by Various
Beside her in the bed, Spock lay on his right side, facing away from her. As she turned her head to make certain she hadn’t disturbed him, he rolled slowly onto his back. He was awake. “Nightmares again?” he asked.
“The same one,” she said, and he nodded. The journey across the ice was a dream that had plagued her intermittently for more than a decade. She had discussed it with Spock after its third repetition, but he had offered no analysis. As much as she had hoped that merely sharing it would be enough to exorcise it from her thoughts, it remained with her, its rather naked symbolism growing more painful with each passing year.
Spock seemed to sense that tonight’s recurrence of the dream had left her more agitated than it had before. “Perhaps you are concerned about the upcoming conference,” he said.
“Of course I am,” she shot back. She had told him openly that she feared someone would try to assassinate him at the interstellar summit two weeks from now. “But I know what this dream is telling me, Spock, and it’s not about Khitomer.”
With a stately economy of movement, Spock sat up in bed and folded his hands on his lap. “I know that this topic distresses you,” he said. “For your own sake, I urge you not to pursue it.”
“But you’ve never told me the truth, Spock. Not once. I’ve asked you a hundred times over the years, and you’ve given me a hundred different answers.”
He raised his right eyebrow, which she knew was a prelude to his taking her exaggeration-for-effect and rebutting it with a precise fact that would utterly miss her intended point. “If memory serves,” he said, “we have discussed this subject precisely forty-three times, including tonight. Our most recent previous conversation of this matter was—”
“Damn you, Spock,” Marlena said, verging on tears. “Just tell me the truth—the real truth, not just your latest excuse. Why won’t you have children with me?”
Her entreaty was met with aggrieved silence. Spock would not lie to her, she knew that just as certainly as she knew that he loved her—or, at least, that he had loved her once, long ago, before he became Emperor. But though he would never lie to her, he also was supremely talented at saying nothing at all.
Determined to force the truth from him, she pressed him harder. “Is it that you don’t love me anymore? That you’re sterile? Or do you simply have a concubine that you prefer instead of me? A Vulcan woman?”
“I assure you,” Spock said, “that none of those are true.”
Unable to hold back her tears, she took his arm in her gentle grasp and begged, “Then tell me. Please.”
“The reason is simple,” he said. “I do not want children.”
“But I do,” Marlena pleaded. “I know you don’t need an heir to the throne, but why shouldn’t we get to be parents like everyone else? Why can’t we have a son or a daughter to call our own?” Spock got out of bed and walked toward the balcony. Marlena cast aside the covers and moved to the edge of the bed. She watched him stare out into the night for what seemed like forever. “It’s been more than a year since you’ve touched me,” she said in a timid voice. “I miss you, Spock.”
He turned back to face her. As always, his expression was un-readable, but for once his voice was gentle. “The burdens of rulership weigh on us both,” he said. “It was necessary for me to put matters of state ahead of your happiness.” In slow, careful steps, he returned to her. He took her hands and helped her to her feet. “I apologize,” he said, and embraced her. “Never doubt that I love you, Marlena,” he whispered into her ear. “But for us to have children would be a mistake.”
Struggling not to succumb to overpowering sorrow, Marlena clung to Spock’s shoulder and whimpered, “Why?”
“You know why,” he said. “Events are moving quickly. We are less than a year from ending the Empire and creating the Republic. But we must not delude ourselves, Marlena. The future of the Republic will be brutal and short-lived. And when it comes to its premature and violent end, it will claim us along with it. I will not sire children only to see them share our fate.”
The truth was ugly and terrible and indisputable. But still, there had to be a solution, an escape. “What if I went into exile?” she said. “I could leave before anyone knows I’m pregnant, go into hiding—”
“Our enemies would seek you out,” he said. “They will not rest until they have eliminated us. If a scan shows them you have borne children, they will seek out your offspring. They must be convinced that we represent the end of our dynasty, or they will lay waste to the worlds of the Republic searching for what has been hidden from them. And in so doing, they could potentially destroy all that I have labored to set in motion for the future.” He tightened his embrace and ran his fingers through her hair. “I am sorry, Marlena. Duty demands a different path for us. This is how it must be.”
She sobbed against his shoulder, dampening his nightclothes with her tears, mourning for their children who would never be. She knew that he was right, and that there would be no changing his mind. His decision was final; she would have to live with it. But it would torture her and haunt her until the end of her days, this hunger of her body to bear him children. It was an empty, tragic yearning that was matched only by her longing for his affection, which she knew would always be held at a remove, veiled behind logic and custom and protocol.
For her love of who Spock was, she had married him; for her love of what he stood for, she would die childless. All the lavish trappings of the imperium were cold comfort as she confronted the chilling finality of her situation: When I’m gone, not one little bit of me will remain. I’ll just be gone.
Spock held her as she wept; he was stoic in his compassion.
When the well of her tears at last ran dry, she looked up through the kaleidoscope of her burning eyes into his serene face. “This is how it must be,” he said.
“I know,” Marlena said. She took his hands in hers. “I accept that I can’t have your children, but promise me that when the end comes, you’ll be with me, that I won’t be alone.”
“I promise that I will be with you,” Spock said. “But in the end…everyone is alone.”
The assassin’s armor felt only slightly heavier than it had the day before. The field agent from Starfleet Intelligence had said as much when he’d delivered it, though his assurance had sounded too convenient to be true. Feeling the armor slide into place, however, there was no denying how remarkably lightweight and unobtrusive the ultritium lining was. Less than four kilograms was dispersed throughout the suit of polymer armor: some of it in the shin guards, some of it in the cuirass of the lorica segmentata, some of it in the red-plumed helmet. It felt perfectly balanced and was so evenly distributed that it was hardly noticeable. And when the time came, it would be enough to vaporize the entire Forum Hall and everyone in it.
But this was not that time.
A barked order from the captain of the guard—“Attention!”—and the members of Spock’s elite guard snapped into formation inside the hangar bay, their plumes aligned, battle rifles shouldered, eyes front. One among many, anonymous in the ranks, the assassin stared ahead, careful not to betray the mission with a wayward glance or a moment of lost focus.
The door slid open, and a procession of diplomats and cabinet officials entered and marched quickly toward the open aft ramp of the personnel transport docked in the bay. Then Empress Marlena walked in. She was followed closely by Emperor Spock, who stopped, turned, and faced his troops. The captain of the guard, a middle-aged Vulcan named Torov, saluted the Emperor. As if acting with one mind, the rank and file of the elite guards saluted in unison a moment later.
Spock returned the gesture, then said to Torov, “Have you secured the landing site?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Torov said. “And the transport has been inspected. We stand ready to depart on your word.”
Spock dropped his voice to speak privately with Torov, but the assassin—and very likely every other Vulcan in the imperial guard detail—heard their conversa
tion clearly. “Armed escorts,” Spock said, “will not be allowed inside the conference center. Furthermore, my agreement with the Klingon Regent and the Romulan Praetor limits each of us to no more than one bodyguard inside the meeting chamber.”
Above the bridge of Torov’s nose, a V-shaped crease of concern betrayed his profound alarm. “Such measures will put you at risk, Majesty,” he protested, careful to keep his tone steady. “Klingons are highly adept at disguising weapons as parts of their uniforms. If they should move against you—”
“Highly unlikely,” Spock said. “With their homeworld in ruins after the explosion of Praxis, provoking us to war would not be in their best interest.”
Torov seemed unwilling to concede. “Are the other delegates equally constrained, Your Majesty? What incentive do the Romulans or the Cardassians have to respect the armistice?”
“The Romulans are recluses,” Spock said. “I suspect they accepted our invitation solely to gather intelligence. As for the Cardassians, they are a fledgling power. They are ill-equipped to challenge us directly.” The Emperor’s answers seemed to mollify Torov somewhat. “We need not commit to a decision now, Torov. Have your platoon accompany me aboard the transport. We shall make our final arrangements when we reach the surface of Khitomer.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Torov said, bowing his head. Spock walked away toward the Starfleet transport ship. With a crisp snap of one boot heel against the other, Torov straightened his back and shouted the platoon of elite imperial guards into motion. “Move out! Single file, double time, hai!”
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 porthole-style windows drifted past. It was more like watching a holographic video of a journey than taking one. Then the flatly lit, immaculate whiteness of the Enterprise’s hangar bay gave way to the endless darkness of space, dappled with the icy glow of distant stars.
Moments later, other ships came into view as the transport raced past them. Massive fleets maneuvered past one another—Starfleet cruisers and frigates, Klingon 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. 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 itself was situated on a lake shore and surrounded by vir-gin forest. It was the sort of blue-skied, M-class world that humans and Klingons prized above all others.
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 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 the ramp 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, Your 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 censers 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 that symbols can be just as vital to the stability of an empire as its arsenal.”
The Regent’s wan grin 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 t
he 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 offering 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 that 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.”