Star Trek Mirror Universe - The Sorrows of Empire Read online

  As if with a will of its own, his left hand rose and cupped Marlena’s cheek, then traveled through her warm, dark hair. It was soft and fell over his fingers like a lover’s breath. Her skin was warm. His fingertips rested on the side of her scalp, while she traced a line with her nails down his throat.

  “You are still the captain’s woman,” he said.

  Her hand moved along his clavicle, to his shoulder, down the length of his arm, until it came to rest atop his own hand, on the side of her face. “When I was a girl, I heard stories about Vulcans who could touch minds,” she said. “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” he said, revealing his people’s most closely guarded secret, one for which entire species—such as the Betazoids and the Ullians—had been all but exterminated. “We hide our powers from outsiders, and such a bond is never performed lightly. The melding of two minds is a profound experience.”

  She took a half step closer to him, all the while holding eye contact and keeping her hand pressed against his. “Do both people know it’s happening?”

  “They become as one,” Spock said. “No secrets remain.”

  Resting her free hand against his chest, she whispered, “I wouldn’t resist if … if you wanted to …”

  It was subtle, nimble, and quick. His fingers changed position on the side of her face, spreading apart like the legs of an arachnid, seeking out the loci of neural pathways.

  Marlena tensed and inhaled a short, sharp breath. Though she had said she wouldn’t resist, she couldn’t have known what the touch of a Vulcan mind-meld would really feel like. Nothing could have prepared her for the total loss of privacy, the ultimate exposure of her inner self to another consciousness. Even the most willing participants resisted their first time.

  “My mind to your mind,” Spock intoned, his rich baritone both soothing and authoritative. “Our thoughts are merging. I know what you know. Our minds become one. We become one.”

  The dark flower of her mind bloomed open in his thoughts, and the coldly rational structures of his logic gave form to her chaos of passions and appetites. Fears fell silent, motives were laid bare, and the union of their psyches was complete.

  Years, days, and moments wove together into a shared tapestry of their past. The cold disapproval of Spock’s father, Sarek, stood in sharp contrast to the volcanic fury of Marlena’s father, François: an icy stare tore open a silent gulf between a father and son; a broad palm slapped a young girl’s face again and again, leaving the hot sting of betrayal in its wake.

  I have made my decision, Father.

  I’m sorry, Daddy! Please stop! Don’t!

  Defenses took root, grew coarse, became permanent barriers. Marlena’s weapon of choice was seduction; Spock’s preferred implement was logic. He planned ahead, a master chess player thinking two dozen moves beyond his current position; she lived in the moment, moved with the shifting currents of power and popular opinion, never planning for tomorrow—because who knew what the universe would be like by then?

  Yin and yang, they stood enmeshed in one another’s thoughts. She, quick to anger, rash to act, desperately seeking one moment of tenderness, one solitary moment of affection, in a life that promised nothing but strife and loneliness. He, aloof and alone, desiring only knowledge and order, but watching the Empire begin an inexorable slide toward collapse and chaos.

  All they had in common was the shared experience of meeting the humans from the other universe, the glimpse of a reality so much like theirs yet so different. He admired their discipline, their restraint, their stability. Marlena yearned to live among people of such nobility and compassion. Blending her memories with his own, Spock knew that the qualities he had so respected in the visitors, and the ones that Marlena envied, were inseparable. The others’ self-control and focus in collective effort were made possible by the peaceful ethos they embraced.

  Spock also had not forgotten that the visitors’ merciful ways had saved his own life, when the alternate Dr. McCoy had risked being left behind in this cosmos in order to save Spock from what would have been a fatal subcranial hemorrhage. Marlena had witnessed that moment as well, with Kirk’s alien assassination device. What she hadn’t seen was that, after Spock had risen from the table, he had mind-melded with McCoy to force the truth from his weak human brain—and beheld a vision of the universe the visitors called home.

  It was not without its conflicts, but the civilization to which the humans belonged was no empire; it was a federation, a democratic society, committed to peaceful exploration and coexistence, eschewing violence except in its own defense or that of others who ask for their aid.

  That would be a society worth fighting for. Worth saving.

  In every revolution … there is one man with a vision.

  Marlena reached up and gently pressed her fingertips against the side of Spock’s face. “I share your vision.”

  There were no lies in a mind-meld. Spock knew she spoke the truth; she knew his thoughts, understood what he meant to do, though she likely did not realize all the consequences of what would follow. But her sincerity was unimpeachable, and for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to be simpatico with another being. They were each the first person whom the other had ever truly trusted. Though they knew the galaxy would likely align itself against them and their goals, they were not afraid, because at that moment, in that place, they had one another, they were one another … they were one.

  He pulled back from her mind. Loath to be left alone once more, she resisted his departure, clung to his thoughts, pleaded without words for a few more moments of silent intimacy. It was a labor to leave her mind, and for a moment he hesitated. Then discipline reasserted itself, and he gently removed her fingers from his face as he severed their psychic link. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked up at him. His mien, masklike and vaguely sinister, did not betray the swell of newfound feelings he had for her … but then, despite his best intentions, a savage chord in his nature asserted its primal desires. He pulled her close and kissed her with a passion no Vulcan would admit to outside the sacred rites of Pon farr.

  She kissed him back, not with hunger or aims of seduction, but with devotion, with affection … with love.

  Though he would never have imagined himself destined for such a fate, he realized he might almost be able to let himself reciprocate her feelings. How ironic, he mused, that after all the times I have chided Sarek for choosing a human mate, I should now find myself emulating his behavior.

  Embracing Marlena, he knew he would never give her up and she would never betray him. Whether that would be a strong enough foundation upon which to erect a new future for the people of the Empire, he didn’t know, but it was an ember of hope, one with which he planned to spark a blaze that would burn away a failed civilization already in its decline, and make way for a new galactic order that would rise from its ashes.

  For the love of a woman, Spock would destroy the Empire.

  He would ignite a revolution.

  2

  The Inevitability of Change

  “Main shuttlebay doors secure,” intoned a masculine voice over the Enterprise’s intraship address system. “Repressurizing shuttlebay. Stand by.”

  Captain Spock, Dr. Leonard McCoy, and the Enterprise’s newly promoted first officer, Commander Montgomery Scott, walked together down the corridor to the ship’s main shuttlebay. The three men were attired in their dress uniforms, as were the members of the security detachment gathered at the shuttlebay door. As soon as the guards saw Spock, they snapped to attention, fists to their chests; then they extended their arms, palms forward, in unison. Spock returned the salute.

  “Shuttlebay repressurized,” the voice announced.

  With a nod, Spock said, “Positions, gentlemen.”

  The guards entered the shuttlebay single file, forming an unbroken line from the door of the shuttlebay to the hatch of the just-returned shuttlecraft Galileo. Phasers drawn and clutched reverently to their chests, they stood at at
tention, eyes front. A group of Vulcan delegates debarked from the shuttlecraft, boarding the Enterprise for transport to the imperial conference on the planet code-named Babel.

  At the front of the procession, moving with confidence and radiating personal power, was the head of the Vulcan delegation: Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan, Spock’s father. Trailing behind him was Amanda, his human wife, followed by the junior members of his diplomatic entourage. They all carried with them the spicy scents of the Vulcan homeworld. It had been four years since Spock had last been there, and eighteen years since he had last exchanged words with his father. It was likely, Spock knew, that Sarek would resist any overture of reconciliation he might offer, but he would not be able to avoid interacting with Spock now that he was the captain of the Enterprise. Under different circumstances, Spock might have found the necessity of contact to be distasteful, but as matters now stood it was a fortunate arrangement, and one he intended to exploit.

  Sarek halted in front of Spock, eyed the gold tunic Spock wore, and made a silent note of the rank insignia. He looked Spock in the eye and said in a level voice, “Permission to come aboard, Captain.”

  Spock lifted his right hand in the Vulcan salute and waited until Sarek reciprocated the gesture before he replied, “Permission granted, Ambassador Sarek.” He nodded at his two fellow officers. “Our chief medical officer, Doctor McCoy, and our first officer, Commander Scott.” Scott and McCoy nodded curtly to Sarek, who returned the gesture.

  Speaking more to Scott and McCoy than to Spock, Sarek motioned to the retinue that followed him. “My aides and attachés, and she who is my wife.” He held up one hand and extended his index and middle fingers together. Amanda joined him directly and pressed her own fingertips to his. They both were stoic in their quiet companionship. It was a quality of their relationship Spock had always found admirable.

  “Commander Scott will escort you and your wife to your quarters, Mister Ambassador,” Spock said. “Once you are settled, I look forward to offering you a tour of the ship.”

  “Captain, I’m certain you must have more pressing matters to attend to,” Sarek said, as verbally agile as ever. “Perhaps one of your junior officers could guide us.” He clearly did not want to interact with Spock any more than was necessary to complete his assignment for the Vulcan government, but the protocols of military and diplomatic courtesy prevented him from saying so.

  Spock intended to turn that limitation to his advantage. “It would be my privilege, Mister Ambassador,” he said. “I insist.”

  Of course, Sarek could simply decline the invitation entirely, but Spock knew Sarek’s devotion to the minutiae of decorum would prevent that. A subtle exhalation of breath signaled Sarek’s grim acceptance of the inevitable. “Very well,” he said. “My wife and I shall look forward to receiving you at your earliest convenience.”

  “Ambassador,” Spock said with a half-nod, bringing the discussion to a close. Sarek looked at Commander Scott, who led the middle-aged Vulcan and his wife away, toward a turbolift that would take them to their quarters. The rest of the diplomatic team was escorted from the shuttlebay by the security team, as much for their own protection as that of the other Babel Conference delegates currently aboard the Enterprise.

  McCoy turned and smirked at Spock. “Your father didn’t look too happy to see you, Captain.”

  “My father is a Vulcan, Doctor. He feels neither happy nor unhappy.”

  The doctor snorted derisively. “You can tell yourself that if you want, sir, but that man is not looking forward to seeing you later.” He frowned. “Pure logic, my ass. I know a grudge when I see one.”

  “Perhaps,” Spock said. “But be that as it may, I will not tolerate being interrogated on the subject by a subordinate—particularly not by one who tortured his own father to death.”

  McCoy bristled at the mention of his father. “Dammit, I was under orders! You know that. I was under orders.”

  “Indeed, Doctor. As are we all.”

  The tour of the ship passed quickly. Spock escorted his parents from their quarters first to the bridge, and then through the various scientific and medical laboratories in the primary hull. Sarek made a point of limiting his remarks to no more than a few words—“I see,” or “Sensible,” or “Most logical”—never asking follow-up questions, and suppressing any attempt Amanda made to engage Spock in more than the most perfunctory manner.

  After a brief visit to the astrophysics labs and sickbay, they arrived in main engineering, which was busy with activity, most of it directed from the bridge by Commander Scott, who still groused to anyone who would listen that he had been forced to leave his beloved engines in less capable hands.

  Less than an hour later, the tour was finished, and Spock escorted his parents to his own quarters. He walked a step ahead of them, moving in long strides he knew his father would easily match. Stopping in front of his door, Spock turned and said curtly, “Mother, I wish to meet privately with Sarek. Please excuse us.”

  “Of course, Spock,” she said, and started to step away.

  Sarek caught her arm and stopped her, all the while keeping his hard, dark eyes fixed on Spock. “No, my wife. Stay with me.”

  Undeterred, Spock steeled his tone. “I must insist, Mister Ambassador. It is a matter of great urgency.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Spock,” Sarek declared. “You made your decision, and you must live with the consequences.”

  Amanda looked torn between them. “Sarek, please, listen …”

  “Be silent, Amanda,” Sarek said, his voice quiet but forceful. Returning his attention to Spock, he continued. “You could have been a leader on Vulcan, Spock. A man of power and influence. You rejected that for this? Most illogical.”

  Spock hardened his resolve. “I disagree.”

  “Naturally,” Sarek said. He tried to walk away. “Let us pass. It has been a long day for my wife. We should retire.”

  “Ambassador,” Spock said sharply, “I will speak my mind to you, and you will listen. As captain of this ship, I have the power to compel your audience—and much more, if I so desire. I respectfully suggest the wiser course of action would be not to force me to resort to such barbaric tactics.”

  For several seconds Sarek regarded Spock and took his measure. Spock waited while his father pondered his options. At last, Sarek folded his hands together and sighed. “As you wish, Captain. I am most interested to hear what you consider to be of such grave importance.” He turned to Amanda. “I will rejoin you when my conversation with Spock is finished.” She nodded her understanding and walked away.

  Spock unlocked the door. It swished open, and he stepped aside to let Sarek pass. “After you, Mister Ambassador.”

  Inside Spock’s cabin, the thermostat had been adjusted to a much warmer level than normal, and almost all traces of humidity had been extracted from its air—both changes being for Sarek’s benefit. Seated across a small table from Spock, Sarek’s face was steeped in long vertical shadows from the dim, crimson-hued overhead illumination. He shook his head.

  “Your proposal is not logical, Spock,” he said. “It is grounded in sentimental illusions.”

  “I assure you,” Spock replied, “it is not.” He picked up the ceramic urn of hot tea on the table between them and refilled their cups as he continued. “You yourself have admitted that conquering Coridan for its dilithium resources will inevitably consume more time, personnel, and resources than it can repay. Advocating a policy of waste is illogical.” He set down the tea urn and looked Sarek in the eye. “However, enticing Coridan to join the Empire of its own volition, particularly if it can be accomplished without resorting to threats or force, would represent a significant and immediate gain for the Empire, at a relatively moderate long-term cost.”

  Sarek sipped his tea slowly, then set down his cup. “Even if I acknowledge the logic of your analysis, Spock, you must concede that negotiating such an agreement with a planet we could just as quickly invade would make th
e Empire appear weak. If our enemies come to believe we would rather talk than act, they will not hesitate to strike. Introducing supplication into our foreign policy will only invite attack.”

  “Your analysis is flawed, Sarek.”

  The accusation provoked a glare from the elder Vulcan. He reined in his temper, then said, “Explain.”

  “I agree that opening talks with Coridan will cause the Klingons and the Romulans to question our motives,” Spock said. “But their scanners will still show our border defenses to be intact and our fleet vigilant. They will not attack.”

  Pensive now, Sarek folded his hands in front of his chest. “The other delegates will not be receptive to this idea.”

  “Then you must persuade them,” Spock said. “It will cost the Empire less than conquest, and reap it greater benefit.”