by David Mack
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. Takin
g 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.”