn’t track with Curzon Dax’s reputation.”

“True,” Chang said. In the decade since Spock had begun reforming the Terrans’ political landscape, Dax had emerged as one of Spock’s most skillful negotiators. For him to inflame the battle rage of the Klingon Empire by losing his temper over such a minor affront was horribly out of character.

An unlikely notion pushed its way to the forefront of Gorkon’s thoughts. He guzzled the last dregs of warnog from his stein, then he asked, “Would Spock and Dax deliberately sabotage these talks?”

Chang squinted his right eye as he considered the question. “To what end, my lord?”

“To push us closer to war,” Gorkon said.

This time the general chortled. “As if we needed the push.” Becoming more serious, he added, “After all the efforts Spock made to establish diplomatic relations, for him to suddenly reverse his foreign policy makes no sense.”

“Then how should we interpret Ambassador Dax’s actions?”

Leaning back in his chair, Chang said, “There is a third possibility, my lord, one I have raised before. Maybe Spock’s diplomatic efforts were strictly domestic. By using enticement and diplomacy to pacify his own people, he is free to deploy all his Starfleet assets against external threats.”

It wasn’t based on a social model the Klingons would tolerate within their own empire, but Gorkon had to admit Chang’s theory made sense. For Spock, being able to direct all his empire’s strength outward, instead of having to constantly deploy forces to quell internal uprisings, would be an enormous tactical advantage. “If you’re right,” Gorkon said, “then all of Spock’s progressive reforms have been a prelude to a war—one he now feels confident goading us to begin.”

“Vulcans aren’t direct,” Chang said, “but they are cunning. If he wants us to go to war now, he must believe he has the upper hand. But before we engage the Terrans, we should guarantee we hold the advantage.”

Gorkon understood exactly what Chang meant. For years the general had been overseeing a secret starship-design team, which was working on a bird-of-prey prototype that could fire torpedoes while cloaked. “How close is the prototype to being ready for assembly-line production?”

“Immediately,” Chang said. “All we need to start building a new fleet is enough power to cloak the Praxis shipyard from the Terrans’ spy arrays.”

“I’ll give the order to triple energy production at Praxis as soon as possible,” Gorkon said. “How long will it take to build a fleet capable of crushing the Terrans in a single offensive?”

Chang stroked at the two tufts of mustache above the corners of his mouth. After several seconds, he said, “Nine years.”

“That’s a long time to wait, General.”

With a rueful grin, Chang replied, “The Terran Empire is vast, my lord. Subduing it in one sneak attack will take many ships. We could expand our starship production to other shipyards, but the more facilities that receive the prototype’s design, the greater the risk of espionage.”

“Very well, then,” Gorkon said. “Keep the program secret at the Praxis facility. But work quickly, General. It’s time for us to wipe the Terran Empire off the map, and I am eager to begin.”

“As am I, my lord,” Chang said. “As am I.”

2290

41

Vanishing Point

The Regula I space station had become a shell of its former self. On every level Lurqal saw its inhabitants working in a frantic rush. They had spent the last seven days dismantling systems, packing up components, archiving their data, and packing it all into crates—all on the orders of Carol Marcus.

Even the station’s basic onboard systems were being scavenged for parts. Entire levels of the station had been sealed off after they were deprived of life-support systems and power. Corridors were steeped in shadows because Marcus’s engineers had appropriated most of the light fixtures. Comms on almost every deck were offline because someone had torn out all the optronic data cables.

Hearing the sound of people approaching, Lurqal ducked into a cold, empty compartment that once had been a chemistry lab. She wrinkled her nose at the odor of old chemicals, which stank like a mix of vinegar and ammonia.

Through a cracked-open door, she watched a dozen scientists and technicians walk past, guiding shipping containers on antigrav sleds toward the station’s cargo bay. “Hurry up,” said Dr. Tarcoh, who seemed to be in charge. “Carol wants everything ready by nineteen hundred.”

All signs pointed to an evacuation, but Lurqal had no idea where they were going or how they were getting there. The only thing Carol Marcus had told the group was that they were abandoning the station and blowing it up behind them. When that was done they would go into permanent seclusion, after which they would have no further contact with anyone outside the project.

For all practical purposes, they were about to vanish.

This might be my last chance to speak to my people, Lurqal realized.

Breaking through the station’s scrambling field had not been impossible, but it had been time-consuming. Once done, however, she had been able to make regular reports to Imperial Intelligence. During the seven years she had lived and worked undercover on Regula I, she had relayed hundreds of scraps of information. None of the disjointed snippets she had obtained had made much sense or appeared to be related to the others—until now.

In the confusion of the evacuation, Lurqal had accessed systems that previously had been off-limits to her, and she believed she had found a critical piece of information that tied together everything else she had learned. Her latest discovery made it imperative she find a safe place from which to upload her final burst transmission to the Zin’za.

Outside the door, the sounds of the passing group receded. Lurqal pushed the lab’s door shut and locked it. Huddled in the darkness, she fished the parts of her disguised comm unit from her lab coat’s deep pockets, assembled it with an ease born of practice, and activated the device. She opened a channel and waited for the signal to be acknowledged by the Zin’za.

Several seconds passed without a response.

The door behind her, which she was certain she had locked, slid open. She turned and hid her comm unit behind her back.

David Marcus stood in the doorway, one side of his face illuminated by a flickering light, the other lost in shadow. He held a Starfleet phaser, which he aimed at Lurqal. “Doctor Sandesjo,” he said. “Imagine finding you here.”

Feigning innocence, Lurqal replied, “I just needed a few minutes away from the craziness. All this activity gets me kind of wound up.”

“I’m sure it does,” replied the young scientist. “It must be especially vexing now that the Zin’za’s gone—isn’t it, Lurqal?”

Her face slackened. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“The Reliant and her task force destroyed the Zin’za two weeks ago,” Marcus said. He smiled. “I guess you could say they’d outlived their usefulness.” Gesturing with his phaser, he added, “You won’t need your comm unit anymore.”

She gave up trying to conceal the device and stepped into the open to face her enemy directly. “What will you do with me?”

“I guess we should thank you,” he said. “Without you, we never could have fed that much disinformation to the Klingons for this long without being detected.” She tried to mask her shock at Marcus’s revelation, but some tic in her face must have given her away, because his smile took on an evil cast. “I just pity the bastards who’ll try to use those botched formulas you stole,” he continued. “The first time they try to produce a Genesis reaction, they’ll be in for a rude surprise.”

Lurqal had suffered enough of the human’s gloating. She snarled at him and said, “Just get it over with.”

His smiled faded, and the gleam in his eyes turned cold. “As you wish.”

He fired the phaser, and a flash of white light delivered her into darkness.

2291

42

A Whisper to Caesar

Curzon Dax waited outside the door of Emperor Spock’s residence, surrounded by four of the palace’s armored Vulcan elite guards. He lifted his brow and smiled at the nearest of them. “Hi, there.” His friendly overture was met with a blank stare.

The door opened. A middle-aged Vulcan guard whose armor bore command insignia stood inside and nodded at Dax. “The Emperor will see you now.”

“Thank you,” Dax said, stepping into the main hall of the Emperor’s home. Three of the guards from the foyer entered behind him. He threw an amused look at them. “Really? Do I look that threatening?”

“No,” said the guard captain who had opened the door. “You do not.” Apparently satisfied he had quashed Dax’s attempt at humor, the captain added, “Follow me.” He led Dax and his guards into the great room.

Walking behind the captain, Dax admired his surroundings with wide eyes and a lopsided smile. His footfalls were loud on the polished granite floors and echoed under its lofty ceilings, which were decorated with murals rendered in an ancient Terran style. The walls were adorned only sparingly, with a few paintings and some illustrated silk tapestries depicting placid nature scenes. Small, delicate statues of mythical creatures, carved from pristine white marble, stood atop pillars of alabaster. Golden sunlight poured through the room’s towering, arched windows, which were flanked by burgundy-colored curtains.

Standing in front of one window with his back to Dax was the Emperor.

“Welcome, Ambassador,” Spock said in a resonant baritone. Turning his head, he said to the guard captain, “Leave us.”

The guard captain saluted. “Majesty.” Then he about-faced, nodded at his men, and marched them out of the great room. He shut the door as he left.

Cutting to business, Dax asked, “Why did you send for me, Majesty?”

“To ask for your resignation,” Spock said.

“Have I wronged you, my prince? Or failed you in some way?”

Spock shook his head. “No.”

“Then why recall me from Qo’noS?”

Folding his hands together, Spock said, “Because I intend for you to become part of something greater, and far more important.” He stepped away from the window and nodded for Dax to follow him.

The Emperor led him to a pair of comfortable chairs set facing each other across a low table. On the table was a tray bearing two ceramic cups illustrated with colorful, coiled serpents, and a matching teapot. Spock sat down and motioned for Dax to take the other chair. Dax settled into it warily.

Lifting the teapot, Spock said, “You will retire from diplomatic service.” He filled Dax’s cup. Wisps of fragrant white vapor snaked up from the amber liquid. Spock set down the teapot. “Then you will go into seclusion.”

Dax picked up the teapot. Remembering the protocol of the ceremony, he filled Spock’s cup. “For how long must I be secluded, Majesty?”

“The rest of your life.” Spock picked up his cup and sipped his tea, signaling Dax it was safe for him to drink, as well. “I know you carry a symbiont named Dax,” the Emperor said, catching Dax off guard. “I know also you are the seventh Trill to serve as host to the Dax symbiont.”

Masking his discomfort, Dax felt a riposte was in order. “As long as we’re confessing, Majesty, I should say I know you were the one who sent Captain Saavik to Trill, sanctioned her slaughter of the symbionts and their Guardians, and issued the covert assassination order for the rest of my kind.”

“I did not broach this subject for the purpose of claiming credit or laying blame, but to preface what I must tell you now: You are the last of your kind, Curzon Dax. You are the last joined Trill, carrying the last living symbiont.”

The news hit Dax more profoundly than he had expected. With trembling hands, he set down his teacup. “You’re sure? That I’m the last?”

“I am quite certain.” Spock put down his cup, as well. “The Trill are known to revere the continuity of memory and the accurate accounting of history. These traits are vital to the mission for which you have been selected. You will serve as an embodiment of history, a living form of institutional memory for the benefit of future generations. A few dozen Trill couples will join you in seclusion, to ensure your symbiont has access to new hosts even while it remains hidden from the galaxy at large.”

Dax chuckled ruefully, then asked, “When am I to embark on this great journey to nowhere?”

“Immediately,” Spock said. “You will not be allowed to share news of this with anyone. I regret that events must transpire in this manner, but operational secrecy demands it.”

“I see,” Dax said, brooding over the truth left unspoken: I simply have no choice. “Before I go, can you tell me why you had the symbionts put to death?”

Spock frowned. “It was a complicated matter—one you will have ample time to study once you settle into your new retreat.”

Nodding with resignation and disgust, Dax replied, “No doubt.”

Though Dax had not heard the Emperor summon the guards from outside, the door opened, and Spock stood as he beckoned his armored defenders. “Escort Ambassador Dax to his transport.” Dax stood as the guard captain snapped to attention beside him. He threw a look at Spock, who added, “Farewell, and safe travels, Your Excellency.”

Contempt rendered Dax speechless while the guards walked him to the door of the great room. There he paused, turned, and looked back at the Emperor.

“Remember the example of Caesar, my prince,” Dax said. “When he returned to Rome from his wars of conquest—riding in his gilded chariot, being showered with rose petals, and leading his army in a grand parade—he kept a slave at his back to whisper in his ear, Sic transit gloria mundi: ‘Thus passes the glory of this world.’”

“Thank you, Ambassador Dax,” Spock replied, “but I am well acquainted with history’s lessons. They are the reason why, when I sanctioned the genocide of your people, I let you live: Your life shall forever be the whisper in my ear.”