by David Mack
The Designs of Liberty
It had been slightly more than two months since Spock claimed the throne, and the ensuing cavalcade of pomp and pageantry had only just subsided. First had come the official coronation, followed by more than a hundred hastily dispatched state visits by the Empire’s various planetary governors, each of whom had come to deliver gifts and pledges of loyalty, all of which Spock had accepted with politely concealed indifference. His thoughts had been occupied almost constantly by the intricate and politically delicate task of transitioning the imperial government to a new administration, one populated from its highest echelons down with reformers whom Spock had painstakingly cultivated as allies over the past decade.
As Spock had suspected, his wife had adapted easily and enthusiastically to her new role as Empress Marlena. To her care he had entrusted the coordination of the cosmetic overhaul of the government. Other, more radical alterations he had discussed with her would have to wait until the Empire’s political climate was ready.
One element of imperial life remained constant during the abrupt transition to Spock’s reign: the mood of constant, muffled terror suffusing the halls of the palace. Even without the benefit of his spies’ reports, Spock could overhear the whispered rumors, the hushed exchanges of frightened eyewitness accounts describing the manner in which the Empress Hoshi Sato III and her Imperial Guard Corps had been annihilated. A few people had guessed, correctly, that an unknown weapon had been involved, but by far the most persistent and popular explanation was that Spock had used an ancient, formerly secret Vulcan psionic attack to seize power.
Encouraging untruths ran counter to the principles of logic, but in this case Spock permitted the rumors to spread unchallenged as a means of securing his power base during a vulnerable period of transition.
For his own part, Spock found life in the imperial palace quiet, comfortable, and opulently boring. The oversized chambers and furniture offended his simple, austere sensibilities. The illogic of waste had been a primary factor in his decision to seek dominion over the Empire, and now he lived in the most ostentatious expression of wastefulness imaginable. The irony of his circumstances was not lost on him.
Clad in luxurious robes of Tholian silk, he stood on the force field–protected balcony outside his bedchamber and admired the verdant countryside of Okinawa. The dawn air was cool. Despite his half-human heritage, this land, this world, felt alien to him. He was in essence a stranger here.
Inside the bedroom, Marlena slept blissfully behind the gauzy screens of an antique French canopied bed. Earth was her home. She had been born here, the youngest child of a common merchant. But though her family’s origins had been modest, her homecoming had been nothing less than glorious.
A deep chiming signal indicated Spock’s staff wished to announce a visitor. He turned and watched the double doors leading to the parlor. They opened several seconds later, and a herald entered. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head. “Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan is here at your invitation.”
“Show him into the study,” Spock said. “I will join him there momentarily.”
“As you command, Majesty,” the herald said. He withdrew in reverse, closing the bedroom doors as he exited.
Spock shut his eyes and meditated in silence for a few minutes, clearing his thoughts and preparing himself for the meeting with his father. Each breath was a cleansing intake and release, and the tension that attended the rulership of the Empire gradually ebbed from his muscles. At last centered in his own thoughts, he allowed himself a solitary, sentimental glance in Marlena’s direction before he left the bedroom.
He crossed through the parlor and passed the library on the way to his study. The shelves of the library currently were bare; Spock had found the Satos’ collection of references and literature woefully inadequate, not to mention pedestrian and out of date. Thousands of more recent and more worthy tomes had been ordered and were due to be delivered within the week. Marlena had callously suggested burning the Satos’ books, but the idea was anathema to Spock. Destroying books was out of the question. Instead, he had arranged for the Satos’ volumes to be relocated somewhere more appropriate. It was doubtful anyone would randomly stumble across them buried in a crater on Luna, but Spock knew it wasn’t impossible.
The doors of the study were open. Sarek stood opposite the entrance, in front of the antique writing desk. He bowed his head as Spock entered. “Your Majesty,” Sarek said with all sincerity. “I am honored to be received.”
“Welcome, Ambassador,” Spock said. “We are alone. We may dispense with formalities.”
Sarek nodded. “As you wish.” Gesturing to a pair of large chairs on either side of a low, broad table, he added, “Shall we sit down?”
Spock nodded his assent and sat down opposite his father, who took a small holographic projection cell from his robes and set it on the table. The device activated with a small buzzing sound, and a complex document, written in High Vulcan, scrolled in glowing letters on the air, several centimeters above the dark tabletop. “Before we begin,” Sarek said, “I wish to ask: Are you still committed to your plan of reform?”
“Indeed,” Spock said. “My objective remains the same.”
Nodding, Sarek explained, “You would not be the first head of state to amend his agenda after taking office.” He sighed. “No matter. If you are ready, we should proceed.”
“Agreed,” Spock said.
His father leaned forward and manipulated the elements in the holographic projection with his fingertips. “The key to a successful transition will be to effect your reforms by degrees,” he said. “A shrewd first move would be to increase the autonomy and direct control of the regional governors.”
Moving a few items along the timeline, Spock replied, “An excellent idea. The erosion of imperial executive power will be subtle, but the governors will not object because they benefit.”
“Exactly,” Sarek said. “And it will pave the way for your first major reform: the creation of a Common Forum, for popularly elected representatives from each world in the Empire. You should expect the governors to object vehemently to this.”
“Of course,” Spock said. “It will be a direct affront to their authority. I presume I will pretend to appease them by suggesting they appoint their own representatives to the newly reconstituted Imperial Senate.”
“It will mollify them briefly,” Sarek acknowledged. “Granting authority for drafting legislation to both the Forum and the Senate will turn them into rivals for power.”
“And they will vie for my approval by drafting competing bills,” Spock predicted. “I will then censure both for wasting my time with duplicated efforts, and force them to work together by declaring I will only review legislation that they have approved jointly.”
After a moment’s thought, Sarek replied, “A curious tactic.” He adjusted more items in the complex predictive timeline. “You will give them incentive to align against you.”
“Yes,” Spock said. “Fortunately, the conflicts in their interests will make that difficult for them.” He pointed out another item on the timeline. “I should retain plenary executive authority long enough to liberate the imperial judiciary into a separate but equal branch of government.”
Sarek made a few final changes to the timeline, then looked up at Spock. “With your permission, I should like to turn now to matters of foreign policy.” Spock nodded his consent. Sarek touched a control on the holographic emitter and changed the image above the table to another timeline, this one superimposed over a star chart of local space. “Your proposition of détente as an official platform for imperial policy still troubles me.”
He had expected his father’s reservations, and was prepared to address them. “Nonaggression does not equal surrender, Sarek. We will continue to defend our borders from external threats. Only our approach to the growth and maintenance of the Empire will change.” Pointing to the map, he continued. “A diplomatic invitation convinced Coridan
to join the Empire of its own accord. Renouncing conquest and annexation as our chief modes of expansion will earn us the trust of more worlds, and enable us to expand by enticement rather than by extortion.”
Spock waited while Sarek mulled that argument. The older man got up from his chair and paced across the room, then behind the desk, where he stood looking out the window for a minute. When he finally turned back toward Spock, his expression was darkened with concern. He spoke with careful diction, as if vetting each word’s nuance before it passed his lips. “Spock, I have supported your call for reforms, because I know they are necessary. However, the subtext of your recent proposals compels me to inquire: Is there more to your long-term plan than you have told me?”
“Yes, Father,” Spock said. “The true scope of my reforms is more drastic than I have said so far.”
Raising one eyebrow to convey both his skepticism and his annoyance, Sarek prompted him, “Go on.”
“Preemptive war will be renounced as an instrument of policy,” Spock said.
Sarek nodded. “I had assumed as much.”
“Before I begin my final reforms, I will issue an imperial edict delineating a broad spectrum of inalienable rights for all sentient beings in the Empire,” Spock said. “These rights will be comprehensive and will serve to greatly empower the individual at the expense of the state.” He pointed at a data slate on the desktop. “A draft of the edict is there.”
His father picked up the data slate and perused the document. With each passing moment, his grimace tightened, and the creases of worry on his forehead deepened. “Freedom of expression,” he mumbled, reading from the device in his hand. “Rights of privacy … security from warrantless search or seizure.” He set down the electronic tablet on the desk. “The governors will not stand for this.”
“Irrelevant,” Spock said, “as I intend to abolish their offices and replace them with elected presidents, their powers curtailed by law. Then, I will abolish the Empire itself. The Forum and the Senate will be given the right to elect one of their own as Consul, and the power to remove such an individual with a simple no-confidence vote when necessary. And at that time, I shall step down as Emperor, and cede my power to a lawfully constituted republic.”
“Madness,” Sarek said, his cherished mask of stoicism faltering. Spock realized that his father’s anger and fear must be overwhelming for them to be so apparent. Stepping from behind the desk, Sarek crossed the room in quick strides to confront Spock. “My son, do you not see this is a recipe for disaster?” Disregarding all dictums of imperial protocol, he grasped Spock by his arms. “A republic without strong leadership from the top will be too slow to survive in this astropolitical arena. While the Forum argues, the Klingons will slaughter us. So will the Romulans, the Cardassians, the Tholians.” His fingers clenched, talonlike, on Spock’s biceps. “You will be writing the Empire’s requiem with the blood of generations to come, Spock. What good will their freedoms be when they are dead?”
A single withering glare from Spock convinced Sarek to remove his hands from the arms of his son, the Emperor.
Spock answered calmly, with the conviction that came from knowing the endgame that so far had eluded even Sarek’s keen foresight. “There is only one antidote to tyranny, Father, and that is freedom. Not the illusion of freedom, not the promise of freedom. Genuine freedom. When too much power concentrates in one person, civilization slips out of balance. Give the people real freedom, and the real power that comes with it, and no force of oppression will ever be equal to them again.”
Sarek folded his hands inside the deep, drooping sleeves of his robe. He paced away from Spock, his expression stern, telegraphing his pessimism. “It will take many decades to complete even your preliminary reforms,” he said. “As for issuing your edict and erecting a republic on the ruins of the Empire … such fundamental changes in the status quo will take generations to enact.”
“They cannot,” Spock said gravely. “We do not have that much time.”
PART II
Exitus Acta Probat
2278
27
No-Man’s-Land
The operations level of the Regula I space station was shrouded in gloom, a cold crypt on the edge of nowhere. A delicate layer of dust blanketed its dormant banks of obsolete computers. Its only illumination was the dim white glow of a chemical flare clutched in Carol Marcus’s hand.
She stood on the lower level of the operations center and listened to the voices and footsteps of her team members. They moved through the corridors of the abandoned facility, inspecting compartments and comparing notes over an open comm channel with their communicators. Every sound echoed inside the station.
Constructed by Starfleet a decade earlier as a jumping-off point for rimward exploration missions, Regula I had been abandoned in 2273 when tensions in the Taurus Reach had forced Starfleet to redeploy its forces to Vanguard. Soon forgotten by the Terran Empire as well as by its rivals, and too distant from any active shipping lanes to be of use to pirates or smugglers, Regula I had languished in the shadow of the Mutara Nebula, empty and neglected, for half a decade.
Marcus heard her people converging on the operations center from multiple directions. Shadows bobbed and wavered on the walls and floor as the group drew near, combining the light from their glow-sticks. She turned toward the main entryway on the lower level to greet them.
Leading the group was her son, David. Now a lanky seventeen-year-old, he sported a head of curly, dirty-blond hair and a strong, dimpled chin. He had just completed his first level of postgraduate study when his education was interrupted by their exile to Regula. Under the tutelage of Marcus’s team of researchers and theorists, however, the youth finally had begun work on his doctoral program.
“It’s a wreck,” David said, gesticulating with his glow-stick.
Marcus tilted her head. “It’s a fixer-upper.”
The other scientists fanned out around her in a semicircle. One of them, a Deltan physicist named Tarcoh, interjected, “The computers are antiquated, Carol.”
“We can upgrade them,” Marcus replied.
A Tellarite geneticist named Gek added, “Starfleet took the fusion core and backup batteries when they left.”
“All right,” Marcus said, thinking as she spoke, “we’ll scavenge the core from our ship’s impulse drive.”
David protested, “Then we’ll be stranded here!”
“We weren’t planning on leaving anytime soon, anyway,” Marcus said.
Dr. Koothrappali, a human astrophysicist, asked nervously, “What if we need to evacuate because of a solar flare or a gamma-ray burst from the nebula?”
“We’re protected from solar flares by the planetoid,” Marcus said. “It’s a Class-D ball of rock, geologically inactive and dense enough to shield us from even the most potent coronal-mass ejections its star gives off. As for the nebula, it’s not an active stellar nursery and exhibits no masses great enough to form black holes, so I’d say you can stop worrying about gamma rays.”
Most of her team seemed to be mollified, but Dr. Tarcoh grumbled, “So this is where we get to spend the rest of our careers? Orbiting some lifeless boulder at the end of space? One might get the impression Emperor Spock exiled us to this no-man’s-land because he wants us to vanish.”
An unfamiliar woman’s voice answered from the operations center’s upper level, “In a sense, Doctor, that is exactly what the Emperor hopes to accomplish.”
Marcus’s colleagues looked up, and she turned to see who had spoken.
A statuesque Vulcan woman descended a spiral staircase to the main level and met their inquisitive stares as she crossed the room to stand in front of Marcus. She held a data card in one hand and something very small in the other.
Marcus asked, “Who are you?”
“A friend, sent by the Emperor,” the Vulcan said. She offered Marcus the data card. “This contains ninety-five percent of your data from Vanguard’s memory banks. It was all t
hat could be salvaged before the starbase was destroyed.” Handing over the vial, which contained a strangely animated substance that transmuted back and forth between a black vapor and a charcoal-colored fluid, the Vulcan said, “I think you will recognize this.”
Fear trembled Marcus’s hands as she accepted the card and vial. “Why are you giving these to me?”
“Consider them a gift from His Majesty. He asks only that you use them wisely, and in peace.” The mysterious visitor turned and walked back the way she had come. As she climbed the spiral stairs, Marcus called after her.
“How do we contact you?”
“You don’t.” The Vulcan woman reached the top of the stairs and disappeared into the shadows of a corridor branching off the upper level.
David, Tarcoh, and Gek regained their wits and ran up the stairs in pursuit. A minute later they returned, looking bewildered. “She’s gone,” David said. “There’s no trace of how she got on or off the station, or where she went.”