2293

44

Glory’s Requiem

Regent Gorkon sat stewing in his own rage while the High Council erupted into useless violence. Councillors shouted over each other until their voices bled into a meaningless din. They pushed each other in the shadows surrounding the pool of harsh light that shone down on the imperial trefoil adorning the floor. The room stank of sweat and liquor, and it echoed with curses and recriminations.

Of course they’ve gone mad, Gorkon brooded. Our home-world is dying.

Councillor Alakon stood at Gorkon’s left side, and Councillor Indizar kept to her place on Gorkon’s right. While the rest of the High Council devolved into a brawl, they remained above the fray with their Regent, looking down at the nervous, silent trio of scientists standing in the middle of the chamber, trapped beneath the revealing glare of the overhead light.

Tired of the commotion, Gorkon rapped the steel-jacketed tip of his ceremonial staff three times on his throne’s stone dais. The sharp cracks put a halt to the mayhem along the room’s periphery. Order restored, Gorkon fixed his weary glare on the three scientists. “At the risk of inciting another riot,” he said, “would you care to explain why Praxis exploded and poisoned our homeworld?”

The lead scientist, Dr. Gorig, took a cautious half step forward. “All data points suggest a previously undetected error in the data we received from our spy inside the Regula I lab.” He glanced over his shoulder at his colleagues, as if to invite them to participate in the briefing, but they only nodded at him to continue. “A key value in the formula must have been wrong, resulting in a massive instability as soon as we brought the Genesis-wave generator online.” In a tone of aggrieved self-righteousness, Gorig added, “This entire disaster could have been averted if only we had been given the time we requested to verify the Terrans’ formulae before we tried to—”

Gorkon leaped from his throne and thrust his d’k tagh into Gorig’s chest before he uttered another word of seditious accusation. Giving the knife a savage twist, Gorkon coaxed out the gray-bearded scientist’s last breath. Then he tore his blade free and let Gorig fall to the floor.

Standing above the corpse and its swiftly spreading pool of magenta blood, Gorkon glared at the other two scientists and said, “I trust I’ve made my point.”

The slain man’s colleagues nodded.

The Regent stepped back onto the dais and took his throne. “I don’t want excuses,” he said to the scientists. “Our planet is dying. Find a solution—while we still have a world worth saving.” He dismissed them with a wave and a growl.

Alakon escorted the two scientists out of the Council chamber. At a nod from Gorkon, Indizar declared the Council adjourned until recalled.

Sitting with his fist pressed against his mouth, Gorkon watched the members of the High Council file out of the room. They muttered bitterly and cast pointed stares in his direction as they departed.

No doubt they’re each picturing themselves on my throne, he mused. Every man wants to wear the crown until he feels its weight on his brow.

Eyeing the dead man at his feet, Gorkon knew the scientist had spoken the truth. Impatient to power his new war machine, Gorkon had rejected calls for caution and denied pleas for more time to test their stolen technology. His hubris had brought the Klingon people to this grim moment in their history.

As surely as I’ve killed this man, I have killed Qo’noS. History will have no alternative but to lay this travesty at my feet and call it mine own.

There was no undoing what had been done. Praxis was gone, shattered into rubble and fire, its radioactive debris propelled by a subspace shockwave that had turned lush Qo’noS into a bleak and barren orb. Deserts sprawled where forests once had grown; oceans that once fed billions were now toxic, watery graveyards.

Gorkon knew there was only one way to prevent this disaster from becoming his epitaph. With whatever strength and time he had left, he needed to write a better end to his reign, one worthy of song.

He needed to become a conqueror.

45

The Architects of War

Marlena walked alone across the frozen gray expanse of the ocean. Thunderous rumbles trembled the ice under her bare feet. Great fissures cracked open the snow-dusted horizon, which churned with dark water like blood erupting from a wound.

As she walked, the glaciated terrain was cleaved beneath her, and jagged shards of ice sliced into her heels. She clutched the bundle in her arms, its cargo more precious than any she had ever held before. Warm against her bosom, safe in her embrace, the fruit of her womb was all that mattered to her now in this desolate, frigid wasteland.

Fire on the horizon. The figure of a man robed in flames. Reddish-gold against the grayish-white emptiness that seemed to have no horizon, surrounded by widening gulfs of black seawater. A silhouette, a gaunt outline of a lanky form, burning bright in the falling gloom, ushering her onward against the bitter wind.

She trudged across bobbing ice floes, her torn feet leaving bloody prints. The man in the flames was her father, François—it had to be. He was waiting for her, waiting to see her son, to reach out and give his blessing to her child. All she had to do was traverse a treacherous sea of broken ice.

A short leap, then a longer one. Deep cracking sounds, like the breaking of a giant’s bones, filled the dreary dusk. The faster Marlena tried to reach her father, the more quickly the ice broke apart, the farther the pieces drifted.

I have to hurry, she knew. Time is running out.

From the back edge of a long strip of ice, she took a running start. Her final step, the push-off, dipped the leading edge of the floe under the inky surface of the sea.

Aloft, airborne, floating weightless on a breeze, Marlena drifted through the air. The ghostly vapors of her breath ringed her like a halo, a maternal blessing of mist. Below her yawned the bottomless ocean, darker than the deepest hours of the night, colder than an unforgiving heart.

Marlena landed like a feather at her father’s feet. She looked up at the pillar of golden fire surrounding him. Trapped inside his incandescent cocoon, her father resembled a dark statue, as unyielding and mysterious as he had always seemed to her during her childhood.

She extended her arms and held out her swaddled son. “Look, Daddy,” she said. “My son. Your grandson.”

Her sire of shadows looked down and spoke with disdain. “I see nothing but broken promises.”

“No!” she protested. “He’s your grandson! Look at him!” She pulled away the outer fold of the blanket, then the next, and the next. With every unfolded corner, she expected to reveal her glory, the heir of Spock, the offspring she had borne into the world … but then the blanket tumbled from her hands, completely undone, fluttering empty to the icy ground.

The wind howled in mourning. Bitter tears ran hotly across her frost-numbed cheeks. She collapsed onto her knees and pawed helplessly at the child’s blanket, at its frayed edges. A low tender cry strained to break free of her chest. Looking up to her father for mercy, forgiveness, and comfort, instead she beheld Spock, frozen and one step removed from real, a sculpture chiseled roughly from ice. She reached out to touch it. It broke apart at the grazing brush of her fingertip, collecting itself into a mound of ash and snow.

Nighttime edged across the sky, swallowing the light, and Marlena was surrounded by the widening ocean, eternal and fathomless. She was alone in the world, with no one to hear her weeping. Hers was not the maudlin sobbing of a madwoman, but a funereal wail made all the more terrible by its clarity.

Stinging cold water bit her hands and knees as the ocean claimed the floe beneath her. There was nowhere to run to, no one to beg for rescue. Marlena fell forward and surrendered to the irresistible pull of the sea. Her arms and legs numbed on contact with the frigid water. As she slipped under the waves, she made no effort to hold her breath. She exhaled, felt heat and life escape in a flourish of bubbles. Pulling the sea into her lungs, tasting death in all its briny coldness, was easier than she had expected.

The scant light from above the water’s surface was deep blue, then blue-black … but only as Marlena felt herself vanishing into the darkness did the last, desperate spark of terror ignite in her soul—lonely, afraid, not ready to let go, not ready to be extinguished … but darkness had no mercy, and its grip choked away her final cries for help. …

A gasp and a shudder, and Marlena was awake in her bed, her heart pounding. Musky sweat coated her face and arms and chest. She stared at the ceiling of her bedroom in the imperial palace. Every undulating pattern of shadow on the walls and ceiling seemed infused with sinister intent. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. You’re hyperventilating, she told herself. Calm down. Force yourself to breathe.

Beside her in the bed, Spock lay on his right side, facing away from her. As she turned her head to make certain she hadn’t disturbed him, he rolled slowly onto his back. He was awake. “Nightmares again?” he asked.

“The same one,” she said, and he nodded. The journey across the ice was a dream that had plagued her intermittently for more than a decade. She had discussed it with Spock after its third repetition, but he had offered no analysis. As much as she had hoped merely sharing it would be enough to exorcise it from her thoughts, it remained with her, its naked symbolism growing more painful with each passing year.

Spock seemed to sense tonight’s recurrence of the dream had left her more agitated than it had before. “Perhaps you are concerned about the upcoming conference,” he said.

“Of course I am,” she shot back. She had told him she feared someone would try to assassinate him at the interstellar summit two weeks hence. “But I know what this dream is telling me, Spock, and it’s not about Khitomer.”

With a stately economy of movement, Spock sat up in bed and folded his hands on his lap. “I know this topic distresses you,” he said. “For your own sake, I urge you not to pursue it.”

“But you’ve never told me the truth, Spock. Not once. I’ve asked you a hundred times over the years, and you’ve given me a hundred different answers.”

He raised his right eyebrow, which she knew was a prelude to his taking her exaggeration-for-effect and rebutting it with a precise fact that would utterly miss her intended point. “If memory serves,” he said, “we have discussed this subject precisely forty-three times, including tonight. Our most recent previous conversation of this matter was—”

“Damn you, Spock,” Marlena said, verging on tears. “Just tell me the truth—the real truth, not just your latest excuse. Why won’t you have children with me?”

Her entreaty was met with aggrieved silence. Spock would not lie to her, she knew that just as certainly as she knew he loved her—or, at least, that he had loved her once, long ago, before he became Emperor. But though he would never lie to her, he also was supremely talented at saying nothing at all.

Determined to force the truth from him, she pressed him harder. “Is it that you don’t love me anymore? That you’re sterile? Or do you simply have a concubine you prefer instead of me? A Vulcan woman?”

“I assure you,” Spock said, “none of those is true.”

Unable to hold back her tears, she took his arm in her gentle grasp and begged, “Then tell me. Please.”

“The reason is simple,” he said. “I do not want children.”

“But I do,” Marlena pleaded. “I know you don’t need an heir to the throne, but why shouldn’t we get to be parents like everyone else? Why can’t we have a son or a daughter to call our own?” Spock got out of bed and walked toward the balcony. Marlena cast aside the covers and moved to the edge of the bed. She watched him stare out into the night for what seemed like forever. “It’s been more than a year since you’ve touched me,” she said in a timid voice. “I miss you, Spock.”

He turned back to face her. As always, his expression was unreadable, but for once his voice was gentle. “The burdens of rulership weigh on us both,” he said. “It was necessary for me to put matters of state ahead of your happiness.” In slow steps he returned to her. He took her hands and helped her to her feet. “I apologize,” he said, and embraced her. “Never doubt that I love you, Marlena,” he whispered into her ear. “But for us to have children would be a mistake.”

Struggling not to succumb to overpowering sorrow, Marlena clung to Spock’s shoulder and whimpered, “Why?”

“You know why,” he said. “Events are moving quickly. We are less than a year from ending the Empire and creating the Republic. But we must not delude ourselves, Marlena. The future of the Republic will be brutal and short-lived. And when it comes to its premature and violent end, it will claim us along with it. I will not sire children only to see them share our fate.”

The truth was ugly and terrible and indisputable. But still, there had to be a solution, an escape. “What if I went into exile?” she said. “I could leave before anyone knows I’m pregnant, go into hiding—”

“Our enemies would seek you out,” he said. “They will not rest until they have eliminated us. If a scan shows them you have borne children, they will seek out your offspring. They must be convinced we represent the end of our dynasty, or they will lay waste to the worlds of the Republic searching for what has been hidden from them. In so doing, they could potentially destroy all I have labored to set in motion for the future.” He tightened his embrace and ran his fingers through her hair. “I am sorry, Marlena. Duty demands a different path for us. This is how it must be.”

She sobbed against his shoulder, dampening his nightclothes with her tears, mourning for their children who would never be. She knew he was right, and there would be no changing his mind. His decision was final; she would have to live with it. But it would torture her and haunt her until the end of her days, this hunger of her body to bear him children. It was an empty, tragic yearning matched only by her longing for his affection, which she knew would always be held at a remove, veiled behind logic and custom and protocol.

For her love of who Spock was, she had married him; for her love of what he stood for, she would die childless. All the lavish trappings of the imperium were cold comfort as she confronted the chilling finality of her situation: When I’m gone, not one little bit of me will remain. I’ll just be gone.

Spock held her as she wept; he was stoic in his compassion.

When the well of her tears at last ran dry, she looked up through the kaleidoscope of her burning eyes into his serene face. “This is how it must be,” he said.

“I know,” Marlena said. She took his hands in hers. “I accept that I can’t have your children, but promise me that when the end comes, you’ll be with me—that I won’t be alone.”

“I promise I will be with you,” Spock said. “But in the end … everyone is alone.”

The assassin’s armor felt only slightly heavier than it had the day before. The field agent from Starfleet Intelligence had said as much when he’d delivered it, though his assurance had sounded too convenient to be true. Feeling the armor slide into place, however, there was no denying how remarkably lightweight and unobtrusive its trilithium lining was. Less than four kilograms was dispersed throughout the suit of polymer armor: some of it in the shin guards, some of it in the cuirass of the lorica segmentata, some of it in the red-plumed helmet. It felt perfectly balanced and was so evenly distributed that it was hardly noticeable. And when the time came, it would be enough to vaporize the Forum chamber and everyone in it.

But this was not that time.

A barked order from the captain of the guard—“Attention!”—and the members of Spock’s elite guard snapped into formation inside the hangar bay, their plumes aligned, battle rifles shouldered, eyes front. One among many, anonymous in the ranks, the assassin stared ahead, careful not to betray the mission with a wayward glance or a moment of lost focus.

The door slid open, and a procession of diplomats and cabinet officials entered and marched quickly toward the open aft ramp of the personnel transport docked in the bay. Then Empress Marlena walked in. She was followed closely by Emperor Spock, who stopped, turned, and faced his troops. Torov, the captain of the guard, saluted the Emperor. As if acting with one mind, the rank and file of the elite guards saluted in unison a moment later.

Spock returned the gesture, then said to Torov, “Have you secured the landing site?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Torov said. “And the transport has been inspected. We stand ready to depart on your word.”

Spock dropped his voice to speak privately with Torov, but the assassin—and very likely every other Vulcan in the guard detail—heard their conversation clearly. “Armed escorts,” Spock said, “will not be allowed inside the conference center. Furthermore, my agreement with the Klingon Regent and the Romulan Praetor limits each of us to no more than one bodyguard inside the meeting chamber.”

Above the bridge of Torov’s nose, a crease of concern betrayed his profound alarm. “Such measures will put you at risk, Majesty,” he protested, careful to keep his tone steady. “Klingons are highly adept at disguising weapons as parts of their uniforms. If they should move against you—”

“Highly unlikely,” Spock said. “With their homeworld in ruins after the explosion of Praxis, provoking us to war would not be in their best interest.”

Torov seemed unwilling to concede. “Are the other delegates equally constrained, Majesty? What incentive do the Romulans or the Cardassians have to respect the armistice?”

“The Romulans are recluses,” Spock said. “I suspect they accepted our invitation solely to gather intelligence. As for the Cardassians, they are a fledgling power. They are ill-equipped to challenge us directly.” The Emperor’s answers seemed to mollify Torov somewhat. “We need not commit to a decision now, Torov. Have your platoon accompany me aboard the transport. We shall make our final arrangements when we reach the surface of Khitomer.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Torov said, bowing his head. Spock walked away toward the Starfleet transport ship. With a crisp snap of one boot heel against the other, Torov straightened his back and shouted the platoon of elite imperial guards into motion. “Move out! Single file, double time, hai!”

Soldiers wove together into a long line, their feet moving quickly in lockstep, their boots ringing deep echoes from the metal deck plates, their armor clunking with the dull clatter of nonmetallic polymers. In less than a minute they were aboard the transport, clustered back into ranks inside its lower compartment, while the political VIPs traveled comfortably in the staterooms on the upper decks.

The rear ramp lifted shut and was secured with a rich hum of magnetic locks and the hiss of pressure-control vents. The ship’s inertial dampers gave its liftoff a surreal quality for its passengers; there was no sensation of movement, even though the scene outside the viewports drifted past. It was more like watching a holovid of a journey than taking one. Then the flatly lit, immaculate whiteness of Enterprise’s hangar bay gave way to the endless darkness of space dappled with the icy glow of distant stars.

Moments later, more ships came into view as the transport raced past them. Massive fleets maneuvered past each other—Starfleet cruisers and frigates, Kling-on dreadnoughts, Romulan birds-of-prey, Cardassian battleships—all vibrant with the potential for catastrophic violence. An impulsive decision, a single error of translation, and Khitomer would be transformed into one of the largest, most politically incendiary battlegrounds in local galactic history.

Impulse engines thrummed with rising vigor as the Emperor’s transport made its swift descent toward the lush, blue-green planet. The curve of Khitomer’s northern hemisphere spread out and flattened as they penetrated its atmosphere. It was the sort of blue-skied world humans and Klingons prized above all others.

Spared an idle moment to think, the assassin harbored a seditious thought. Four heads of state in one place, and me ready to strike. I could plunge four empires into civil war with a single decision. As quickly as the thought had emerged, it was suppressed. No. That is not the mission. Galactic anarchy is not the objective. Stability and security for the Empire is the only priority.

The transport pierced a thick layer of clouds and arrowed down toward the designated meeting site, dubbed Camp Khitomer. Sequestered in a bucolic nature preserve, the conference center was situated on a lake shore and surrounded by virgin forest.

A gentle shudder and a bump heralded the transport’s landing on the surface. Almost on contact, Torov released the pressure seal on the rear ramp, which lowered with a hydraulic whine. “Twin columns! Face out! Double time, hai!”

The imperial guards deployed with precision and speed. Down the ramp, around the transport’s fuselage to the VIPs’ portal, which was perfectly aligned with an imperial-scarlet runner that extended from the transport’s ramp to the conference center’s entrance. The guards arranged themselves in two rows, one on either side of the carpet, both facing away from the path to watch for any sign of danger.

Torov tapped the assassin on the shoulder. “Come with me.”

The assassin followed Torov to the base of the VIPs’ ramp.

Emperor Spock and Empress Marlena descended together, leading the Terran procession from the transport. At the end of the ramp, Spock acknowledged Torov with a curt nod.

Taking the Emperor’s cue, Torov presented the assassin to him. “Your Majesty, duty precludes me from acting as your personal defender. Instead, I give you my best and brightest, the finest soldier under my command, to safeguard your life.” Then the captain of the guard stepped aside and stood at attention while Spock studied the assassin.

“I have not seen you before,” Spock said.

The assassin replied, “I was promoted to palace duty only last month, Your Majesty.”

If the Emperor divined any fault, his dispassionate gaze betrayed nothing. “Very well,” he said at last. Peering into the eyes of the assassin, Spock asked, “What is your name?”

“Valeris, Majesty.”

Spock found it curious that the Klingons, despite their well-known martial austerity, were so enamored of pageantry and ritual. From the waving of smoking thuribles to prolonged chanting by an old Klingon monk from Boreth, Regent Gorkon’s official introduction and entrance to the dimly lit private meeting chamber took nearly an hour, during which time Spock stood, hands folded inside the drooping sleeves of his imperial robe. Finally, a herald stepped through the portal reserved for the Klingons’ use and announced, “His Imperial Majesty, He who holds the throne for Him Who Shall Return—Regent Gorkon.”

The lanky Klingon head of state swept into the room with long strides, his bearing fierce and straightforward. His sole bodyguard, a burly giant of a warrior, stepped just inside the doorway and stood near the wall, mirroring the pose of Spock’s defender, Valeris, on the opposite side of the room.

Gorkon was taller than Spock, brawnier, heavier. His clothing was fashioned mostly of metal-studded leather dyed bloodred or oiled jet-black, and loose plates of brightly polished lightweight armor. Glowering down at Spock, he flashed an aggressive grin of subtly pointed teeth. “Emperor Spock,” he said. “I have anticipated this meeting for some time.”

“Greetings, Regent Gorkon,” Spock replied. “Thank you for accepting our invitation.”

A soft grunt prefaced Gorkon’s reply. He smirked slightly. “We both know why I’m here,” he said. “It’s not because I was moved by your invitation.”

Content to abandon small talk, Spock replied, “You are here because the explosion of Praxis has crippled Qo’noS.”

The regent bristled at Spock’s statement, then half smiled. “We are not crippled,” he said. “Damaged, yes, but—”

“Your planet has begun a swift ecological decline,” Spock said. “Toxic elements from the crust of Praxis are breaking down your atmosphere and tainting your fresh water. Within fifty Terran years, Qo’noS will no longer be able to support higher-order life-forms. In addition, nearly seventy percent of its population is dying of xenocerium poisoning as we speak.”

Once again, Gorkon resorted to his emotionally neutral, insincere smile. “You make it sound as though the entire Klingon Empire were collapsing. Qo’noS is only one world.”

“True,” Spock said. “But its symbolic value as a homeworld is considerable. And you know as well as I do that symbols can be just as vital to the stability of an empire as its arsenal.”

The Regent’s glib façade faltered. He stepped away from Spock toward a long window that wrapped in a shallow curve around one wall of the meeting chamber. The window looked down upon the main banquet hall, a dozen meters below. Spock followed Gorkon to the window, though he was careful to remain more than an arm’s length away, to be respectful of the Klingon’s personal space. Looking down, Spock observed that the delegations from the four major powers had, predictably, segregated themselves, despite a conscious effort by the Diplomatic Corps to mingle the preferred foods and beverages of the various species throughout the hall. Mutual understanding did not appear to be favored by the starting conditions of the summit.

Regent Gorkon lifted his eyes from the gathering below and turned toward Spock. “Let us not mince words, Your Majesty,” he said. “We each walked into this room with our own agenda. What is yours?”

“A formal truce,” Spock said. “A treaty declaring the permanent cessation of hostilities between our peoples.”

This time, Gorkon’s smile was honest but disparaging. “You really are out of your mind!” He laughed in great barking roars. “My empire is far from surrender.”

“I did not ask for your surrender,” Spock said. “I am requesting what I want in exchange for what I know you need.”

Pacing away from the window, Gorkon threw back his head and hollered, “Do tell me, Spock! What do I need?” His voice rebounded off the hard, close ceiling.

“Medicines your scientists lack the skill to invent,” Spock replied. “Technology and methods that can restore your planet’s environment to balance.”

“Both of which we could take by force,” Gorkon said, turning like a caged animal at the end of its confines.

With perfect equanimity, Spock said, “You could try.”

“Don’t try to bluff me, Spock.” Gorkon walked back toward him now, more slowly but still menacing. “You’ve been cutting your empire’s defense spending for nearly a decade.”

There was no reason to deny it. “Indeed,” Spock said. “And the resources we have saved have spurred advances both scientific and social.”

“Leaving your defenses soft!” Gorkon sneered. “Dozens of your capital ships have dropped out of service, vanished into your spacedocks, scrapped for parts.”

Spock’s eyebrows lifted for emphasis: “Now it is you who underestimate your opponent, Gorkon.” Before the Regent could retort and escalate the verbal confrontation, Spock changed its direction. “You now know my intention. What is your proposal?”

Gorkon hesitated, then his grin returned, this time conveying the dark glee of avarice mingled with bloodlust. “An alliance,” he said. “Not just some pathetic cease-fire, a full merging of our power. Together, we can crush the Romulans, the Cardassians, the Tholians, and all the rest of the second-rate powers in the quadrant. United, we could reign supreme!”

It was a notion as crass as it was illogical.

“Only one entity can ‘reign supreme,’ Gorkon, as you are no doubt aware,” Spock said, his tone deliberately rich with condescension. “Need I ask which of us would fulfill that role in our grand alliance?” Gorkon’s ire rose quickly. Spock continued. “And when at last we lament there are no more worlds left to conquer, should I not expect our Klingon allies to turn against us, after we have spent ourselves on war? … No, Gorkon, an alliance with your empire is not in the best interests of my people. We will come to your aid, but we will not enlist as your accomplices only to become your victims.”

In just a few quick steps, Gorkon was nose-to-nose with Spock. The Regent’s fanglike teeth were bared, his sour breath hot and rank in Spock’s face, his eyes blazing with indignation. Their bodyguards tensed to intervene. In a whisper that sounded more like a growl, Gorkon said, “Make no mistake, Spock: You and your empire will bow to Klingon rule in my lifetime. I offered you the chance to correct your empire’s failing course and claim your rightful power. Instead, you chose to grovel and bribe like a petaQ.” He spat at Spock’s feet. “Keep your precious medicines and fancy devices. If Qo’noS fails, then it is weak and deserves death—just like you and your empire.”

The Regent turned his back on Spock and marched from the room, followed by his bodyguard. Their door closed behind them, and Spock turned his attention back out the window, to the banquet room below. A minute later, Gorkon emerged from a side corridor and bellowed at the assembled Klingons. All of them turned and glared at the Terran Empire’s delegates, then upended their steins of warnog onto the floor. Hurling aside their fully loaded plates, they stormed together out of the conference hall, no doubt heading back to Gorkon’s transport for a swift departure from Khitomer.

Spock had considered it unlikely Gorkon would accept his offer of a truce, but after a sizable fraction of the Klingons’ new fleet of ships had been lost in the blast at Praxis, it had seemed like a rare opportunity to attempt diplomacy. Had his bid for a permanent cease-fire been successful, Spock reasoned, he might have postponed the final, bitter end of his “great experiment” by a few decades. As it stood now, however, with the Klingons ostensibly committed to waging war with the resources they still possessed, the destruction of Praxis had only accelerated the coming conflagration. Gorkon, having already declared his intentions, would likely invade Terran space in the next two years.

There was still much to do, and Spock’s time had just become oppressively short. Many years earlier, his father had warned him that even the most logically constructed agenda could be derailed by the interference of a single “irrational political actor.” In all Spock’s years, he had never met another species that was even remotely so irrational as the Klingons.

Senator Pardek noted the departure of Regent Gorkon and his entourage from the conference center with muted interest. Exactly as Praetor Vrax had predicted upon receiving Spock’s invitation, the Klingons had made a spectacle of themselves by arriving in force and leaving en masse after a theatrical display. Having observed their steady buildup of military resources in recent years, Pardek was not surprised. They did not come here to negotiate, he concluded. They came to defend their pride by trying to intimidate the rest of us.

He picked halfheartedly at his plateful of broiled paszi. It was undercooked and overspiced. Until today, he mused glumly, I had thought there was no such thing as bad paszi. I was wrong. Setting aside the plate on the end of a banquet table, Pardek slipped discreetly away from his fellow senators. To deflect attention and allay suspicion, he kept to the perimeter of the room and feigned interest in the various culinary delicacies on each table he passed. For appearance’s sake, he even sampled a few of the Cardassian appetizers. Suppressing his gag reflex as he swallowed proved extraordinarily difficult.

Minutes later he was on the far side of the room from the rest of the Romulan delegation, near the door reserved for the Praetor’s use that led upstairs to the meeting chamber. Taking a risk, he strolled nonchalantly through the door, into the corridor on the other side.

A pair of Spock’s elite imperial guards stopped Pardek as the door closed behind him. “Identify yourself,” demanded the taller of the two Vulcan soldiers.

“I am Senator Pardek, representing the Krocton Segment on Romulus. I seek an audience with Emperor Spock.”

A look of suspicion passed between the guards. Again, the taller one spoke for them both. “The Emperor’s invitation was to Praetor Vrax.”

Pardek flashed a grin to mask his impatience. “I did not say I was invited. Only that I wish an audience with His Majesty, Emperor Spock.”

To the shorter guard, the taller Vulcan said, “Watch him.” Then he stepped away and spoke into a small communication device embedded in his wristband. His eyes took on a faraway stare as he listened to the response. When he looked back at Pardek, his expression was resigned but still distrustful. “Where is your escort?” he asked.

“I have none,” Pardek said. “And I am not armed.”

“You will be scanned and searched at the top of the stairs,” the guard said as he stepped aside. He nodded at the shorter Vulcan, who also stood clear of Pardek’s path.

The senator offered polite nods to both men. “Thank you,” he said, then walked up the stairs. As promised, another quartet of guards searched him there, both manually and with sensitive devices. At last satisfied he posed no security threat, the guards ushered him through the door into the meeting chamber.

The large, oval room had a low ceiling that rose to a tentlike apex in its center. In the dimly lit chamber, Emperor Spock was a silhouette in front of the broad window on Pardek’s left. As the senator entered the room, Spock turned away from his observation of the banquet hall to face him. His voice was deep and magnificent in the richly acoustic space. “Senator Pardek,” Spock said. “Welcome.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Your Majesty.”

Spock gestured with an open hand toward a small table set with two chairs. “Please, join me.” Pardek crossed the room in a cautious stride, wary of the sharp-eyed Vulcan woman who was standing in the shadows along the room’s edge, watching him like a raptor eyeing her prey. He stopped at the table, on which rested a tray with a traditional Vulcan tea service. “Sit down,” Spock said, easing himself into his own chair. Pardek sat down and struggled to remember the customs of Vulcan tea.

“Forgive my faulty protocol,” Pardek said. “Is it customary for me to pour your tea?”

The Emperor lifted one eyebrow with apparent curiosity. “It is more a matter of familiarity than of protocol,” he said. “The practice is usually reserved for friends and family members.” Perhaps sensing Pardek’s lingering confusion and hesitation, Spock added, “If you wish to pour my tea, I will take it as a gesture of goodwill.”

Pardek nodded his understanding and picked up the teapot. Taking care not to spill any tea, he filled Spock’s cup. When he set down the teapot, Spock picked it up and reciprocated the courtesy by filling Pardek’s white ceramic cup. “You honor me, Your Majesty,” Pardek said, half bowing his head. “I am humbled by your graciousness.”

After savoring a slow sip of his tea, Spock set down his cup. “Why have you asked for this meeting, Senator?”

Gently setting down his tea, Pardek replied, “This conversation is strictly unofficial.” He took a moment to compose his thoughts. “I have paid close attention to your reforms, Majesty. In attempting to discern a pattern to your actions, all my conclusions have seemed … implausible.”

Mild intrigue animated Spock’s expression. “How so?”

“Your promotion of civil liberties has come at the expense of your own executive power,” Pardek said. “And in the face of growing belligerence from the Klingon Empire, you have been reducing Starfleet rather than expanding it. It seems almost as if you are acting with the intention of letting your empire fall.” He picked up his tea to take another sip. “But of course, that’s an outrageous conclusion.”

“Indeed,” Spock replied. He picked up his own tea.

“May I ask a politically sensitive question, Your Majesty?”

Nodding from behind his tea, Spock said, “You may.”

“Did you, just minutes ago, reject an offer of alliance from Regent Gorkon?”

“I did,” Spock said.

At the risk of being hounded from the Romulan Senate for speaking out of turn, Pardek told Spock, “Praetor Vrax intends to make you a similar offer.” He watched Spock’s face for a reaction but could discern nothing behind that frown-cut visage and gray goatee. “You will reject the Praetor’s offer as well?”

“I shall,” Spock said.

None of it made any sense to Pardek, who set down his teacup a bit more roughly than he’d intended. “I’m sorry, Majesty,” he said, “but I find your actions baffling. You are a wise and learned man—your public addresses and scientific policies have confirmed that. But in strategic and political matters, you seem committed to a suicidal agenda.”

“I disagree,” Spock said.

“Majesty, the Cardassians haven’t come to Khitomer to broker a treaty with your empire; they’re afraid of you, afraid your democratic reforms will inspire a demand for the same in their own nation. And it’s hardly a coincidence the Tholians declined your invitation. Even after you disbanded Operation Vanguard, they’ve remained openly hostile toward your empire. I predict that within two decades they will ally with the Gorn to oust your colonies from the Taurus Reach.”

“And with the Breen to seize all territory from Izar to Vega,” Spock said. “We are well aware of the Tholians’ plans.”

Pardek sat stunned for a moment. “Then why do you not act?”

“Because I choose to react,” Spock said. “I plan to renounce preemptive warfare as a tool of foreign policy. I will not incite conflicts based solely upon what might occur.”

The Romulan senator didn’t know whether to think Spock noble or naïve. “A risky policy given the current astropolitical climate,” Pardek said.

“Perhaps,” Spock replied. “But it is the most logical one. The resources of an empire are finite and in great demand. It is foolish and wasteful to expend them against potentials when they can be more effectively deployed against actualities.”

Allowing himself a moment to absorb Spock’s argument, Pardek leaned back in his chair and idly stroked his chin. “If I might be permitted to inquire, Your Majesty … what did you expect would be the outcome of this summit?”

“An alliance between the Klingons and the Cardassians,” Spock said. “Now that Gorkon lacks sufficient fleet power to conquer my empire alone, he and Legate Renar of Cardassia will negotiate a pact predicated on the goal of destroying the Terran Empire. The Tholian Assembly and the Romulan Star Empire will declare themselves neutral even as they seize several remote systems. The Breen and the Gorn, being consummate opportunists, will work as mercenaries; they will aid the Cardassians and Klingons in their conquest of Terran space. This will all transpire within approximately two years of this conference’s end.”

What horrified Pardek most about Spock’s prediction wasn’t its specificity but rather that the Vulcan Emperor had delivered it with such tranquility. “If you know all this is coming to pass,” Pardek replied, “why do you plan to refuse the Praetor’s offer of alliance? Why let your empire be conquered when we could help you defend it?”

Spock replied with terrifying certainty. “Because the fall of my empire will mean the end of all of yours.”

46

The End in All Things

Spock sat alone in his study. It was late at night. Marlena was asleep, and a deathly quiet suffused the palace’s deserted halls.

The optolythic recorder on his desk awaited his final entry for Memory Omega’s archives. He had postponed this decision until all his other preparations were complete. Many times he had debated with himself whether this final step was necessary, or if it would ultimately prove self-defeating. Arrived now at the moment of action, he accepted the uncertainty of his decision’s consequences and for once chose to embrace truth for its own sake.

I owe the dead at least that much, he scolded himself.

Spock picked up a cup of plasska tea and sipped from it. Setting down the cup, he was ready to begin.

He activated the recorder and faced its camera lens as he spoke.

“I am Spock, the current ruler of the Terran Empire, and this is an accounting of my crimes.

“To attain command of the Starship Enterprise, I murdered my commanding officer, Captain James Tiberius Kirk. I did so without express orders from Starfleet Command or a member of the Admiralty.

“To retain my command over the next several years, I killed several members of Enterprise’s crew. Specifically, I committed or sanctioned the murders of Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, Ensign Janice Rand, Lieutenant Carolyn Palamas, Lieutenant Ilia, and Commander Willard Decker.

“In my role as captain of the Enterprise, I committed war crimes against the crews of foreign navies. Specifically, I murdered the crews of the I.K.S. VorchaS and the Romulan bird-of-prey Bloodied Talon.

“I initiated the self-destruction of the imperial starships Hood and Lexington, with all hands aboard, to stop the renegade I.S.S. Excalibur and save my own vessel and crew.

“I am guilty of numerous acts of sedition and treason. I suborned mutiny against Grand Admiral Garth of Izar and Grand Admiral Matthew Decker, both of whom I conspired to murder. I sabotaged Operation Vanguard, suborned mutiny against Commodore Diego Reyes, and made a treasonous pact with the Tholian Assembly to destroy Starbase 47.

“I assassinated Empress Hoshi Sato III and murdered four platoons of her imperial guards. Acting through intermediaries who perpetrated false-flag attacks, I fomented war between the Cardassian Union and the Tholian Assembly.

“To protect my own political interests and safeguard my hold on power, I ordered the assassination of my own mother, Amanda Grayson.

“I ordered the genocidal extermination of the Trill symbionts, a sentient species, and sanctioned the covert abduction and assassination of hundreds of thousands of Trill humanoids with whom mature symbionts had been bonded.

“Before my reign ends, my executive actions will result in the deaths of billions, and the brutal servitude of billions more.

“I declare these facts not to seek absolution, but to ensure the truth of my reign is preserved. I have become that which I opposed. I am the monster against whom I once railed with such vigor. I am a despot and a tyrant.

“I say these things not as a boast but as a confession. History must never glorify me. Do not applaud me because I claimed to have noble motives. Do not venerate me if one day my plan should come to fruition. Instead, remember me for who and what I really am:

“A villain.”

He turned off the recorder. Removed the permanently encoded optolythic data rod. Turning the translucent, pale blue cylinder in his fingers, he hoped his message would enable a future society to be wise enough never to let someone like him wield power again. He pressed the rod into a foam slot inside a black case, beside a hundred others he had prepared for delivery to Carol Marcus.

Then he closed the case’s lid, locked it, and stood.

It is done, he told himself.

Spock picked up the case and walked out of his sanctum, holding his sins and those of the Empire in his hands.

47

The Ashes of Empire

Nine years had passed since Carol Marcus had last met with Emperor Spock. It had been one of the most demanding and all-consuming periods of her life. There had been few people whom she could trust, and fewer who were actually cleared to know the true scope of the project Spock had code-named Memory Omega. Only her son, David, had she entrusted with the whole truth, shortly after he’d joined her on the project.

Memory Omega was the most ambitious project of its kind she had ever seen. It was a repository of the collected knowledge of the Empire—all its peoples, all its worlds. Science, history, music, art, literature, medicine, philosophy—the preservation of all these endeavors and more was its mission. Multiple redundant sites were linked through a secret, real-time communications network unlike any other known in the galaxy: quantum transceivers, composed of subatomic particles vibrating in perfect sympathy even across interstellar distances, perhaps even across any distance. A frequency provoked in one linked particle vibrated its simpatico partner perfectly. Marcus had hypothesized each pair of sympathetic particles was actually just one particle occupying two points in space-time simultaneously, but so far she had been unable to prove or disprove her supposition. What mattered was that the system worked, and its transmissions were undetectable and completely beyond interception. And what she found most amazing about it was that it had been invented by her own beloved son.

She wished David could be at her side now. A trio of Vulcan imperial guards—one leading her, two following her—escorted her through the deserted, cordoned-off corridors of the I.S.S. Enterprise. Acting on confidential orders from the Emperor, Marcus had left Regula and booked passage on a civilian luxury liner to Garulon. Ten minutes ago, Enterprise had intercepted the liner, though on what pretense Marcus had no idea. As soon as the luxury ship had dropped out of warp, a transporter beam had snared Marcus from her stateroom and rematerialized her aboard Spock’s imperial flagship. This, she surmised, was to be a meeting with no official record and no unnecessary witnesses.

She was led to a door that glided open before her. The guard who had been walking in front of her stepped aside at the threshold and signaled with an outstretched arm that she should continue inside alone. Marcus walked through the open doorway and recognized the telltale signs of a Vulcan habitation: the artificial gravity was slightly stronger, the temperature a little higher, the humidity and the illumination significantly lower. The door closed behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she recognized Emperor Spock on the far side of the room. He looked at her. “Come in, Doctor.”

Marcus crossed the room, honored her host with a nimble curtsey, then replied, “Your Majesty.”

Spock acknowledged her with a nod. “For a number of reasons,” he said, “this meeting must be very brief. Recent developments have made it necessary for us to hasten the completion of the project.”

Alarmed, she asked, “Developments, Majesty?”

“A Klingon-Cardassian alliance will soon move against us,” Spock said. “Within two years they will launch a massive, coordinated attack that will destroy Starfleet.”

Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t think that’s enough time, Majesty. Too many sites are still offline.”

“The Imperial Corps of Engineers is at your disposal, Doctor,” Spock said. “Memory Omega must be completed before the invasion begins.”

Marcus replied, “I don’t think we can finish the project in two years without compromising its secrecy.”

Spock sat and steepled his fingers while he pondered the situation. “Can the last six sites be automated?”

She thought about that, then tilted her head and shrugged. “Yes, but they’d be little more than data-backup nodes.”

“Precisely,” Spock said. “We could halt the terra-forming at those sites and relocate their teams to the existing ones.”

Marcus shook her head. “That would overpopulate the current sites, Majesty. With fewer than three hundred fifty personnel, the sites can be sustained indefinitely. If we exceed that, resource depletion becomes inevitable.”

“Over what time period?” Spock asked.

It took her a few moments to do the math in her head—which was embarrassing, since she knew Spock had probably already completed his own mental calculations with greater accuracy than she was capable of emulating. “Doubling the populations,” she said, “reduces the sustainability period to just less than ninety-one years.”

He frowned. “Unfortunate, but it will have to suffice. I will make the necessary adjustments to the other aspects of the operation.”

All the secrecy in which Spock had shrouded this grand project still worried Marcus. She, her son, and several dozen of the foremost scientific thinkers in the Empire—as well as forty-seven previously suppressed dissidents, artists, and progressive political philosophers—had been sequestered inside the Genesis Cave deep within the Regula planetoid for close to three years. They also had directed the creation of several dozen more hidden redoubts just like it, in various remote sectors of the Empire, always in unpopulated star systems as devoid of exploitable resources as they were empty of life-forms. Though it had seemed at first like an intellectuals’ paradise, it soon had come to seem increasingly like a prison.

“Your Majesty, I have a question about the project.”

In a surprisingly candid tone, the Emperor said, “Ask.”

Mustering her courage, she said, “Why are all the people who most strongly support you being hidden away? It’s obvious you’re working to turn the Empire into a republic. We could help ease that transition. Why sequester us?”

“When the Klingon-Cardassian invasion comes,” Spock said, “it will succeed, and we will be conquered. But when the war is long over, Memory Omega will be the seed from which our republic will be reborn, rising from the ashes of empire.” He got up, moved to a cabinet along one wall, and opened it. From inside he took a large black case with a handle. “Inside this case are data rods containing the final entries for the archives.” He handed it to her. “Guard them well.”

The case was heavy enough that as Marcus took it from Spock, its weight wrenched her shoulder. Straightening her posture, she asked, “What’s on them?”

“The truth,” Spock said. After a pause, he added, “The transporter room is standing by to beam you back to your ship. You should return before your absence is noted.”

“Of course, Majesty,” she said.

He lifted his right hand and spread his fingers in the traditional Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Doctor Marcus.”

Remembering the proper response, she lifted her own right hand and copied the finger positions as best she could. “Honor and long life, Your Majesty.” They lowered their hands, and Marcus walked toward the door. As the portal opened ahead of her, she stopped and looked back. “I just realized,” she said, “I never thanked you for killing Jim Kirk. … I was always afraid of what he would’ve done if he’d known about David.”

“You were wise to fear him,” Spock said, sending a chill through her. “He would have killed you both.”

The door buzzer sounded and Spock bid his visitor enter.

He turned at the sound of the opening door. Captain Saavik walked in and saluted him as the door closed behind her. “Doctor Marcus has been beamed back to her ship, Majesty.”

“Well done, Captain.” Now that he had a moment to actually look at her, he was pleased to see commanding a starship flattered her. The hesitation of her youthful self was gone, the uncertainty of her Academy days supplanted by conviction and discipline. It would be a shame to make her give it up, but it was time for her to embrace a larger destiny. “Two days after we reach Earth,” he said, “I will convene a special joint session of the legislature to make a statement about the results of the Khitomer Conference. But before I do so, you will resign from Starfleet and return to Vulcan.”

Saavik’s stoic countenance betrayed no reaction. “Permission to speak freely, Majesty?”

“Granted.”

“Is there a connection between the timing of your address and your request for my resignation?”

Spock nodded. “There is. When my declaration is complete, nothing will be the same. It would be best if you were away by then, traveling under an alias.”

For a few moments, she broke eye contact and processed what he had said. When her eyes turned back to him, they carried the gleam of cognition. “Then this is to be the moment you spoke of so long ago?”

“It is,” he said.

His answer seemed to trouble her. “This is far more abrupt than I had imagined it would be. Unrest, even rebellion might follow, and our enemies will—”

“I am aware of the risks,” Spock said.

Small motions and expressions—a twitch near the creases of her right eye, the subtle curling of her fingers into the first inkling of a fist—conveyed her profound anxiety. “This is not a time to deprive yourself of allies, Your Majesty.”

“Nor am I doing any such thing,” Spock countered. “I am, however, redeploying my allies to those locations where they can serve me best. And it is time for you to return to Vulcan.”

The muscles of her face relaxed, and her fingers gave up their slow curl. Resignation brought her singularity of focus and tranquility of mind.

“Then this is the end,” she said.

“And the beginning,” Spock confirmed.

Eyes downcast, Saavik said, “As you command, Majesty. I will resign.” Then she met his gaze with her own steely look. “But before I do, I have one final duty to perform.”

Orders filled the air, loud, crisp, and fierce. “Single file, left face! Atten—tion! Hai!” The emperor’s elite guards snapped into formation, pivoted left on their heels, and stiffened to attention, eyes front.

In the middle of the line, Valeris kept her stare level and unblinking. The captain of the guard walked past her, reviewing the line before Emperor Spock and Empress Marlena exited the turbolift from the imperial residence. Moments from now, the guards would escort them on the short walk to the Forum chamber, where the legislature awaited the Emperor’s arrival. A live, real-time subspace transmission had already begun, to share with the entire population of the Empire what Spock’s advisers had promised would be a “momentous announcement.”

I must remain calm. Valeris focused on the well-rehearsed details of her mission. This was her appointed hour to strike. No strategy was required here, only commitment. Her armor, loaded with trilithium, was fully primed and ready to be detonated. I will die, but this failed political experiment will end, and a stronger empire will be born. She told herself this was a logical exchange—her life for the continued safety of the Empire, under the more competent guidance of the military. Years of preparation had brought her to this threshold moment. One press of a button and her mission would be complete. The action would be simple; her readiness to act would be all.

One final check. She reached down to confirm that the detonator, disguised as a communicator, was secure on her hip.

It was missing.

The first flutter of alarm had barely registered in her mind when she felt a pair of blades stab up, under the layered plates of her lorica segmentata, and slice deep into her torso from both sides. Her cry of pain caught in her throat, which rapidly fountained with dark green blood.

To either side of her, none of the other guards moved to her aid. Not one of them even looked at Valeris as her knees buckled and delivered her rudely onto the floor. Torov, the captain of the guard, watched her crumple to the ground … and then he turned his back on her.

Lying on the cold marble slabs, surrounded by her own lifeblood, Valeris watched as her killer stepped through the gap in the line where she herself had stood seconds earlier.

Captain Saavik towered above Valeris, the bloody daggers still in her hands. She squatted beside Valeris and spoke in a husky whisper, as though they were intimates exchanging secrets. “Your accomplice General Quiniven was exposed two months ago,” Saavik said. Her dark eyes burned momentarily with venomous hatred. “Several weeks in a Klingon mind-sifter exposed the rest of your conspirators. So in case you think Admirals Cartwright, Bennett, or Morrow will finish your grand plan for you, they will not. Nor will Colonel West, nor Commodore Vosrok, nor Admiral zh’Ferro.”

Valeris’s head lolled toward the floor. Saavik slipped the flat of one of her blades under Valeris’s chin and gently turned the expiring woman’s face so they made eye contact again. Valeris saw Saavik’s other dagger, held high, ready to deliver the coup de grâce. The turbolift doors opened at the end of the hallway, and Emperor Spock and Empress Marlena emerged.

“One man is about to summon the future,” Saavik told Valeris, “but you will not live to see it.” Saavik’s dagger struck—sharp, cold, and deadly—but for Valeris the fatal blow was not nearly so terrible as the sting of her own failure.

Spock and Marlena paused together at the stairs to the podium. She took his hand. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“It is time,” he said. “We cannot afford to wait.”

Her trembling frown concealed her swell of emotions. “Then let it be done,” she said, and she released his hand.

Alone, Emperor Spock climbed the stairs and moved to the lectern, awash in the percussive roar of applause, all of it from the floor of the Common Forum. The sound rebounded from the gilt dome of the ceiling, beneath which the ring of balconies were filled with scowling senators and governors of grim bearing. The Emperor rested his hands on the lectern’s edges and waited. Moments later the applause diminished, then it dissipated like a summer rainstorm coming to a sudden end.

“Members of the legislature,” Spock began, enunciating with precision. “Distinguished governors of the Empire. Honored guests. Please be seated.” His standing audience sat down in a rustle of movement. When they had settled, he continued. “I have convened this joint session to issue an imperial proclamation with no precedent. In recent years, I have instituted reforms of a radical nature, altering the structure of our government and shifting the tenor of our domestic and foreign policies.

“Today shall mark another such change.”

A worried murmur coursed through the thousands of people gathered in the Common Forum. Spock waited for the susurrus to abate before he pressed ahead. Just as he had done when making his declaration of citizens’ freedoms nine years earlier, he had ordered this address transmitted on a live subspace channel to every world in the Empire and to its foreign neighbors. Hundreds of billions of people were about to witness the boldest, and last, reforms of Spock’s imperial reign.

“Since the hour of its inception, our empire has been predicated on tyranny. Territory and resources have been seized by force of arms, dissent crushed and made criminal, loyalty secured through intimidation.

“The Terran Empire has expended as much blood and treasure suppressing its own people as it has defending itself from foreign powers. This ruthless policing of our own citizens is one factor in our cultural stagnation; another is that we can grow only as quickly as we can conquer.

“War is an inefficient means to an end. It leaves ruin in its wake, resources expended for naught, lives taken and given in vain. It is the most egregious form of waste known to sentient beings, and, like all waste, it is illogical. For more than a century, preemptive war has been the chief instrument of foreign and domestic policy for this empire.

“No longer. On behalf of the Empire, I renounce it.”

The hubbub of alarm was stronger now, from the Forum members as well as the senators. Their reaction was just as Spock had expected; he had known from the outset this moment would terrify them, but that could not be helped. And now that he had begun, there was no longer any choice but to push on to the inevitable end.

“A nation founded on waste and injustice cannot endure,” he said with force, quieting the rumbles of the legislature. “For several decades, the leaders of Vulcan have known that our empire is on a path to its own demise. Habitable worlds and energy reserves are both finite; we will exhaust our resources and collapse into civil war within two hundred fifteen years—unless we change the course of our civilization.”

Spock hesitated before making his next statement. To make a revelation such as this to the galaxy at large was a gamble, one whose outcome had proved too complex to predict. He chose to let the truth speak for itself. “During my service in Starfleet, I met four people from another, parallel universe—one much like our own, and very different. Those four people were that universe’s versions of my own captain and crewmates, transposed across the dimensional barrier by a transporter accident.

“In returning them to their own universe and recovering my crewmates, I was afforded a glimpse of their reality. They had come from a federation of planets, a coalition of worlds bound together by mutual consent. These worlds and peoples shared their resources and knowledge willingly, defended each other mutually, and valued life and freedom more than power. And they prospered for it. Harmony had brought them stability. Peace had made possible the eradication of hunger and poverty.

“Their way of life is peaceful. Sustainable. Logical.”

Stunned, ostensibly horrified silence filled the Forum chamber. Determined to seize the moment, Spock continued. “The path I have chosen for our future is modeled on that which I have seen succeed beyond even our most optimistic projections. Despotism is a path to self-destruction. Our best hope for survival and prosperity lies in reforming our civilization as a representative republic, with a system of checks and balances between strongly constrained and coequal branches of government, and a charter of inalienable rights and freedoms that guarantees the sovereignty of the citizen over the state.

“As of today, I issue my final decrees as Emperor: I revoke the authority of the planetary governors and command that they be replaced by elected presidents.” He touched a single key on his lectern. “Second, I have just transmitted to every member of the Forum and Senate a proposed charter for this new political entity. It is now the duty of the legislature to review this document, revise it, ratify it, and submit it to the head of state for enactment.

“My third and final decree: the Terran Empire is hereby dissolved, and the Terran Republic is established. I shall assume the role of Consul for a period of not more than four years, after which I shall be required to stand for reelection, like any member of the legislature.

“Imperial fiat is hereby replaced by a charter of law, subject to legislative review and amendment.

“The Empire is over. Former governors, I thank you for your past service and discharge you. Distinguished members of the Forum and Senate, when you are ready to discuss the charter proposal, I will be at your service. Until then, I pledge myself to defending the rights and freedoms of the citizens of the Terran Republic, whom I now serve. Thank you, and farewell.”

Raging howls of protest wailed in the cavernous hall as Consul Spock walked away from the lectern, descended the stairs, and joined his wife for the rapid retreat back to the turbolift.

Even amid the din of shouting voices, Spock distinctly heard epithets and slurs aimed in his direction. Change always frightened humans, he knew, and he had just upended their entire civilization. Even though he was no longer an emperor, his elite guards swiftly moved into a protective formation around him and Marlena and escorted them from the Forum at a brisk step. Without stopping to answer questions from the many furious Starfleet officers in the hallway, Spock and Marlena jogged into the turbolift. Marlena sighed with relief as the doors slid shut and they were once more cocooned in silence.

“It’s really done,” she said, sounding both amazed and terrified. “You did it. … The Empire’s gone.”

For once, Spock was at a loss for words. His emotional control almost faltered as he contemplated the enormity of what he had just done, and how irrevocable it was—or, more precisely, how irrevocable it soon would be.

The doors of the turbolift opened, and he walked back into the formerly imperial, now consular residence. Marlena remained close behind him as he moved resolutely through the opulent foyer and parlor to the private antechamber where he kept the Tantalus field device. Incorrectly anticipating his intentions, she bounded ahead of him and keyed in the sequence to open its concealing panel, which lifted away to reveal the device’s tarnished but still perfectly functional interface.

She spoke quickly, her voice pitched with excitement. “We’ll have to move quickly, there won’t be much time. I’d suggest getting rid of Senator ch’Neth before he—”

“Marlena,” Spock interrupted, drawing a small hand phaser from beneath his robe. “Step away from the device.”

Horror and panic made her look crazed, feral. She spread her arms, shielded the device with her body. “No,” she protested. “Spock, you can’t! We need it. Without it, we can’t defend ourselves. All the work, everything we fought for—it won’t mean anything without the power to enforce it. Think about what you’re doing!”

“I have thought about nothing else for the past twenty-six years,” Spock said. “Moments ago, I forced our government to renounce terror and preemptive violence as instruments of statecraft; I must now relinquish them as tools of politics.” He stepped closer to her, keeping the phaser leveled at her trembling body. “This device must never fall into the hands of another tyrant, Marlena. It has served our purposes, but it is time to let it go. … Step out of the way.”

Marlena’s resolve weakened, then it collapsed. Her arms fell limp at her sides, and she stepped clear and moved behind Spock. He took careful aim and set his phaser to maximum power. A single, prolonged burst of phaser energy vaporized the interface of the Tantalus field device, melted its internal components, and finally reduced its mysterious, shielded core to a puddle of bubbling slag and acrid, blue-white smoke.

The deadliest implement of arbitrary power Spock had ever known was gone, destroyed with the secrets of its creation.

This, he knew, was the beginning of the end.