Glass Empires

by Various

  A steady flood-crush of pedestrians hurried in crisscrossed paths, all racing from one bastion of bureaucracy to another, bearing urgent missives, relaying orders, coming and going from meetings and appointments. Then a booming voice announced over a central public address system: “Attention.” The madding throng came to a halt. “Clear the main passage for Grand Admiral Spock.” As if cleaved by an invisible blade, the crowd parted to form a broad channel through the center of the passageway, and an antigrav skiff glided quickly toward Spock. The pilot was another member of the Imperial Guard. He guided the skiff to a gliding stop in front of Spock, finishing with a slow turn so that the open passenger-side seat faced the grand admiral. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “I’m here to escort you to Her Majesty, Empress Sato III.” Spock nodded his assent, climbed aboard the skiff, and sat down. His guards occupied the rear bench seat. The vehicle accelerated smoothly, finished its turn, and returned the way it had come. The corridor and the faces that filled it blurred past.

  Less than a minute later, the skiff arrived at the towering, duranium doors to the imperial throne room. Waiting there for Spock was his entourage, whose members the Empress had summoned specifically in the more formal invitation she had extended after their last subspace conversation: Lieutenant Commander Kevin Riley, the newly promoted first officer of the I.S.S. Enterprise; Lieutenant Xon; Doctor Jabilo M’Benga, who had taken over as the Enterprise’s chief medical officer after McCoy’s untimely demise due to xenopolycythemia; and chief engineer Commander Montgomery Scott, whose loyalty to the ship, even after being ousted as first officer by former Grand Admiral Decker, had surprised Spock as much as anyone.

  Spock and his bodyguards debarked from the skiff. After a curt greeting, he directed his men simply, “Places.” He took his own place at the head of their procession, with his bodyguards in tight formation behind him. Riley and Scott formed the next rank behind the guards, 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 holographically 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 here 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 that 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 that 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 the 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 he 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 pa
wns. Their ‘best interests’ are irrelevant.” She ascended back to the top of the stairs, then turned and glared down at him with all the haughty grandeur that 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 his person 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 turned 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 that Spock didn’t recognize, repeating his lonely declaration 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 that 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 that 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 that 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 that decades-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 for 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 that 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.

  6

  The Designs of Liberty

  I t 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. For the most part, that had entailed removing the outrageously oversized holographic portraits in the throne room and minimizing their physical counterparts on the walls. 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, and that was the apparent mood of constant, muffled terror that suffused 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 this vulnerable period of transition.

  For his own part, Spock found life in the imperial palace to be quiet, comfortable, and opulently boring. The oversized chambers and furniture all offended his simpler, more 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 midst of 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 personal suite and looked upon 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.

  Behind him, inside the bedroom, Marlena slept blissfully behind the gauzy screens of the 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 indicat
ed that Spock’s staff wished to announce a visitor. He turned and watched the double doors that led to the parlor. They opened several seconds later, and a herald entered. “Your Majesty,” he said, then briefly bowed 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, Your Majesty,” the herald said and withdrew in reverse, closing the bedroom doors as he exited.

  Spock closed 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 were currently bare; Spock had found the Satos’ collection of references and literature to be 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 simply 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 that anyone would randomly stumble across them buried in a crater on Luna, but Spock knew that 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.”