Star Trek Mirror Universe - The Sorrows of Empire

by David Mack

  Spock and his bodyguards debarked from the skiff. After a curt greeting, he directed his men simply, “Places.” He took his place at the head of their procession, with his bodyguards in tight formation behind him. Riley and Scott formed the next rank, followed by Xon and M’Benga. Spock signaled the senior imperial guard that he was ready.

  After relaying the message ahead into the throne room, the guard received his orders from his superior, and he turned to face his men. “Open the door and announce the grand admiral.”

  Resounding clangs, from the release of magnetic locks inside the enormous metal doors, vibrated the marble floor beneath Spock’s feet. He lifted his chin proudly but kept his expression neutral. The doors parted and swung inward. Golden radiance from the other side spilled out in long, angled shafts. In a blink of his inner eyelid, his sight adjusted to the luminous appointments of the throne room.

  A great fanfare sounded, and a herald stepped in front of the door and faced the throne. “Your Majesty: presenting His Martial Eminence, Grand Admiral Spock, supreme commander of your imperial armed forces.” Another fanfare blared as Spock stepped through the doorway, trailed by his retinue.

  The imperial court was resplendent with trappings of gold and crimson. Legions of imperial shock troops manned the upper balconies, from which were draped gigantic red-and-gold banners emblazoned with the imperial icon, the Earth impaled on a broadsword, stabbed through the heart by its own martial ambitions.

  The expansive lower concourse was crowded with courtiers, pages, personal bodyguards, foreign ambassadors, imperial advisers, and members of the cabinet. Several planetary governors also were present, among them Kodos of Tarsus IV, Oxmyx of Sigma Iotia IV, and Plasus of Ardana. The majority of the guests hovered around the overfilled banquet tables like vultures feasting on a killing field.

  Walls covered in damask were lined with portraits of members of the royal family, but none were so commanding in their presence as the ones that were holo-graphically projected behind the throne at the far end of the great hall. Twenty meters high, the trio of high-definition likenesses formed the portrait of a dynasty in the making: Empress Hoshi Sato I, Empress Hoshi Sato II, and Empress Hoshi Sato III—the currently reigning imperial monarch, who presided from her throne high atop a truncated half-pyramid of stairs, surrounded by another company of her elite guards.

  Spock and his retinue marched in solemn strides toward the throne. Quickly, the chaotic crowd formed itself into orderly rows, aligned by rank. Thunderous applause swelled and became almost deafening as Spock continued forward. The Empress and her soldiers, however, remained still and silent.

  The broad base of the stairs to the Empress’s platform was surrounded by a ten-meter-wide border of obsidian floor panels. Polished to perfection, their glassy black surface reflected Spock’s weathered visage with such clarity that he could see every graying whisker in his goatee. It was there that a quartet of imperial guards blocked him and his retinue. The captain of the guard said gruffly, “Grand Admiral Spock: By order of Her Imperial Majesty, from here you proceed alone.” Then he motioned for Spock to follow him up the stairs, toward the throne.

  Spock passed through the invisible energy barrier that protected the Empress’s throne. A galvanic tingle coursed over his skin and bristled the hairs on the back of his hands. Once he was on the other side, he heard a subtle hum, gently rising in tone, as the force field returned to full strength behind him. As he had suspected, a small gap had been opened only long enough to grant him ingress to the Empress’s inner circle. Now that he was separated from his bodyguards, they would be unable to intervene when the Empress gave the order for her troops to execute him. Directed-energy weapons, projectiles, and most other forms of ranged armaments could not penetrate the shield in either direction. And because imperial law forbade him from bearing arms into the presence of the Empress, he would have no means of defending himself.

  He climbed the stairs without hesitation.

  Ten steps from the top, Empress Sato’s voice commanded him, “Halt.” Spock genuflected before the Empress. “Welcome, Grand Admiral Spock,” she continued. “This court is honored by your august presence.”

  Because she did not bid him rise, he remained on one knee. “It is I who am honored, Your Majesty—by your most gracious invitation, and by the opportunity to serve the Empire as its grand admiral.”

  Irritation colored her words. “My dear admiral, I believe you have misspoken. You serve me, not the Empire at large. I am your sovereign.”

  “I acknowledge you are the sovereign ruler of the Empire,” Spock replied. “But I have not misspoken.”

  Her mouth curled into a smirk, but anger flashed in her eyes. “Your reputation is well earned,” she said, her demeanor hostile and mocking. “A ‘rogue,’ that’s what Grand Admiral Decker called you. Before him, Grand Admiral Garth of Izar labeled you a ‘radical,’ a ‘free thinker.’ Now I hear rumors you see yourself as a reformer.”

  “I have been, remain, and will continue to be all those things,” Spock admitted.

  She abandoned the artifice of sarcasm and spoke directly. “Your penchant for compromise troubles me, Spock. Negotiation and diplomacy are tools of the weak.”

  “Quite the contrary,” Spock said. “Only from a position of strength can one afford to offer—”

  “Silence!” she snapped. “Having someone of your temperament as grand admiral is a threat to the security of the Empire. It will invite attack by our enemies, both internal and external. How can the Empire be assured of its safety when its supreme military commander is an avowed appeaser of its rivals?”

  Looking directly and unabashedly at the Empress, he replied, “Every action I have taken has been grounded in logic. I have never acted to the benefit of our enemies, but only to serve the best interests of the Empire and its people.”

  Empress Sato III blinked in disbelief, as if Spock had just committed a grievous faux pas. “The people?” she said, with obvious contempt. She rose from her throne and descended the stairs toward him. Her guards advanced quickly behind her, weapons at the ready. “Since when do the people matter, Spock? The people are fodder, a source of revenue to be taxed, a pool of raw material to be kept ignorant and afraid until I need them to be angry and swell with pride.” With a sneer she added, “The people are pawns. Their ‘best interests’ are irrelevant.” She climbed back to the top of the stairs, then turned and glared at him with all the haughty grandeur she could muster. “As irrelevant as you, my dear half-breed.” Raising her arm, she called out, “Guards!”

  Weapons were brought to bear with a heavy clattering sound. Spock kept his attention on the Empress, ignoring the dozens of phaser rifles aimed at him from every direction.

  A flare of light and a crackle of blistering heat. Spock gazed into the blinding brilliance, stoic in the face of sudden annihilation. Then a sharp bite of ozone filled his nose, and a warm breath of air passed over him.

  He heard the gasps of the crowd beyond the force field.

  Empress Sato and her company of elite guards were gone. Not a trace of them remained—not scraps of clothing, not ashes, nothing at all.

  Spock stood, turned, and gazed intently at the legions of guards on the upper balconies. Another massive pulse of pure white incandescence erupted on every balcony, leaving only the silhouettes of skeletons to linger for a moment in the afterglow. Blinks of light stutter-stepped through the crowd in the hall, finding every imperial guard in the throne room. Within seconds, it was over.

  For a moment, all anyone below could do was look around in horror, dumbstruck with fright at this invincible blitzkrieg. Then, inevitably, all eyes gazed upward, toward Spock.

  He turned away from the crowd.

  Climbed the stairs.

  Seated himself upon the throne.

  And he waited.

  Then, from far below, outside the protective energy barrier, sounded a man’s solitary voice, one Spock didn’t recognize, repeating a lonely declara
tion in the echoing vastness of the great hall until his voice was joined by another, then by several more, and finally by the booming roar of a crowd chanting fervently and in unison.

  All hail Emperor Spock!

  With two gentle touches of Saavik’s hand, the panel slid closed over the Tantalus field device’s control panel. Seemingly unperturbed by the momentous and pivotal role she had just played in the fate of the Empire, she walked calmly out of Spock’s quarters. The door hissed closed and locked behind her.

  Concealed behind a false panel in the bulkhead opposite the secret weapon, Marlena Moreau breathed a tired sigh. She was greatly relieved to know Saavik was loyal to Spock. It would make it easier for her to trust the young Vulcan woman from now on. If the targeting cursor of the Tantalus field had fallen for even a moment upon Spock’s image, Marlena had been ready to strike instantly, a phaser set on kill steady in her hand. Though she was now ashamed she had doubted Spock’s judgment about his protégée, she was still frightened by his willingness to trust other people too much. She loved and admired his idealism even as she cursed its inherent risks.

  Marlena emerged from behind the panel. Over the years, she had gradually become accustomed to the higher temperatures and gravity inside the quarters she shared with Spock. The aridity, however, continued to vex her, so she tried to limit the time she spent there, preferring to pass her free hours in the ship’s library or its astrometrics laboratory.

  She eyed her reflection in the wall mirror and was able to tell herself honestly that, so far, the years had been kind to her. Spock, on the other hand, was already showing signs of the extreme stress inflicted by his rapid campaign to seize control over Starfleet. Now, less than a week after his decade-long effort had come to fruition, he had succeeded in placing himself upon the imperial throne. He was the Emperor.

  Everything was changed now. Marlena could only imagine the toll that reigning over an interstellar empire would take on her beloved husband, and she feared for his health … and his life. There were bound to be operatives loyal to the Sato dynasty who would seek retribution. Even with the Tantalus field, how could she and Spock hope to find and eliminate them all? It seemed impossible.

  We will find a way, she promised herself. We have to.

  A thought occurred to her. She pulled open her closet and surveyed its contents. Dismayed, she realized Spock’s great achievement had caught her totally unprepared. Damn. Fifty outfits to choose from … and not one is even remotely good enough. She shut the closet. I’m not ready to be an empress yet.

  In two regal strides, she was at the wall panel. With a push of her thumb she opened a channel to the bridge. Moments later, she was answered by Lieutenant Finney, whose youthful voice shook with a new undercurrent of fear. “Bridge here.”

  “This is the Empress Consort,” she said, liking the sound of it as soon as she’d said it. “Have the imperial tailors sent to my quarters immediately.”

  “Right away, Your Majesty,” Finney said, sounding like a scolded child. “Bridge out.”

  Despite her best efforts at equanimity, a slightly insane smile and wide-eyed mask of glee took over Marlena’s face. Even after catching sight of her Cheshire cat grin in the mirror, she couldn’t suppress it.

  Just as she’d always suspected, it was good to be queen.

  25

  A Taste of Ashes

  A week of frantic preparations had infused the imperial court with equal measures of anticipation and dread.

  “It takes a thousand details to make a first impression,” Marlena told the servants and taskmasters in charge of the court’s formal trappings, “and every last one of them must be perfect.”

  As the Empress Consort, she was not going to accept anything less than perfection from her legion of domestics, not on this auspicious day. She had waited too long and had dreamed of this moment too many times to see it marred by even the slightest error of protocol or omission of courtesy.

  The last vestiges of the Sato dynasty had been scoured from the palace. Marlena had replaced the Satos’ towering, autoidolatrous portraits with banners of white Chinese silk bearing the bloodred icon of the Terran Empire.

  Several freestanding light fixtures, most of which were merely decorative, had been supplanted by antique Vulcan torchères in honor of the Empire’s new sovereign. Flames danced hypnotically from the lamps’ upturned bowls, casting erratic shadows across the throne room’s damask-covered walls.

  To either side of the center aisle before the throne, buffet tables had been laden with every delicacy of the Empire and a few from the worlds of its rivals. Every beverage Marlena could think of was ready to flow upon request, from taps and bottles and decanters. Massive slabs of perfectly transparent ice, preserved inside temperature-controlled fields, had been masterfully carved into a variety of shapes, including a seven-meter-tall likeness of Spock, a pair of giant butterflies entwined in flight, a fairy-tale carriage complete with a one-slippered princess for a passenger, and a flame-feathered phoenix rising from ashes of shaved ice.

  An orchestra composed of the Empire’s finest musicians played from the balcony level, accompanied by a choir of its most hauntingly gifted vocalists.

  The room was packed with dignitaries, ambassadors, members of the imperial cabinet, and a legion of elite Vulcan guards attired in red and gold armor patterned after the lorica segmentata of Earth’s ancient Roman Empire.

  Marlena had tasked the imperial tailors to fashion her a dress for this occasion. They had presented to her a magnificent creation in crimson silk, adorned in gold with a pattern of Chinese dragons twisting around the ideogram for “double happiness.” Her hair was gathered in an ornate coif, held in place by antique ivory hairpins, and backed by an enormous semicircular headpiece covered in ruby-hued Tholian silk.

  Every detail was in place, all the trappings of power.

  Taking her place on the imperial throne, Marlena decreed, “Bring him in.”

  Her order was volleyed from the sergeant-at-arms to the imperial herald, who passed word to the guards outside the throne room’s door. A moment later the great locks of the massive portals were released, and the doors swung inward. On cue, the members of the trumpet corps lifted their instruments and split the air with a magnificent fanfare.

  The herald stepped in front of the open doorway. “Your Majesty: presenting, by your imperial command, the father of the Empress—François Thierry Moreau.”

  Another crowing of the fanfare resounded from high overhead as Marlena’s father plodded into the throne room with obvious trepidation.

  From a distance, Marlena could not see the details of her father’s appearance or the expression on his face. She held her chin high and looked down her nose at her sire as a pair of Vulcan guards escorted him to the edge of her unseen but lethal defensive force field. Even deprived of details, Marlena found it telling her father had come unescorted, apparently still shunned by her siblings.

  Serves him right, she gloated.

  He came to a halt at the base of the stairs beneath her throne. His shoulders were hunched, and he looked around fearfully, as if he were on trial for his life. A guard placed a hand on François’s shoulder and made him kneel. François looked up with naked fear and veiled resentment.

  “Do you have anything to say to me, Father?”

  His head bowed, he answered in a small voice, “No, Majesty.”

  Humbled before his daughter, he looked small … shabby … weak.

  Marlena felt a swell of pity and remorse. This was to have been her moment of triumph; instead, the moment tasted of ashes. She found no satisfaction in the sight of her estranged father debased; there was no joy to be found in lording over him. Beholding the scorn and terror in his eyes, Marlena realized even though she had risen in life to become the Empress, that still did not make her father love her, and she understood nothing ever would—it simply was not in his nature.

  “Your duty is fulfilled,” she said. “Go home to your petty concerns
.”

  “As you command, Majesty,” her father said, bowing low as he backpedaled the requisite five paces before rising and turning to walk away. He left the throne room with the rushed bearing of a man relieved to have been spared a trip to the gallows. Without a single look back at his now-regal daughter, François Moreau exited the throne room. The guards sealed the door behind him.

  A week of preparation had yielded naught but a moment of regret for Empress Marlena. Despite being seated in imposing splendor and surrounded by minions of the imperial court, she couldn’t help but feel terribly, utterly alone.

  26