by David Mack
The rest of the scientists looked anxiously at Marcus. Koothrappali asked, “What should we do, Doctor Marcus?”
Imagining the possibilities she held in her hands, Marcus replied in a bold voice, “We should get to work.”
2279
28
A Desolation Called Peace
Marlena lurked a few paces behind Spock’s chair, half concealed in the penumbra of the war room’s perimeter, listening as he presided over a meeting of his senior cabinet members, Starfleet flag officers, and advisers.
Most of the discussions she audited were relatively mundane, but what mattered was that she had been invited by Spock to join these classified sessions of the imperial cabinet, reinforcing her status within the government: she was not just a concubine or an empress in title alone. In matters of state, her presence was expected and her opinions were heard.
The foreign minister, a Denobulan named Rhox, introduced the next item on the meeting’s agenda. “The Breen ambassador has been complaining publicly that we’re selling weapons and ships to the Cardassian Union. I’ve prepared a statement of denial we can transmit to our embassies in—”
“Unnecessary,” Spock said. “Ambassador Tren is correct: we have provided ships and small arms to the Cardassians, to aid them in their border conflict against the Tholian Assembly.” Howls of angry protest swelled and crashed like a wave against Spock’s unyielding wall of cool reserve.
Searching the faces gathered around the table, Marlena saw only one that mirrored Spock’s serene visage: Grand Admiral Zhao Sheng’s.
Rhox’s voice cut through the din of shouting. “Your Majesty, I don’t understand. My ministry has no knowledge of any such arrangement with the Cardassian Union. Who negotiated this deal?”
“I did,” Spock said. “On behalf of Legate Zaris, Ambassador Dakar accepted my offer several weeks ago. The first shipments of small arms are en route to Cardassia Prime now.”
More raised voices bled together into cacophony. Again Spock remained aloof from the choir of pitched emotions. Order was restored when Zhao slammed his palm on the tabletop. The crack of impact echoed in the silence that followed it.
Turning toward Spock, Zhao asked in a politely restrained baritone, “Your Majesty, may I inquire what precautions you would like Starfleet to take to prevent the Cardassians from turning our largesse against us?”
“None at this time, Admiral.”
Nodding, Zhao pressed on. “As you wish, my liege. But may I remind Your Majesty, the Cardassians have long coveted our colony on Bajor. Newly armed and encouraged, they might see our noble generosity as an invitation to take that which has not been offered.”
“Perhaps,” Spock said. “But this pact was struck in good faith, Admiral. I do not wish to provoke the Cardassian Union by impugning its honor after the fact, either in the form of preemptive action or broken promises.”
Zhao nodded. “Understood, Majesty. For my own edification, can I expect to receive an accounting of what vessels and arms have been transferred?”
“Yes, Admiral. Let me assure you, and all the other esteemed members of this cabinet, I did not act in haste or exuberance. I placed strict limits on the types and quantities of ships and matériel made available to the Cardassians. They likely will need every last piece of what they have acquired to contain the threat to their space posed by the Tholian Assembly.”
Foreign Minister Rhox interjected, “The Tholians will see this as a provocation, Majesty. Your predecessor’s incursions into the Taurus Reach have already stoked the Tholians’ fury; this will fan its flames.”
“Irrelevant,” Spock said. “The Tholians are mired in a full-scale war with the Klingon Empire for control of the Taurus Reach. By forcing them to divert resources to maintain their status quo with the Cardassian Union, we can undermine the Tholians’ control over key shipping lanes, ensuring we retain access to several of our more remote possessions.”
Smiling as if to conceal his frustration, Rhox replied, “Yes, Majesty, but arming the Cardassians is hardly—”
“The Emperor has spoken,” Zhao said, cutting Rhox’s reply short.
A deathly pall descended on the room. Spock nodded his thanks to Zhao, who responded in kind. Sounding as calm and untroubled as ever, Spock asked the room, “What is the next item on the agenda?”
Grand Admiral Zhao replied, “News of civil unrest within the Romulan Star Empire, Majesty. We can use this opportunity to expand our holdings in the Glintara Sector. If I may direct your attention to the star map on screen one …”
The rest of the meeting continued in a brisk, professional manner, but the mood of fear remained, tugging like an undertow, pulling all opinions closer to those favored by the Emperor.
Watching her lord and husband preside over his cabinet, Marlena frowned. So, my love, she brooded. You’re not such a stranger to tyranny, after all.
Riding in the secure turbolift to the imperial residence, Spock felt Marlena’s stare on the back of his neck. Knowing she would interpret even a casual moment of eye contact as an invitation to speak, he glanced over his shoulder at her.
“You know Zhao and the others were right about Cardassia,” she said.
Facing forward, Spock replied, “In what regard?”
“Arming them is dangerous,” Marlena said, “no matter what precautions you take or how many limits you impose. What if the Cardassians reverse-engineer our technology and start mass-producing it?”
“I fully expect them to do so,” Spock said.
His answer stunned Marlena into a momentary silence, during which the only sound was the mellisonant hum of the ascending turbolift.
“So you don’t care that the Cardassians might make a play for the Bajor and Kalandra sectors?”
Stealing another look at his wife, Spock said, “My long-term plans depend on it.” The turbolift slowed and stopped. The doors opened, and Spock stepped into their home’s foyer as he continued. “I have armed them more than sufficiently to repel the Tholians’ incursions. It will be only a matter of time before they move against our possessions in that region.”
A pair of Vulcan guards defending the inner door lifted their fists to their armored breasts in salute as Spock and Marlena passed them and entered the residence. As the doors clacked shut behind Marlena, she said, “If you know the Cardassians will act against us, why give them that kind of advantage?”
Spock led her to the dining room, where a buffet-style lunch had been set out for them. He chose a plate and filled it with a variety of fruits and vegetables as he answered his wife. “I have created the monster I need,” he said. “In order to bring about my intended endgame, I need to foster an alliance between the Cardassian Union and the Klingon Empire.”
Filling her own plate, Marlena asked, “Why those two powers?”
“Separately, neither is strong enough to challenge us,” Spock said. “United, however, they might be able to defeat a weakened version of the Terran Empire.”
Spearing some choice cuts of rare red meat, Marlena asked, “Why, exactly, would we want that?”
“Because an alliance between those two powers would bring out the worst qualities in both,” Spock explained. “More than any other political pairing I can imagine in this part of space, the Cardassians and Klingons will exacerbate each other’s worst tendencies. Though they will both see such an alliance as a means to an end, neither will realize until too late how incompatible their worldviews are.”
Shaking her head, Marlena asked, “So what? If they fall to bickering after we’ve been swept off the map, what difference will it make?”
“In the short term, none,” Spock admitted. “But in the long run it will be the most important element of my plan.” He regarded Marlena with an air of quiet confidence. “Their alliance will be doomed from its inception. By aligning against us, they will sow the seeds of their own destruction—and ensure our victory.”
2280
29
A Promise Denie
d
Marlena’s heart broke as her gaze swept over a sea of dirty faces, dark with blood and grime and fear, gaunt with hunger and sickness. The stench of unwashed bodies and untreated wounds was thick in the summer swelter of Iadara’s equatorial latitudes, and everywhere Marlena looked she saw another living portrait of suffering and deprivation.
Most of the refugees huddled under makeshift shelters. They were hiding from a steady deluge of tepid rain that did little to wash away the pervasive stink engulfing the city. The planet’s nominal capital, Akabar, had been little more than a sleepy coastal town before it was swamped with survivors displaced from the Terran Empire’s colony on Galen, a world caught in the brutal crossfire of the Cardassian-Tholian border conflict.
Bedraggled individuals pushed to the front of the crowds lining the heavily guarded main street, on which Spock and Marlena walked surrounded by a phalanx of armored Vulcan elite troops.
Isolated voices pierced the sorrowful cries of the throng.
“Help us, Emperor Spock!”
“Save us, Majesty!”
“Please, Majesty, take pity on us …”
None of the entreaties seemed to move Spock, but each desperate plea for succor brought tears of rage and grief to Marlena’s eyes. She grasped Spock’s arm as they walked together. “Can’t we do something, Spock?”
“We are doing what we can,” he said. “This world is far from the core systems. It will take time for aid to arrive.”
News of the unfolding tragedy on Iadara had motivated Marlena to press for a state visit to the planet. She had expected Spock to reject her suggestion; instead, he had embraced it, citing an urgent need to bolster citizens’ confidence that the Terran Empire remained serious about defending its border colonies and keeping its promise to provide aid to its people.
To that end, several members of Spock’s cabinet had accompanied them on this impromptu foray to the edge of a war zone, and they were trailed by a battalion of attachés and press liaisons who would ensure that news of the Emperor’s visit to Iadara was disseminated in the most flattering possible light.
As they passed a pavilion whose flaps were folded shut, Marlena caught the high-pitched cries of children from inside the ramshackle structure. Ignoring the requests of her bodyguards and Spock’s advisers, she detoured off the street and strode purposefully inside the pavilion.
A stench of disease and decay overwhelmed her. Her eyes adjusted to the deep shadows spawned by the enclosure’s few weak light sources. A handful of badly fatigued doctors and nurses drifted half-conscious through their rounds. Rows of beds placed head-to-head filled almost every square meter of floor space, leaving barely enough room for narrow aisles between them.
Lying in the beds were scores of children. Emaciated and pale, bloodied and burned; some were all but naked, and all of them shivered despite the heat.
Spock entered the pavilion and stood behind Marlena. His expression didn’t change, but she was certain she felt him tense at the gruesome spectacle.
Marlena pointed at a passing nurse, whose uniform was stained with dirt and bodily emissions. “You,” she said to the Bolian woman. “Come here. Now.” As soon as the nurse was in front of her, Marlena gestured at the ranks of children in their beds. “Why are these children left in such squalor?”
The nurse replied with more anger than Marlena was accustomed to hearing. “Squalor? These children are receiving the best care we have. If you want to see squalor, Majesty, I suggest you visit the men’s ward on the next block.”
Placing a hand on Marlena’s shoulder, Spock interjected, “She is correct. Iadara is facing acute shortages of food, potable water, medicine, and basic supplies.” To the captain of his elite guard, a middle-aged Vulcan named Torov, Spock said, “Contact Captain Riley. Enterprise and all ships in its battle group are to begin manufacturing blankets, modular shelter components, and basic medicines immediately. I also want nine million liters of water beamed down by tomorrow at thirteen hundred hours, and a team of engineers to upgrade the city’s sewage- and water-treatment systems.”
Torov lifted his arm in a salute. “Yes, Majesty!” Then he turned away, opened his communicator, and began relaying Spock’s orders to the small armada of Starfleet vessels in orbit.
Kneeling beside the closest bed, Marlena asked the nurse, “Where are these children’s parents?”
“Most are orphans, Majesty.”
Marlena tenderly stroked a sweaty lock of dark hair from the brow of an unconscious little girl. In the tabula rasa of the child’s face, Marlena saw the promise of something beautiful. Looking up at Spock, she said, “We should adopt one of these children.” Gazing back down at the girl lost in her twilight slumber, Marlena added, “Maybe this little angel.”
Lifting one eyebrow, Spock asked, “Why?”
“We lead by action,” Marlena said. “If we take in one of the orphans of the war you helped start, we can set an example for others to follow.”
Spock grimaced. “We can endorse and support an adoption program without directly participating in it.”
A note of desperation crept into Marlena’s voice. “Don’t underestimate the value of a symbolic gesture, Spock. Think of what it would mean for the Empire to see you embrace one of your most vulnerable subjects as your own.”
With the back of his hand, Spock gently stroked the face of the girl lying in front of Marlena. “Such a gesture might appear noble, but it would beg questions of favoritism. It would be more just to improve the conditions of all the refugees equally, rather than elevate one above the others to live as a political prop.”
“That’s not what I—”
Spock cut her off with a hard look. “We should go.”
He led her out of the pavilion to the street. As they rejoined their retinue of armed protectors and career sycophants, Marlena stole a melancholy look back at the shelter of lost children. It felt as if part of her had been left behind there, at the little girl’s bedside. Even though she loved Spock, she cursed him silently as she fell into step beside him, continuing their empty parade for the media.
He knew what I was asking for, she brooded. But as always, he answers only what I say instead of what he knows I mean.
For now the discussion was closed, but Marlena knew—as she was certain Spock did—that it was far from over.
2281
30
Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tooth
Amanda Grayson lay awake in bed beside her husband, feeling minutes bleed away while she waited for the Vulcan dawn to break like red thunder.
Lingering half awake in the nether hours, she felt anxious and alone. Sarek had grown distant in the years since his rapprochement with Spock en route to the Babel Conference. He no longer trusted her with access to his waking thoughts.
During the decades before he and his son reconciled, Sarek had trusted Amanda to keep the secrets revealed within the telepathic bond created by their marriage. They both knew if the Empress or other ambitious parties acquired confirmation of Vulcans’ psionic gifts, it could lead to the extermination of Sarek’s people. While Sarek used Amanda’s connections to advance his political career, she kept his people’s great secret to maintain a modicum of control over him—to make certain he placed the Empire’s best interests ahead of Vulcan’s.
Then he had met in secret with Spock, and afterward Amanda began to feel her hold on both of them slipping from her grasp.
The first crack in Sarek’s psionic armor had appeared three years earlier, during his last phase of Pon farr. Linked in the heat of passion, Amanda had a fleeting glimpse of Sarek’s inner mind, a hint of the secrets he harbored. Since that night, his control faltered sometimes when he slept. Amanda had learned that if she could hold herself in a twilight sleep while Sarek dreamed, she could steal fleeting peeks at the memories he had locked away from her.
Each new insight deepened Amanda’s fear for the future. Something sinister was afoot. Almost immediately after Spock had usurped the
throne from Empress Sato III, he had installed Sarek as the governor of Vulcan. At the time Amanda had welcomed Spock’s action; blatant nepotism had long been a common practice within the Empire, and because Sato III had obstructed Sarek’s career path out of spite, the appointment had seemed like a dutiful son’s gracious gift to his father.
Now, however, lying awake in the deep watches of the night, Amanda wondered if Spock had installed his father not out of gratitude but as a prelude to a political realignment of the Empire.
She strained to see more, to seize hold of something concrete, but the details were hazy, lost in the fog of Sarek’s subconscious. All she had was a feeling—an unshakable suspicion something terrible and seditious was imminent.