Chapter Forty-six
This Thankless Serpent

Magister Admiral Erika Hernandez

"Lady and Gentlemen, thank you for coming here tonight."

There are nods all around the table.

It's a most select gathering. The great and good of the Empire (minus Jignesh Vaja, I notice, and immediately wonder what has transpired while I was away from Sol) are gathered here at the Imperial Palace. Three days of celebrations will mark the occasion of the Empress's birthday, and she's demure and beautiful in her favored Triaxian silk, tonight an exquisite shade of the palest pink.

I honestly don't know how she stays so young-looking. She hardly seems to have aged a day since she ascended the throne, and though there are surgeons who specialize in defying the years, most people's bodies show some sign of the passing of time. After bearing four children – and weren't we all shocked as hell when none of them were via surrogates – it's a fucking miracle how she's kept her figure. Whoever's treating her must be at the top of their field. I sure as hell wish I could get his business card, because as hard as I try, the strain of my present position shows every time I look in a mirror.

I'll admit, I was on tenterhooks when Tucker escaped. I jumped at every unexpected sound. I trebled my bodyguard – not that that would have achieved anything if the Emperor had decided I was to blame. But how could I be? It was he who gave that damned Vulcan permission to visit in the first place. I just had to sign the authorizations, because when your Pack leader gives you an order you don't say 'But'.

So for a while I was nervous. But when he made me 'Magister Admiral' in token of the fact that I was basically in charge of security for the whole Empire, I knew he'd accepted that he'd been taken in by her just like I had. So that worry receded.

Another worry has faded over time. I was a heck of a lot more frightened than I cared to admit when I found Reed had escaped, and although I told myself over the next couple of years that he wouldn't dare stick his head out of whatever hole he'd crawled into, Eloise Chastain's murder suggested otherwise. Nobody could describe me as squeamish, but when I saw pictures of the body even I had to swallow my gorge a couple of times. He hadn't lost his touch since he cut that Sallis guy to ribbons. The expression on what was left of her face… Christ.

Not that he left any clues – he's far too smart for that – as far as I've been informed, at least, and by all rights, I should be fully informed of anything anyone finds out. I have been officially responsible for catching the wretched little bastard ever since the day he escaped because, whatever the truth may be, the official story has always been that my error in not informing Imperial Security of my investigation is the reason he was able to get away. But, evidence or no, and I think I'm often told no when there is something, I've no doubt at all that it was him, and that he'd just bided his time till we'd all got complacent.

So for a while we were all on tenterhooks again, and I reinforced the order to the Pack, as I routinely did every quarter, that Reed was to be killed on sight, all but daring the Emperor to contradict me, both of us knowing full well he would never be the true Alpha without someday either killing his predecessor or annihilating his successor (who would likely be his best ally, Phillip Georgiou; his oldest friend, Jignesh Vaja; or his own eldest son, little Alfred). But in all these years there's been nothing – nothing except for the odd hint here and there, insubstantial as gossamer, none of which proved to lead anywhere. Six months ago, I think I nearly had him – my team picked up the traces of a group of saboteurs almost by accident, and one of them looked like Reed – but they didn't get close enough for a good look and he slipped away at the last minute. The pursuers were Pack (junior members, but the best among the personnel the Emperor gave me to command) and even they weren't sure if it was him. I'm beginning to think he must be dead, and we've invented this almost mythical figure who thumbs his nose at the empire and gets away with it. Some twenty-second century Robin Hood figure, only with an ivory knife instead of a longbow.

Little English asshole. I hope he is dead. I'd sleep a lot sounder at night if I'd seen his corpse; I can't believe that with a bounty like that on his head, nobody's turned him in. But as ridiculous as it sounds, he's somehow wedged himself into the public imagination. When he re-emerged and took control of Fortress and rewrote the rules on imposing Imperial law through Starfleet, people saw justice being done rather than indiscriminate slaughter. And, of course, when it emerged that Tucker hadn't profited by a single damned credit from all the resources that had passed through his hands (we slapped a gagging order on the Central Bank as soon as we realized they'd released the whole set of figures from his operations, but by that time it was too late – it was all in the public domain), he got turned into some kind of damned saint. We couldn't even allow the public into the trial, but held it behind very securely locked doors allowing only one camera (on orders from the Emperor) to stream the events to all the networks for broadcast and only allowing the press into the courtroom (again, on orders from the Emperor) for the verdict. And though we let it be known that protests following the verdict would come squarely under the heading of 'sedition,' I honestly can't pretend it wasn't Tucker's statement and the commutation of the death penalty that actually kept the peace.

I truly can't blame the Emperor – and ultimately, it was the Emperor's call, because the Empress could only do it with his permission – for commuting the sentence, because Tucker was still way too popular among the Fleet Captains and the Corps of Engineers at the time to risk pissing them off. But if I ever catch the fucking idiot who let that subversive bitch Marla Moore into the conference room for Tucker to give a statement, I swear to fuck I will have them strapped to the deflector dish of the Revenge, and send Captain Georgiou on a tour of the Kuiper Belt.

"…Admiral?"

I realize, rather too late, that my reflections have led me into inattention.

It's pointless to deny that momentarily I'd stopped listening, but fortunately I have a ready-made excuse; I've been away for over a month. I no longer have a ship of my own, but now and then, as if he's letting a dog off the leash for a run, the Emperor indulges me by giving me temporary command of one ship or another. It's not the same as commanding my own crew, and I don't have their loyalty the way I'd need to if I ever wanted to do anything on my own behalf, but gradually over the years, I have cultivated a few powerful friends and some young supporters who will likely advance rapidly through the ranks, so one day… one day.

But not today. Today, I've returned from a mission just barely in time to change into my dress uniform and drag my weary ass to the Imperial Palace for a fucking birthday party. I've spent the last four weeks supervising the destruction of a series of rebel bases we only discovered by a lucky accident. The whole thing had the potential to cause a lot of trouble if it had gotten any bigger or more organized, and it was imperative that every last piece of the network it had established be hunted down and destroyed. It was so worrying that it had achieved what it had – practically under the noses of the local authorities – that I thought it important enough to visit in person and put the fear of hell into people who thought that just because they were a long way off the beaten track they were safe to wink at treason.

Still, my visit paid off. Quite a number of people realized that if they knew what was good for them their malfunctioning memories had better take a sudden turn for the better. And though I left it so late to leave that the Revenge had to fairly burn out her warp coils to get me back to Earth in time for the celebrations, I have a report to present that should qualify me for yet another medal for services to the Empire.

"My sincere apologies, Your Majesty, I'm – a little tired," I lie smoothly, inclining my head to admit I'm in the wrong. "I only got back from the clean-up operation a couple of hours ago. I think you'll be pleased when you read my reports."

Emperor Burnell sits back in his chair – a high-backed, carved thing that has more than a hint of a throne about it, even though it's placed in the middle of the long oval table, opposite his Empress, whose own chair is almost as ornate. He's wearing a dress uniform of the darkest imaginable red, so dark that the color only glows into being where the fabric folds, and unlike the rest of us he wears no medals, though he certainly had more than his fair share when he was a mere General of the MACOs. There's no decoration on it apart from a single length of gold piping around the mandarin collar and down the edge of the panel over the concealed buttons; its sumptuousness is all in its exquisite style and fitting. It manages to make every other man in the room look overdressed by comparison.

"I'm sure they will make fascinating reading," he observes, and I wish his gaze wasn't quite so unblinking. That kind of stare is a Pack dominance display, not often unleashed when there are ordinary Humans present (with the possible exception of his personal assistant and preferred fuck-toy, Captain Trainor – does he think the rest of us can't smell the little minion's pheromones on him?), though even among Humans it's recognized as hostile. But his voice is as mild as milk, and I'm quite sure he's already aware of the scale of destruction I've carried out.

"I believe that's the last we'll hear of insurrection in that corner of the quadrant for the foreseeable future, your Majesty – whatever technology I left repairable will have to be pressed into service to keep the survivors alive. But the supply of dilithium won't be affected, I made sure of that." But for the presence of the rich mines on Harra II and IV, which produce a good quarter of what Jupiter Station needs for the ships it services, I'd have obliterated the settlements on all six planets concerned. As it was, there's a quota that's now their lifeline, and it's not my problem if it will have to be worked day and night by every man, woman and child left alive if they're to meet it. If some need to rest and eat, the others will just have to work that much harder.

I expect a ripple of applause. No-one around this table sympathizes with rebels, and the size of the threat when it was uncovered – especially to the mines, and therefore indirectly to the efficient functioning of Fleet maintenance – had shocked everyone. But there's a stealthy movement of eyes towards the Emperor, as though for some reason they're all waiting for him to react before they do.

That in itself shifts the hair on the back of my neck. He's not petty like that, is perfectly willing to let others have their say without feeling threatened by his lack of response. But now that sudden sickly feeling I had when I realized Major Vaja was absent reasserts itself. There's definitely something going on here I don't know about.

"This insurrection," he says smoothly, at length. "How long would you estimate it had been going on?"

"I can't give you a precise answer for that, your Majesty. A few years, at least, judging by the scale of the organization."

The Empress examines her fingernails. The varnish on them is the same perfect pearl pink as her dress and the spray of orchids pinned in her coiled-up, glossy black hair.

"But prior to that, it had been a largely peaceful area, with trade agreements between the various systems that predated the arrival of the Empire."

"I believe so, your Majesty." Where's he going with this? There were civilizations and trade partnerships all over the quadrant before the Empire arrived. Those who wouldn't recognize the new, hard reality were steamrollered out of existence. That was how the Empire got to be the size it is now, and why ships with the Terran emblem on their hulls inspire fear from one end of it to the other.

"In your necessary absence, we instigated an investigation into the possible causes of the … dissatisfaction with Terran rule, in an area that had hitherto been considered a model of peaceful co-operation." He pauses. "It emerged almost at once that the beginning of the 'dissatisfaction' coincided almost exactly with the removal of ex-Commodore Tucker from his post on Jupiter Station."

I blink at him. That's been nearly a decade ago. "He was a traitor, your Majesty. Of course other traitors objected to his removal. If you recall, there was widespread discontent when the fraudulent documents were accidentally leaked by the Central Bank. People believed they were genuine, which of course was the intention." They were genuine, of course, but we couldn't allow that to get out. Even so, the frenzied campaign to discredit them had been only partially successful.

"With respect, Admiral, the prosecution never proved treason, and even if it had, the timeline doesn't quite bear out your interpretation." Captain Georgiou speaks up, much to my surprise, and from the seat at the Emperor's right hand. So, he has finally accomplished something that gave him his coveted position of favor over Vaja, whose office will now be my first port of call when I return to Jupiter Station.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't give that filthy little street-rat son of a Denobulan street-sweeper the time of day, but he is, in fact, one of the most powerful men in the Empire; and if the Emperor is going to isolate me without a ship of my own on the same station where he is head of security, I'd be a fool not to try to forge some kind of an alliance with him, especially now, when he is probably feeling angry and vulnerable since his most powerful friend has kicked him to the kerb.

Only a few of the most favored 'lower ranks' have been invited to this celebration and they normally wouldn't be expected to speak at all, except of course to echo whatever toasts have been proposed. Georgiou was one of Reed's protégés as I recall, and his ship at the time, the Viper, had been close enough to Earth to be a minor worry the day we pounced on Tucker and the rest. If he'd been even tempted to intervene, he wisely thought better of it, but his congratulations afterwards had been dutiful at best.

And now, somehow, that bastard is captaining my Revenge.

What did he do to finally get the Emperor to choose him over his old buddy Jignesh?

I raise one eyebrow. "Do go on."

"There was little reaction on Harra or any of the associated worlds to then-Commodore Tucker's arrest." His black eyes are unreadable. "But information provided by Captain Kelby suggests that subsequent changes made in the terms of the dilithium supply contracts almost immediately caused hardship. And where hardship exists, resentment will follow. A natural breeding ground, you'll agree, for sedition."

"Perhaps you would care to explain these changes," the Emperor cuts in before I can retort that I don't need that newly-promoted pipsqueak's advice about why people rebel. "The information states that they were instigated on your orders."

I draw a long, steadying breath. "As was amply proved at his Court Martial, your Majesty, ex-Commodore Tucker had misused his position to pilfer Imperial supplies that should have been used for the war effort.

"Discovering the full extent of his activities took some time, but one of the first things to come to light was that he had arranged for quantities of radiation treatment kits and detection badges, intended for use in Imperial warships, to be sent regularly with the ships to escort the dilithium transports, and distributed at no cost to the settlers.

"Of course I ordered the trafficking to cease. If the miners required them, additional dilithium would have to be mined to pay for them."

"Of course, Admiral, you were aware that the items he sent had been withdrawn from the ships docked at the station because they were past their safe use-by dates," Georgiou observes. "The correct disposal procedure was to have them incinerated, but according to the records, then-Commodore Tucker believed that 'some help was better than none'."

"Then he should have at least charged a nominal fee," I snap. "We must have incurred transport costs getting them there. What the former Commodore Tucker apparently failed to recognize is that the Empire is not a damned charity."

He consults a PADD. "Considering it was loaded along with the standard cargo and the miners themselves took care of the unloading and distribution, it's been officially estimated that it added just under nought point five-five of a credit to the running costs of each transport.

"The costs of having the same number of badges and doses dealt with by a disposal detail and logged through the official channels would have been one point nine credits."

You've got to be kidding me! Am I seriously being taken down by a fucking accountant? And I know there's no way Georgiou worked this all out for himself. He's a good enough ship's captain and not a bad military strategist with decent instincts in a fight, but I wouldn't trust him to add two and two without using an abacus, and he certainly wouldn't know a balanced ledger if it bit him in the ass!

"And the estimated costs of putting down the rebellion?" asks the Empress sweetly.

I try not to let the desperation creep into my voice; I know the figures aren't going to be pretty. "When a threat to our dilithium supplies of that severity arises, your Majesty, the cost of not putting it down would be incalculable."

"I have had a cost analysis run on your preliminary reports," the Emperor interposes, and now the unblinking stare is sending icy chills down my spine. "Taking into account lost revenues from the settlements that were destroyed, disruption to our supply chain, rearming and repair to the ships involved, costs from compensation claims, treatment costs to the injured, fuel and supplies consumed during the expedition, costs incurred in the suppression of reports to the media, and the costs involved in sourcing, training and supplying personnel to replace those lost in action, the lowest conservative estimate is seventeen point eight billion credits. And that is dependent on the remaining settlers being able to maintain current production, which in view of the number and characteristics of the survivors, is highly unlikely to be sustainable for any significant length of time."

"I don't dispute the figures, your Majesty, but the expedition taught the rebels a salutary lesson. If they have a legitimate grievance, they should raise their concerns through the proper channels. Thanks to my action, others will think twice before taking the law into their own hands."

Georgiou consults his PADD again. "The appointed representatives of the Harra Consortium applied three times for humanitarian aid within the first year after Tucker's removal from his post. On each occasion they were refused – through your office.

"On the last occasion, the notice of rejection contained a strongly worded threat against the consequences of 'wasting official time with frivolous appeals'."

"So then-Commodore Tucker's admittedly clandestine use of date-expired medicines not only saved the empire money, but effectively fostered good relations with a trading colony whose production is vital to keeping the empire's ships fueled," the Empress muses to no-one in particular.

No-one actually moves, but I have the feeling of the men on either side of me shrinking away from me, confirming something I've known and something else I've suspected for years. Disgrace is, indeed, contagious – and for me it will be deadly.

"Magister Admiral Hernandez, three years ago you provided the opportunity for a convicted felon to escape from a high-security prison. Ever since then, you have been on probation. Now you have placed the efficient functioning of the Imperial Fleet at risk by first failing to take into account the consequences of interrupting a standing arrangement that – however unorthodox – was ultimately beneficial to the Empire's interests, and then by failing to have the legitimate concerns of one of our most vital fuel sources addressed. And when your actions had provoked the inevitable response, you carried out such an egregiously disproportionate strike in retaliation that, far from stabilizing the situation, you made it substantially worse." Burnell's voice never changes tone, but each word falls like icy rain on my ears.

He was the one who gave permission for that fucking Vulcan to visit Tucker, but as Head of Imperial Security my signature was on the documents. I was set up to take the blame if anything went wrong, but I can't say that; I'm already dead, and trying to defend myself will just make matters worse. Compliance may get me a firing squad, or perhaps a hanging, but there are lots of less painless alternatives. Everyone here knows that, and nobody is going to say a word. Reed's puppy-dog Georgiou lays the PADD down on the table with a soft click that says job done.

"Whether through gross incompetence or deliberate malfeasance, the result of your actions is the same. The dilithium supply is now actually in more danger than it was when your response task force set out. Consequently, you are hereby charged with High Treason against the Empire and will be escorted immediately to a place of the appropriate security until your court martial is convened."

There is no way in hell the court martial will ever believe I wasn't acting out of malice, nor should they. I only wanted to achieve what I've always wanted – to topple the current regime and install myself as Empress.

Fuck them all.

The door at one end of the room opens and a squad of armed MACOs marches in.

Resistance is pointless. I hold on to what dignity I can as I stand up, pulling my white fur stole around my shoulders. "At your Majesty's service, as always."

Nobody raises their head as I'm escorted past them. Nobody will utter a word in my defense, and if they did, they'd be accused of sympathy for a traitor – not conducive to long life and a glittering career in the Empire.

Only one person flickers me a glance as I pass him. Of course, it's Georgiou. For one fraction of a second, I see Pack unmasked, the lipless bared teeth that tell me whose rules he still obeys.

For all that Reed's down and done and will hopefully soon be dead, the code he instituted still endures. Georgiou will be efficient and obedient right up till the moment he sees the weakening of Burnell's rule that gives him his chance, and then the fight to the death will come. I won't live to see it, but our glorious Emperor knows as well as I do that his first misstep will almost certainly be his last.

Knowing that, you'd have to be crazy to want to step up to the apex of the pyramid, every second lived one leap ahead of the snapping teeth. And did I want to? Fuck, yes! What other way is there for any of us? My only mistake was in underestimating the opposition. I should have listened to Reed's maxim, the order expressly designed to reduce the casualties in our unending, unspoken war.

You only fight when you can win.

So, the Emperor gave her just enough rope, and after years of getting up to no good, Erika has finally managed to hang herself! Wonder if she'll bump into Trip in the Imperial Prison System? Wouldn't it be lovely for him to have a chance to gloat? It's been said more than once, the Wheel of Fortune is always turning and the one on top becomes the one on the bottom, or has Erika finally been left behind in the dust? If you've enjoyed this chapter, please leave a comment.