by Various
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Star Trek : mirror universe, glass empires.—Pocket Books trade pbk. ed.
p. cm.
“Based on Star trek and Star trek : the next generation created by Gene Roddenberry and Star trek : enterprise created by Rick Berman & Brannon Braga.
“Star trek fiction original”—T.p. verso.
Contents: Age of the empress / Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore ; story by Mike Sussman—The sorrows of empire / David Mack—The worst of both worlds / Greg Cox.
1. Science fiction, American. 2. Star Trek fiction. 3. Interplanetary voyages—Fiction. 4. Space ships—Fiction. I. Roddenberry, Gene. II. Berman, Rick.III. Braga, Brannon. IV. Star trek (Television program). V. Star trek, the next generation (Television program). VI. Enterprise (Television program: 2001)
PS648.S3S6588 2007
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2006051740
ISBN: 1-4165-5117-4
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Age of the Empress
Dayton Ward & Kevin
Dilmore Story by Mike Sussman
The Sorrows of Empire
David Mack
The Worst of Both Worlds
Greg Cox
Age of the
Empress
Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore
Story by Mike Sussman
For Jerome Bixby,
who gave us that first tantalizing peek through the mirror.
And for James Blish, who made Star Trek come alive in print
for two young readers all those years ago.
Prologue
H oshi Sato twisted the turbolift control grip. “Bridge.”
The grav-plating adjusted as the turbolift ascended, and Hoshi could not resist an inward smile, pleased to feel the faint but unmistakable rush of upward acceleration as though traveling in an elevator on a planet with Earth-normal gravity. It was a familiar, even comforting sensation. The engineers who designed this ship obviously had paid attention to even the most minute detail. On her Enterprise, a turbolift passenger would feel absolutely no shift in g-forces as the car traveled, but the builders of this vessel realized there was something disconcerting about a lift that never seemed to be moving. Hoshi could almost hear Maximilian complain about the waste of time and resources required to program a turbolift’s gravity plating to mimic an Earth-bound elevator. Her former captain had never been one for subtlety.
But to Hoshi, it was artistry.
That she was preoccupied with something so trivial, only moments after making love to Jonathan Archer and murdering him in his quarters struck her as—she wasn’t sure what to make of it. She decided it was a sign of confidence.
As the lift slowed, nearing the top of the primary hull, Hoshi realized there was a problem she had not yet addressed. That it had not occurred to her before now gave her pause, and she wondered if she had made a grave miscalculation, one that she might very well pay for with her life.
The “problem” was Charles Tucker III.
With Archer dead, Reed incapacitated, and T’Pol in the brig, there was only one senior officer left to oppose her. Hoshi knew she had the support of Sergeant Mayweather and the surviving Enterprise MACOs, but Commander Tucker could yet prove to be a thorn in her side. She would need his expertise if the ship sustained damage during the battle she was sure was about to unfold. Would Tucker follow her orders? The lift doors were only moments from opening when another scenario flitted through her mind….
What if Mayweather has been working with Tucker all along?
It would be the perfect setup—Hoshi eliminates Jonathan Archer, leaving Tucker in command of the most powerful vessel in the quadrant. He might be waiting for her on the bridge right now, ready to spring his trap. She imagined the lift doors opening to reveal the engineer perched confidently in the captain’s chair, swiveling to face her with that leering, deformed smile of his. That’s when she would feel the sharp pain of Mayweather’s pulse rifle slamming against her skull….
The doors opened. The center seat was empty.
Hoshi stepped onto the bridge of the U.S.S. Defiant. Mayweather and the MACO corporal followed her out of the lift, maintaining a respectful distance. Neither man had said a word during the brief journey from Archer’s quarters. All around her, the various stations were manned by her colleagues, survivors of the ill-fated Imperial flagship, Enterprise. And what of this vessel’s original crew? According to Phlox, they had killed each other in a fit of madness—a century in the future, in an entirely different reality.
Let’s hope we have better luck, Hoshi mused as she strode with confidence toward the front of the bridge, knowing that her body language would be speaking volumes even as the crew sized her up.
“Open a channel to Fleet Admiral Gardner,” she said as she moved past Crewman Newbill at the communications station.
“Channel open,” the young woman replied.
An image of Earth rotated lazily on the bottom third of the viewscreen as Hoshi moved to stand before the helm and navigation stations at the front of the bridge’s command well. She placed her arms atop the free-standing console, leaning back and attempting to affect an air of calm and composure. “This is the Starship Defiant,” she said with as much command presence as she could muster. “If you don’t surrender immediately, we’ll begin targeting your cities. Respond!”
Nothing. On the viewscreen, Earth continued to turn.
Hoshi’s pulse quickened, but she showed no outward sign of anxiety. She knew chaos would be erupting at headquarters as they monitored Defiant’s approach. A minor delay was to be expected. She casually turned away from the viewer, apparently unconcerned as to whether Starfleet responded or not. Hoshi could feel the eyes of the bridge crew boring into her back.
Finally, the image of the Earth warbled out and she turned to see the grizzled visage of Fleet Admiral William Gardner filling the screen. The admiral’s expression was one of utter rage. Understandable, Hoshi decided, as it was doubtful a lowly Starfleet communications officer had ever spoken to him in such a tone before.
“Where’s Archer?” Gardner barked. “Who the hell are you?”
Hoshi’s eyes narrowed as she gave Gardner the most withering look she could muster. It was the same expression her mother had used on her father on numerous occasions.
“You’re speaking with Empress Sato. Prepare to receive instructions.”
Hoshi thought she heard someone gasp behind her. The admiral and everyone on the bridge realized at that moment that Jonathan Archer was dead.
Gardner seethed, as though wishing he could reach through the viewer and thr
ottle her. “I won’t give this order again. Stand down your weapons or I’ll blast your ship to kingdom come.” His threat made little sense. Defiant was well outside the range of any ground-based phase cannons.
Behind her right shoulder, the navigator reacted to an urgent chirping at his console. A human male, whose name Hoshi could not remember. “Lieutenant—I…I mean, Empress—seven ships are closing on our position.”
Hoshi had already guessed the answer before she formed the question. “From where?”
“They were hiding, Your Majesty. Behind the Moon.”
“Show me.”
On the viewer, Gardner blinked off, replaced with a view of black space, empty save for the distant silver points of light arcing toward them from around the crescent moon.
Hoshi was impressed. Archer had calculated—correctly—that the fleet would take another day to reach Earth at maximum warp, but like human beings, starships could often be called upon to exceed their design parameters when the need arose. The captains of those ships must have burned out every warp coil in their nacelles to make it home ahead of Defiant. Such initiative and resolve were traits to be admired—assuming those officers survived the day.
“Tactical,” Hoshi said. The viewscreen switched over to a schematic overlay, showing the seven starships moving toward their position.
“Four NX-class battleships, a pair of destroyers”—the navigator hesitated for only a moment—“and the Imperator.”
A four-nacelled dreadnaught, I.S.S. Imperator was a killing machine, originally designated as the Terran flagship, until the Emperor decided it was too big and too ugly to carry that distinction. The first vessel of its class, the rebels had made certain Imperator was also the last. Knowing that the tide would turn against them if more dreadnaughts were commissioned, they had launched a massive attack on the Antares shipyards where the vessel had been constructed. The rebel losses were significant, but they had achieved their goal: Imperator would be one of a kind.
“They’re hailing,” Crewman Newbill reported from the communications station.
“Put them on,” Hoshi ordered.
The lantern jaw of Fleet Captain A. G. Robinson filled the viewscreen. Hoshi had never been aboard Imperator, but from what she could see over Robinson’s shoulder, its bridge was far larger than Defiant’s.
“Hoshi?” If anything, Robinson appeared even more surprised to see her than the admiral had been. Hoshi remembered a time when it appeared Robinson would be given command of the NX-01. In order to secure a position aboard his ship, she “befriended” the up-and-coming officer. But when it was clear Maximilian would give up his admiral’s bars and assume command of Enterprise, Hoshi ended the dalliance with Robinson. He took it better than most. Truthfully, she had to admit she liked him. He had done well for himself in the intervening years; Imperator was nearly as prestigious a command as Enterprise.
“A.G. You’re looking well.”
Robinson addressed her as if trying to talk someone off a ledge. “Hoshi, listen to me very carefully. If we’re going to win this war, we need that ship. It would be a waste to destroy it.”
She didn’t appreciate the tone. “Skip the idle threats. You’ve scanned us, and you know what Defiant can do.”
Leaning forward in his chair, Robinson said, “You can’t take on an entire battle group with one starship. I don’t care what century it’s from.”
Hoshi didn’t react outwardly, but she was surprised that news of Defiant’s origins had already reached him. She wondered what Robinson and Starfleet had been told about the starship and the Federation universe it came from.
“If you want to put down this rebellion, I suggest you stay out of my way.”
“I can’t do that, Hoshi.”
The Empress had hoped Robinson would ally himself with her, an action that might have convinced the other ship commanders to follow his lead. “It was good seeing you one last time,A.G.,” she said with a touch of regret. “End transmission.”
Robinson dissolved; Imperator and the rest of the battle group were moving fast toward them. Hoshi moved casually to the center seat and settled in—the leather felt cool against her exposed lower back. She nodded to Mayweather, who assumed the combined helm/tactical post. “Sergeant, take us into low orbit over San Francisco. Four hundred kilometers.”
Several decks below in the brig, T’Pol felt the first blasts dissipate against Defiant’s deflector shields. Phlox, dozing in the bunk, bolted upright at the commotion.
“It’s begun,” T’Pol said simply. She had felt the ship drop out of warp a few minutes earlier, presumably near Earth. Starfleet had known of the Defiant’s approach, and the Admiralty would doubtless have formulated some kind of desperate strategy with whatever ships they could assemble. T’Pol was certain that Starfleet would not prove much of a challenge.
“The next few days should prove most interesting,” Phlox said with more than a touch of sarcasm. “Do you think we’ll be executed before or after Archer’s coronation?” Vulcans had little use for rhetorical questions, and T’Pol saw no reason to respond to the one Phlox had posed. She understood the source of the doctor’s despair—they had gambled and lost.
It was clear to her how the next few days would unfold. Like other Terran emperors before him, Archer would designate a new imperial capital in the nation-state of his birth. His coronation would follow soon after—possibly in one of the many North American palaces built by George the Second in the early twenty-first century. Then, T’Pol and Phlox would be put on trial for their mutinous actions against “Emperor Jonathan.” Terran forms of execution were excruciating, and lasted for several days; T’Pol’s mental disciplines would likely spare her most of the discomfort. She found herself more concerned for Phlox, who would likely die a horrible death, his suffering transmitted live to Denobula for his people to see. It pained her to know that would be the last image Phlox’s wives and children would see of him.
Having risen from his bunk, Phlox now paced the width of their small cell, his movements drawing the attention of the guard standing on the other side of the force field. “We shouldn’t underestimate Admiral Gardner,” he said, his tone one of stubborn—if misguided—hope. “If he has enough ships, there’s a chance we’ll be rescued.”
“Unlikely,” T’Pol said, barely hiding her disdain.
Phlox halted his pacing, turning to face her. “Vulcans!” He spat out the single word like a curse. “I was a fool to listen to you and Soval. ‘Concubines,’ indeed!”
T’Pol recalled how she and Soval, her late friend from the now-destroyed Avenger, had lured the Denobulan into joining their mutiny with tales of the women and riches that would be bestowed upon him by a grateful Emperor. To her it was a ridiculous proposal, but at the time, Phlox had been tantalized by the possibilities.
The doctor stepped closer to her, an expression of menace twisting his features as he hissed through gritted teeth. “I should’ve turned both of you in when I had the chance!”
T’Pol returned an icy glare of her own. “I suggest you move away from me, Doctor.” Obviously unwilling to test her, Phlox complied, though he held his aggressive stance for an additional moment before returning to his bunk. He dropped heavily down onto it, releasing a sigh of frustration.
T’Pol closed her eyes and gripped the edges of her own cot as the Defiant shook again in the face of another salvo of enemy weapons fire.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Opening her eyes at the sound of the guard’s voice, T’Pol turned to see a Starfleet ensign approaching the guard. Tall and thin and with a head of close-cropped black hair, his dark blue uniform sported the blue stripes of the science division.
“Ensign Willingham,” Phlox whispered. “What would he be doing down here at a time like this?”
“Be silent, Doctor,” T’Pol replied, her own voice low. She felt her muscles tensing in anticipation of what the next moments might bring.
Outside the cell, Willingham of
fered the MACO a data padd, a small, rectangular electronic device. “I’m to take the prisoners to the hangar deck for execution,” he said.
The guard did not move. “I only accept orders from Sergeant Mayweather.”
“These orders are from the captain,” Willingham countered, his voice firm. “Unless you want to join these two in front of a firing squad, I suggest you stand aside.” Willingham again offered the data padd to the guard, and this time T’Pol could see the MACO’s expression change as he considered his options.
Finally, he took the device and touched a control to activate the small display. Arcs of electricity erupted from the padd, the MACO’s fist clenching tight as every muscle on the right side of his body contracted.
Willingham reached for the guard, finding the pressure points at the base of his neck. The MACO jerked once more before his body went limp, and the ensign gently lowered him to the deck.
“What’s happening?” Phlox asked, his tone one of confusion and shock. T’Pol ignored him, her attention instead focused on Willingham as the man reached for the control pad set outside the door to her cell. The force field flickered off.
“My apologies for the delay, Commander,” Willingham said.
Nodding, T’Pol replied, “You’ve spent too much time among humans, Staal. Apologies are not logical.” She turned to see Phlox regarding her from where he still sat at the edge of his bunk, his mouth open in surprise. Then his brow furrowed and she saw comprehension in his eyes.
“Wonderful,” Phlox said. “Another Vulcan.”
The doctor knew that it was not uncommon for Vulcans or other non-Terrans to have their appearance surgically altered before joining Starfleet. Species reassignment was often the quickest path to advancement—it was no secret that human officers have a distinct advantage over their alien colleagues. Once the rebellion became an established threat, Imperial Intelligence launched a witch hunt to find these imposters, believing that many of them were rebel operatives. Staal had avoided detection from everyone except his immediate superior—T’Pol. She had been aware of his true heritage for more than a year—she briefly considered surrendering him to Starfleet, but instead chose to look the other way, believing that one day Staal could be useful to her.