by David Mack
Spock thought he noticed a frown on Sarek’s face as the older man rose from the table and paced across the cabin. Watching his father stroll the perimeter of the room as though it were an activity of great interest reminded Spock of his youth, growing up in Sarek’s home on Vulcan. Whenever Sarek had become displeased with him, he’d paced like this. “As it ever was, so it remains,” Sarek said, half under his breath. “You have served the ambitions of humans all your life—no doubt thanks to the influence of your mother and your own human DNA. Assuming command of a starship has only made your devotion to the Terrans’ cause more strident.”
“Why do you assume it is their interests I serve?”
Spreading his arms to gesture at the space around them, Sarek said, “You command one of their starships. You ask me to help increase their power and wealth by proposing we invite Coridan into the Empire. What other conclusion should I draw?”
“You have heard only the first step in my proposal,” Spock pointed out. “I think you will find its later stages intriguing for their anticipated effect upon the status quo.”
“I am well acquainted with how the Terrans adjust the status quo,” Sarek replied. Many times had Spock listened patiently while Sarek recounted, with thinly veiled bitterness, the manner in which humans, immediately following their first contact with the crew of a Vulcan scout ship, had captured the scouts and tortured them into divulging the secrets of interstellar navigation. In short order, the Terrans had turned the Vulcans’ knowledge to their own aims, laying the foundation for their nascent star empire.
“You assume facts not in evidence, Sarek.” He waited until he once again commanded Sarek’s full attention, and then he continued. “Strengthening the Empire is not my objective. In fact, I aim to do quite the opposite.”
A twinge of emotion fluttered across Sarek’s countenance. Fear, perhaps? He moved slowly, positioning the table between himself and his son. In a milder tone than he had used before, he said, “Speak plainly, Spock.”
“Fact: The Empire’s policies of preemptive warfare and civil oppression are not sustainable, and will soon collapse.”
Cautiously, Sarek nodded. “Stipulated.”
Emboldened, Spock pressed on. “Fact: Within approximately two hundred forty-three Earth years, uprisings will compromise the security of the Terran Empire from within, even as it wages a war against multiple external threats. The ensuing collapse will most probably destroy millennia of accumulated knowledge, triggering an interstellar dark age without precedent in the history of local space.”
Sarek nodded gravely. “Vulcan’s Council has reached the same conclusion. The Empire’s collapse is inevitable.”
“Agreed,” Spock said. “The Empire cannot be saved. But the civilization it supports can be—with a different, more benign form of government.”
The upward pitch of Sarek’s tone would barely have been noted by a non-Vulcan, but to Spock it registered as indignation. “You speak of treason, Spock.”
“I speak of the inevitability of change, Sarek.” He picked up Sarek’s half-full cup of tea from the table and held it before himself. “The Empire will fall. And when it does—” He let the cup fall to the deck. It broke into dozens of small jagged fragments, spilling tea in an irregular puddle across the carpet. “All within it will be lost. Unless—” He picked up his own cup from the table, opened the lid on the ceramic pot in the middle of the table, and poured his leftover tea back inside. Then he casually hurled the cup against the wall, where it shattered into countless earthen shards.
Several seconds passed while Sarek considered Spock’s point. The metaphor had been obvious enough that Spock had not felt the need to elaborate after throwing the empty cup. He was certain Sarek understood he meant to transition the imperial civilization to a new form of government before making a sacrifice of the Empire itself, casting it aside after it had been gutted and reduced to a hollow shell of its former self.
“My son,” Sarek began, sounding as though he were selecting each word with great care, “I ask this with genuine concern: Do you suffer from a mental infirmity?”
The question was not unexpected. Spock shook his head once. “I am in full possession of my faculties, Father.” He took one step toward Sarek. “It will take time for my plan to come to fruition. I must cultivate allies and fortify a power base. But it can be done—and if we wish to prevent the sum of all Vulcan thought and achievement from being erased less than three centuries from now, it must be done.”
Sarek emerged from behind the table. He stepped slowly between the shards of the broken cups. “For the sake of our discussion, let us assume you can seize power over the Empire, and maintain your hold long enough to push it toward its own demise. What do you propose should replace it?”
“A constitutionally ordered, representative republic,” Spock said. As he’d expected, Sarek recoiled from the notion.
“Most illogical,” Sarek replied. “The Empire is too large to be governed in such a manner. It would fall into civil war.”
Nodding, Spock said, “As an Empire, yes. But as a coalition of sovereign worlds, united for their mutual benefit, much of its administration could be localized. Each planet would be responsible for its own governance and would contribute to the interstellar defenses of the republic.”
“Madness,” Sarek retorted. “You would never be able to maintain control.”
“Irrelevant,” Spock said. “When it is in each world’s best interest to remain united with the others, it will no longer be necessary to compel their loyalty. Self-interest will dictate that the good of the many also benefits the few—or the one.”
The elder Vulcan stopped in front of the food slot and pushed a sequence of buttons to procure more tea. High-pitched warbles of sound emanated from behind the device’s closed panel. “The populace is not ready for self-rule, Spock. After centuries of dictatorship, the responsibilities of civic duty will be alien to them. They will reject it.” The food-slot panel lifted, revealing a new ceramic pot and two empty cups on a tray. Sarek picked up the tray and moved it to the table. “And our enemies will capitalize on the chaos that follows from your reforms.”
“I am not suggesting we dismantle Starfleet,” Spock said. He moved to the table and stood opposite his father. “If reform is to have a chance to succeed, foreign interference must be prevented.” He gestured for Sarek to be seated. As his father sat, so did Spock. He reached forward, lifted the teapot, and filled his father’s cup with a slow, careful pour. “I do not propose to effect my changes all at once,” Spock said. “Progress must come by degrees.” Spock set down the teapot. “By the time our rivals are aware of the true scope of my intentions, they will be ill-prepared to act.”
Leaning forward, Sarek said, “But when they do act, Spock, their reprisal will be catastrophic.” He picked up the teapot and, with the measured motions of an old man in no hurry to reach the end of his life, poured tea into Spock’s cup. “It is logical to conclude the Empire cannot endure, but to contend the solution to that problem is to prematurely destroy the Empire is … counterintuitive, at best.”
“Indeed,” Spock replied as he watched Sarek set down the teapot. Spock picked up his cup and savored the gentle aroma of the herbal elixir. “But to do nothing is more illogical still.”
“True,” Sarek replied. He breathed deep the perfume of his own tea. They sipped their drinks together for several minutes, each contemplating what the other had said. It was Sarek who finally broke the silence. “I find much of what you propose troubling, Spock. However, given the inevitable decline and fall of the Empire, yours seems the most logical course.”
“Most generous,” Spock said.
“I offer you this caveat, however,” Sarek added. “Even the most thoroughly logical agenda can be confounded by the actions of an irrational political actor—and humans are nothing if not irrational. They can be passionate, vindictive, sometimes even loyal … but more than any other species I have ever met, they are
willing to kill and die for ideology. Most any species will fight for territory, resources, or survival. But Terrans, far beyond all the others, will readily slaughter billions and lay waste to entire worlds for the sake of an idea. Choosing the nobler of two paths will not come naturally to them. … They will have to be fooled into acting in their own best interest.”
There was wisdom in Sarek’s words, Spock knew. “Your point is well taken,” he said. “Perhaps it is my own human ancestry that has spurred me on this admittedly ideological course of action. That, most of all, is why I humbly seek to enlist you as my chief political counsel.”
“I would be honored.”
Rising from his seat, Spock said, “There also is one other matter of importance.” Gesturing toward the sleep nook in the back of the cabin, he called out, “Marlena. Join us.”
Sarek also stood as Marlena appeared from the shadows. She was attired in her nightclothes, and her long, dark hair was tousled. She strode to Spock’s side and clutched delicately at his arm. “You shouldn’t have woken me,” she said with a glare. “I was having a good dream for a change.”
Spock ignored her complaint. “This is Lieutenant Marlena Moreau—my fiancée.” Turning to her, he continued. “Marlena, this is Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan … my father.”
She looked quickly from Spock to Sarek, then blushed with shame. “Forgive me, Ambassador. I didn’t mean to … I mean, I wanted to make a better first impression than this. I …” She stammered for a few seconds more without forming any actual words. Spock and Sarek waited, each with one eyebrow raised.
“Emotional, isn’t she?” Sarek noted.
“Indeed,” Spock admitted.
“Why do you wish to marry her?”
With a tilt of his head, Spock gave the only honest answer. “It seems the logical thing to do.”
Sarek nodded. “I understand.” He took two short steps toward the door. “Rest tonight, Spock. We will speak again before the conference.” He glanced once at Marlena, then, almost imperceptibly, signaled his approval to Spock with the barest hint of a nod. “The future awaits us; we have much to do.”
2268
3
The Sleep of Reason
Death was close at hand; Empress Hoshi Sato II felt it. The shadows of her bedchamber vibrated with its icy promise.
Candles flickered on the periphery of the ornately appointed room. A haze of lavender incense smoke lingered like a gauzy blanket above her bed; her Andorian physician, Dr. th’Nellis, had chosen it for its cloying, quasi-medicinal sweetness, in a futile effort to mask the odors of the Empress’s ancient, dying body.
Hoshi II found the fragrance repugnant, but after all Dr. th’Nellis had done to extend her life, she didn’t wish to embarrass him by ordering it removed. The soft-spoken thaan had spent most of the past decade supervising the Empress’s gene therapy, and transplanting vital organs and transfusing fresh blood from lobotomized clones of her predecessor, the original Empress Hoshi Sato. His efforts had verged on the heroic, but there was nothing more to be done.
Her body felt insubstantial, as if it were a feather on the wind. She was as weak as the winter sun, as tired as a dream that wanted to die.
Not yet, she thought, willing herself to live. She had words she needed to speak, a sacred charge she needed to impart.
She beckoned with one withered hand. “Come closer, sister.”
Soft footfalls broke the silence as her teenage twin, Hoshi Sato III, stepped out of the gloom to stand by the bed. The youth caressed a strand of gray hair from her elderly sibling’s cheek with one hand; in the other she held a wineglass filled with cabernet the color of blood. The young woman’s touch was warm, but her expression was cold as she gazed down at the Empress. “I’m here,” she said.
“I don’t have much time left,” the Empress said, her once-melodious voice reduced to a dry rasp.
The cloned echo of her youth replied without pity, “So I see.”
The Empress summoned the last of her failing strength. “I never gave you a chance to know me.”
“I know your reputation.”
“Then you know only a fiction.” A sharp pain in the Empress’s chest stole her breath. When it passed, she continued. “Like the first Empress Sato, I wanted more for the Empire than war and slaughter. I wanted it to be secure. Stable.”
Her heir-apparent let slip a soft snort of derision. “Forgive me for correcting your history, Majesty, but all your predecessor wanted was for her dynasty to be secure, and she saw the Empire as little more than a means to that end. That’s why we exist—because she wanted to make sure her empire had her face forever. We’re nothing more than copies of the biggest narcissist in galactic history.”
“We bear her likeness, but that doesn’t mean we’re doomed to live in her shadow. We can chart our own path, sister.”
The future sovereign smirked. “An ironic statement, coming from you.”
“I ruled according to my conscience, not hers.”
“Strange, then, that your actions and hers proved so similar. In fact, the only substantial difference I see in your respective reigns is that she had to conquer the Empire to became its tyrant. All you had to do was inherit it.”
“A despot is what I became,” the Empress said. “Not what I meant to be.”
“Let me guess: you aspired to a benevolent dictatorship.” She rolled her brown eyes and shook her head. “How banal.”
The sovereign’s voice faltered as she weakened. “I’d hoped to reform the Empire. Curb its excesses. Steer it toward a nobler path.”
“A reformer? You?” Hoshi III laughed angrily. “The Murderess of Andoria? The woman who redefined ‘ruthlessness’ for a generation?”
The Empress exhaled heavily and squeezed shut her eyes in anger and shame. “I confess, I fell for the seductions of power. Couldn’t resist serving my whims … my obsessions … my base desires. It was too much. I … I lost sight of myself.”
Recoiling and adopting a suspicious mien, the younger Sato asked, “Why are you telling me this, Majesty?”
“So you can learn from my mistakes,” the Empress said. “I no longer have the strength or time to chart a new course for the Empire. You do.” She reached out and grasped her twin’s hand, which was smooth and supple with youth. “You can steer the Terran Empire back toward honor.”
Young Hoshi’s brow knitted with confusion and amusement. “Why would I want to do that, Majesty? I’ve spent my whole life preparing to rule. And now, on the cusp of my coronation, you expect me to renounce the plenary power that’s my birthright? To shoulder the burdens of a prince’s throne while denying myself its most cherished perquisites?” She brusquely pulled her hand from the Empress’s grasp. “Have you finally lost your mind?”
“No, I’ve finally found my reason.”
The nineteen-year-old lunged forward as if to pounce on the bedridden sovereign. Perched on her fists, she hovered over her crone of a sister and let her lips curl into a menacing snarl. “You’re just a confused old woman,” she said, her voice freighted with contempt. “Honor? Nobility? You mewl like a coward fresh from a Klingon mind-sifter, or a child on her way to the agony booth.”
Regret swelled in the heart of the Empress. There would be no counseling her successor, no mitigating the ferocity or terror of the reign to come. This new monarch was a child of raw power and old privilege, a twisted product of the corrupt imperial court, a scion of cruel ambition.
“Heed my words, or don’t,” said the Empress. “But do not mock me, child.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I need to rest. Leave me.”
“In a moment,” the teen replied, locking eyes with the Empress.
Empress Sato II inhaled and savored one last breath tinged with lavender incense. She knew what was coming next.
The girl grabbed a pillow from the bed and pushed it down on the Empress’s face, leaning into it with all her weight and strength.
The Empress flailed feebly with her emaciated
arms. Through the smothering mass of the pillow, she heard her successor pretend to comfort her.
“Shhh. Sleep, sister. It’ll be over in a moment.”
Within seconds the last spark of the Empress’s will faded, taking with it her panic and fear. Her arms came to rest at her sides.
Poised on the edge of oblivion, she expected to hate her killer.
Instead she felt only gratitude—because the Empire had at last become someone else’s problem.
4
The Fire of Sacrifice
The bridge of the Enterprise was a charred husk, a sparking shell resounding with the groans of the wounded. Thick, acrid smoke shrouded the overhead. The main viewscreen alternated between dull blackness and bursts of static.