GRAVITAS

Title: Gravitas, 6/26
Author: Jaye (Copyright August 2002)
Codes: VOY/TNG/DS9 any Pairings NC-17

Disclaimer: Star Trek and all related characters and concepts are the property 
of Paramount. Gladiator belongs to Dreamworks SKG and Universal. No infringement 
is intended or profit made. This is NC-17 for adult themes, violence and sex. If 
you aren't interested (or aren't old enough), don't read it.

Archive: Drop me a note first so I know where it's going. Please keep the text 
(especially the disclaimer) intact.

Feedback: Sure but be kind, or at least constructive. E-mail is 
reader8901@fastmail.fm

Summary: Treachery raises the stakes and changes lives when the leader of the 
Terran Empire seeks to restore the Federation.

Note: Very AU, as this is basically the plot of the film "Gladiator" set in a 
Star Trek universe. Some scenes and dialogue closely mirror the film. No Maquis, 
no Delta Quadrant, etc. This is my response to Polly's Cha!Club challenge about 
movies. It gets gory in spots, since the combat is beginning.

***************

CHAPTER SIX

The voyage back to DS9 was a little different than the trip out. The new slaves 
selected to fight in the coming combat were mixed with experienced gladiators. 
They all occupied the freighter's cargo hold in a space surrounded by 
forcefields. Within the enclosure were sleeping mats, food, drink, and the usual 
facilities. Also weapons, wooden training swords for the red-marked novices to 
get in some extra practice before the bout.

Tuvok and B'Elanna had sparred several times, both at the compound and on the 
ship. Now that he was officially chosen to become a gladiator, he found the 
gruff half-Klingon full of advice and insightful critiques. In their few days' 
acquaintance Tuvok's technique had significantly improved, earning him the 
feisty woman's grudging respect.

The gladiators had also deigned to form a casual connection with the newcomers, 
sharing their histories and listening to the inexperienced slaves' tales of woe. 
But it was clear to all that while they may be on the same team, survival was 
the real name of the game. And those who had prevailed in the arena thus far 
wouldn't hesitate to kill their new comrades if they got in the way.

Only the Dorvan remained a mystery, passing the time watching and listening. His 
yellow mark for refusing to defend himself labeled him a loser like Durst and 
some others, undeserving of training or weapons. Even so, both Tuvok and 
B'Elanna had attempted to persuade him to fight---or at least talk---but to no 
avail. Eventually they'd given up, the half-Klingon with a surly growl and the 
Vulcan a disappointed sigh. Another strong arm could have tipped the balance 
between dying or living another day, but it seemed the silent man had already 
decided his fate.

************************************************************
************************************************************

The group of new and seasoned representatives of Benjamin Sisko's gladiator 
school were separated by their color codes and lined up in two rows, one set on 
each long bench in the waiting area underneath the arena's bleachers on DS9. The 
noises of the restless crowd filtered down to them, sounds of bloodlust and 
anticipation. The eager spectators knew men and women would die this day.

So did the slaves. The gladiators looked across the space to their yellow-daubed 
counterparts, who were the most likely victims of the coming bloodbath.

B'Elanna rolled her eyes as she was paired with Durst.

Tuvok carefully watched as the Dorvan was pushed into the seat across from him. 
They would be a team, a four-foot chain linking them together just before they 
entered the ring.

Sisko's physical presence and expansive personality dominated the space as he 
entered and paced a moment before his people. His eyes cataloged them as he 
wondered which faces would be rigid with the chill of death before the day was 
out. He spoke, his booming voice ringing through the room.

"Some of you are thinking you won't fight---some of you that you can't. All of 
that will change the second you step into the arena." He cocked his head, 
hearing the cheers of the crowd. "Listen. They call you to battle. To live---or 
to die."

He picked up a sword, tilting it to let the light spill along the blade. "Your 
sole purpose is to use this weapon. To thrust it into your opponent's flesh. If 
you fight well, the crowd will applaud you for it. Even love you. Maybe you will 
come to love them, their adulation."

His dark eyes swept over them, the fighters and the fodder, one last time. "You 
will all face Death today. Only you can decide how you will meet it. Those of 
you who are to taste blood for the first time, I tell you this: When you come 
back---*if* you come back---you will not be a mere slave, faceless among 
thousands scattered across the Empire. You will be the rare, the prized, the 
elite. A gladiator."

Handing the sword to B'Elanna, he swept from the room. At a command from the 
guards the slaves stood as one, walking in formation down a short passageway. As 
they passed a table set in the center of the corridor, a burly bearded human 
chained the designated pairs together. A cuff was placed on the gladiator's left 
wrist, the loser's right. Fighters were handed heavy metal swords, while the 
token defenders were tossed round wooden shields only slightly larger than 
serving plates.

They stopped just before the closed gate. Through the lattice they could see the 
crowd, a multitude of races packed tight into the stacked seats. The gazes of 
the anonymous throng were bright with excitement as their bodies shifted with 
impatience.

Durst's eyes were wide with terror as sweat streamed down his face. His voice 
was high and tight with panic. "I shouldn't be here. I'm a *reporter* for pity's 
sake. I was just doing my job."

"You have a new job," B'Elanna replied bluntly. "To die." She knew she wasn't 
going to stay chained to this walking corpse for long. She gripped her sword and 
prepared to enter the ring. They were second in line.

Chakotay's hand automatically reached up to the base of his throat, a gesture 
fraught with meaning. His fingers lifted out and closed around the tiny bag of 
Dorvan soil he had unconsciously protected all this time. He took a shuddering 
breath as images washed over him. Of his mother, his brothers and sisters. All 
of his friends and neighbors. His wife. His son. Some small spark, still 
struggling to survive, rose up from the depths of Chakotay's soul. It fought its 
way through this tiny crack in the shroud of grief and pain, betrayal and 
despair, to fill him with conviction.

He couldn't die this way. Not wearing the yellow mark of a coward.

And not as a passive victim. In this moment, holding his last link to the past, 
Chakotay understood. He was the sole survivor and indirect cause of the massacre 
of innocents. His people had been given no warning, no time to fight, no choice. 
*He* was being granted all three. To throw away an opportunity to live---even if 
he now despised that life---was an insult to their memories. He could not 
dishonor his dead by joining them in such a demeaning manner, as little more 
than a beast butchered for sport. He would die a man at least, on his own terms.

Chakotay's head lifted as the light of battle returned to his eyes.

Tuvok didn't understand the odd ritual the human seemed to conclude by tucking a 
small bag back underneath his tunic, but he was grateful to see his enigmatic 
partner come to life. He knew the moment the bronze man rejoined the universe at 
large. The broad shoulders settled, the back and legs straightened from their 
slump. The shield was shifted in suddenly knowing and experienced hands. And the 
face and eyes hardened into a portrait of fierce and focused concentration.

The gate opened. It was time.

***************

Benjamin Sisko suppressed his anxiety and excitement as he entered the owners' 
box overlooking DS9's arena. He was eager to see if any of his new gladiators 
would survive this first dangerous encounter. They were going to be tested under 
harsher conditions than most. Sisko knew the odds were stacked heavily against 
his people. There was no guarantee that the experienced fighters---even his 
prize, B'Elanna Torres---would walk away from the ring this time.

The owner of a rival gladiator school, Miles O'Brien, had come to him more than 
a week ago with an unexpected offer. For a much higher than usual fee, Sisko's 
gladiators would go up against O'Brien's, but under unusual terms. O'Brien's men 
and women would have some armor and a variety of weapons. Sisko's would have 
their swords---nothing else. The clearly unequal battle was designed to stir the 
jaded appetites of the frontier people who sought entertainment at DS9. If the 
underdogs could win---or at the very least, go down swinging---it may excite 
crowds tired of the usual one-on-one duels or carefully balanced melees.

Sisko had refused at first. He didn't want to risk skilled, valuable warriors in 
certain defeat. Then O'Brien had raised the price even higher---and added a 
percentage of the betting action. The wily Irishman had also suggested Sisko 
toss in a set of "defenders", worthless men and women to be sacrificed buying 
the gladiators a little more time.

Now the proposition was intriguing. O'Brien had Sisko's interest.

So of course there was a catch. Sisko's crowd-pleasing Klingon, B'Elanna Torres, 
had to be on the list for the combat, or no deal. The haggling continued.

In the end, Sisko couldn't resist the money or the challenge. He agreed to his 
fellow slave-owner's terms, making sure he would be well compensated if he lost 
Torres.

Sisko took his seat and peered into the arena. O'Brien's fighters entered---and 
Sisko knew he'd been had. They were all men, heavily muscled humans, Terellians, 
Cardassians, even a Klingon or two. And their helmets and armor-covered tunics 
left very little vulnerable to his gladiators' blades. His people would have to 
strike hard enough to pierce the hammered metal covering the brutes' torsos, or 
find ways to slip under the protective surfaces.

He gulped, and hoped his face didn't reveal his worry. Or his anger. O'Brien 
would definitely pay for this perfidy. But now all Sisko could do was watch and 
wait. To see who, if anyone, survived.

***************

The first pair of Sisko's team, two male Betazoids, took one step through the 
gate. It was their last. Lon Suder, the fighter, had come out charging and 
screaming in the berserker rage he was known for. His young, terrified partner 
was dragged along with him helplessly. They walked right into the swinging 
battle axes of two Cardassians who had hidden on either side of the portal 
waiting to strike.

B'Elanna saw a flash and trusted her instinct, dropping and rolling underneath 
the weapon aiming for her head. A yank sent Durst sprawling to the floor beside 
her with a yelp. From her position on the ground she launched her sword 
underneath the skirted armor of the Cardassian. The blade circumvented both 
metal and cloth to pierce the pale alien's vitals. He screamed and went down 
thrashing. She pulled out her dripping weapon with a pleased grunt and rose, 
seeking her next opponent.

***************

Tuvok dashed to the right, avoiding the Cardassians. He felt the chain swing 
slackly from his cuff as the Dorvan kept up with his quick strides. Suddenly two 
Klingons came charging toward them. He managed to stop a descending bat'leth 
with his sword, but knew that left him vulnerable to the other opponent's blade. 
He mentally prepared for the bite of steel in his flesh.

Instead all he heard was the thud of metal hitting wood. He didn't have time to 
look over his shoulder as he sparred with one big Klingon warrior, desperately 
seeking an opening around the deadly curved weapon dancing before him. Tuvok 
could spare no thought as to how his unarmed partner was faring. His focus 
narrowed to avoiding the bat'leth's deadly prongs as he continued to trade blows 
with his opponent.

***************

Chakotay watched his Klingon warrior's eyes, using them to gauge where to next 
position his small shield. He'd managed to block the gladiator's sword so far, 
but knew it was simply a matter of time before one of the Klingon's comrades 
noticed Chakotay's vulnerability. His movements were precise and measured as he 
shifted position with each of the Klingon's blows, moving off-center to his foe. 
After absorbing a half-dozen more strikes, he made his move.

***************

Tuvok finally saw his opening when his Klingon lifted his arms for an overhead 
blow. He thrust his sword in a fierce lunge, aiming for and piercing the eyehole 
in his opponent's helmet. The Klingon's roar of pain was brief as the blade sank 
into his brain, killing him.

The Vulcan whirled to help his partner but froze in shock. The Dorvan blocked 
another thrust from his Klingon, the blade sliding off the human's shield as he 
twisted to the right. As the Klingon was bringing the weapon back up for another 
strike, the human tilted his arm and swung it sharply to the left. The shield, 
now held parallel to the floor, smashed edge-first into the Klingon's vulnerable 
throat. The force behind it shattered the alien's windpipe and the bulky warrior 
dropped like a stone. The chest heaved a few times, seeking air, then the body 
was still.

The Dorvan abandoned his shield and grabbed up the Klingon's sword. He turned to 
meet Tuvok's gaze.

Tuvok could see anger, a controlled fury darkening the brown eyes. He took an 
instinctive half-step back from this fierce warrior before the Dorvan gave a 
sharp pull on the chain. As Tuvok stumbled forward trying to keep his balance he 
expected to be spitted on the human's newly acquired sword. It flashed toward 
him, but instead passed him and plunged into the chest of the Terellian about to 
gut the Vulcan from behind. The thrust was so powerful the point of the blade 
pierced both the enemy gladiator's armor and his massive torso to stick out his 
spine.

The Dorvan nodded at Tuvok, then leaned down to close his hand around the 
Terellian's weapon, leaving his own buried in the corpse. Tuvok returned the 
acknowledgement, then scanned the area for the next threat.

***************

Sisko had sent out a dozen men and women in six chained pairs. He winced as he 
lost Suder along with the man's worthless partner. One other team had also gone 
down almost immediately. Another of the defenders was just a corpse being 
dragged around on the end of a dying Andorian gladiator's chain. Six of 
O'Brien's men were also still fighting; the other half-dozen lay still, 
scattered on the arena floor.

His attention was drawn to Torres, and he was surprised to see her partner still 
breathing, cowering at her back as she battled the other Cardassian by the gate.

***************

B'Elanna's teeth gritted in frustration as she felt another jerk on the chain. 
It shifted her grip a fraction, once more changing a certain block to a 
precarious one. The decision was difficult, but she made it. She lowered her 
sword, freeing one hand as her keen eyes watched the Cardassian prepare for 
another strike. As the scaly gladiator began his swing she reached over her 
shoulder and grabbed Durst. She whirled behind him and shoved the human into the 
Cardassian's axe. As the two men tangled together she darted behind them, 
slashing across the Cardassian's bare legs. He went down with a groan, blood 
pouring from his severed arteries.

She looked at Durst, frowning a moment at the horrified expression frozen on his 
face. "You were warned," she said grimly, then raised her sword to cleave the 
dead man's hand from his body. As the wrist bones separated the chain swung 
free. She quickly wrapped its length around her own arm to keep it out of the 
way and provide some meager protection.

***************

Sisko watched in shock as the crowd surged to its feet, urging on his remaining 
gladiators. The savagery and skill displayed by Torres was well known in this 
arena. And indeed, some voices were shouting her name. But the majority of the 
stamping, screaming spectators were cheering on newcomers to this bloody game. 
The one garnering the most applause was---incredibly---the Dorvan. The way he 
and the Vulcan moved together was a deadly ballet, but the bronze-skinned slave 
was clearly the more compelling of the two.

"I thought the yellow mark meant a dead man." The gravelly voice belonged to 
Miles O'Brien.

Sisko turned to shrug at his fellow gladiator-owner, who was sipping an ale and 
frowning as he counted the corpses below them. "It does," he confirmed.

"Well he must have disagreed with you. He fights like a very devil. Who is he?" 
O'Brien had a gut feeling that he wouldn't be taking any victors or prize money 
home with him today.

"The Dorvan," Sisko said.

"That's it? The Dorvan?" The Irishman's brow furrowed.

"Yes..." Sisko's eyes brightened with impromptu plans. "A mysterious warrior 
from the frontier. No one knows anything about him, except he's a gladiator. 
*The* gladiator. He'll be bigger than Torres."

O'Brien grunted. "I'm sure he will, Sisko. *If* he survives today." He tilted 
his head to the side. "And if he does, you'll need challenges worthy of the 
build-up you're going to give him."

"We'll talk. Later." Sisko said, waving his colleague away and focusing back on 
the arena. Hoping his latest purchase would continue to surprise him.

***************

Chakotay was flushed with rage at the injustices he'd suffered, the sorrows he 
still bore. But he focused the feelings, let them burn steadily like the 
tempering fires of a forge. He refused to let the emotions flare out of control, 
for that would be certain death.

He and the Vulcan---Tuvok---stood back to back, moving in precise concert like a 
team that had practiced together for years. Tuvok was sparring with a thickset 
human sheathed in armor from neck to knees. Chakotay was trading blows with 
another Terellian, this one armed with a trident. Chakotay was shifting from 
side to side, dancing away from the barbed points of the weapon then moving 
close to the long wooden shaft, trying to divert its forward course. He didn't 
want an unexpected lunge to get past him and reach Tuvok's back.

The Terellian made just such a move, extending himself to strike at least one of 
his targets. Chakotay instantly leaped, descending squarely on the weapon, 
snapping it in half as he landed in a crouch on the arena floor. He leaned away 
from the sharp edges of the broken haft approaching him. He shifted his sword, 
wrapping one hand around the pommel and bracing the weapon against his own body. 
The burly alien impaled himself, unable to stop his forward momentum. Chakotay 
grunted as he held fast against the weight bearing down on him.

***************

Tuvok saw shock in the armored human's eyes at some spectacle behind him. He 
heard wood breaking and low sounds of pain, but didn't lose his concentration. 
Taking advantage of his opponent's temporary distraction, he put his whole body 
into a swing that drew an arc starting under the human's left arm, slicing 
upward into the exposed flesh at the armpit of the human's metal sleeve and 
amputating the limb. The warrior dropped his own weapon and screamed as he sank 
to his knees, cradling a bleeding stump.

With no further attackers, Chakotay and Tuvok stood a moment, breathing heavily. 
Then they saw two of their team thrashing on the ground, trapped in a heavy net. 
Two humans and a Cardassian were raising their swords for killing blows. 
Chakotay snatched up what was left of the trident and they rushed to help.

***************

Torres watched in surprise as Tuvok and the Dorvan ran across the arena toward 
their trapped teammates. Usually individual survival was the rule, but 
apparently those two hadn't listened to the advice of the more experienced 
gladiators. They quickly engaged the trio of opponents ready to gut their prey 
through the net that entangled them. Tuvok immediately struck swords with the 
Cardassian in a slashing one-on-one.

Her eyes widened as the black-haired human took on the two remaining foes with 
only a broken trident. He held the weapon like a staff, perpendicular to his 
body, as he blocked both the hits against him and any attempts to harm the 
struggling bodies on the floor. Automatically she evaluated his performance; the 
mysterious gladiator was obviously both well-trained and experienced.

Suddenly the Dorvan shifted from defense to offense. He ducked under a swing 
designed to decapitate him, shifted the shaft in his hands and thrust. The 
trident's points sank into a bit of thigh exposed by the metal strips forming 
the enemy gladiator's skirted armor. At the same time he landed a solid kick in 
the other human's middle, sending the helmeted man sprawling and pulling his 
weapon free.

Torres gripped her sword with a fierce grin and ran to throw herself into the 
fray. Her fellow gladiators needed her.

***************

Sisko was stunned. The newcomers had flung themselves at O'Brien's remaining 
trio, but not just to finish them off for their own safety. They were clearly 
protecting their fallen comrades, ignoring the unwritten rule of self-
preservation that held sway in the arena. He watched the Dorvan continue his 
dazzling debut, this time taking on two sword-wielding opponents with nothing 
but half of a broken weapon. The Vulcan was also acquitting himself well against 
a Cardassian.

Then one of the O'Brien's humans went sprawling, and Sisko was even more shocked 
to see Torres leaping forward to engage the man as he rolled to his feet. 
Apparently the madness was contagious. He leaned back in his seat, eyes 
thoughtful, certain of the outcome.

***************

Tuvok turned from the dying Cardassian to check on his comrades. Torres was 
giving one of the dead humans a coup de grace across the throat, while the 
Dorvan was regarding his trident, now protruding from the last man's stomach. 
Satisfied they were all out of danger, he dropped his sword to help the trapped 
team, a Cardassian man and an Andorian woman.

Unbeknownst to them, the wounded gladiator had risen and grabbed his sword with 
his remaining hand, determined to get some revenge for the death about to befall 
him. He approached his destroyer's vulnerable back.

The change in the tenor of the roar of the crowd alerted Chakotay. Instinctively 
he whirled to seek the unknown danger. Seeing a one-armed human in a final death 
charge, he grabbed for Tuvok, pulled him close and wrapped the Vulcan's cuffed 
hand around the chain. He did the same with his own. At just the right moment he 
tossed the Vulcan and also moved, stretching the metal taut between them.

The Dorvan's move had put both Tuvok and himself out of immediate danger from 
the wildly swinging sword. Tuvok automatically tightened his grip and yanked the 
links as the maimed gladiator ran into their chain, the metal digging into his 
throat. His partner did the same and they garroted their bleeding opponent. The 
Dorvan easily disarmed the dying man as he staggered. Then his struggles 
stopped. They unwound the chain and let the corpse drop to the floor.

The crowd went wild. Torres raised her bloody sword and brandished it, accepting 
the accolades. The freed gladiators and Tuvok bowed slightly, not quite sure 
what to do.

Chakotay looked at the sea of avid faces, at the morgue the floor had become. He 
flung his sword away in disgust and moved to leave the arena without another 
glance, Tuvok trailing behind him.

The audience cheered even louder, anointing their new champion.

************************************************************
************************************************************

The Enterprise, flagship of the Imperial Fleet, sailed into orbit above San 
Francisco. The great warship had not been to the Sol system since it had been 
commissioned. But these last few weeks had seen it pressed into service as the 
new Emperor's personal transport.

All of the news services had carried word of the final Imperial victory, 
followed by the tragic announcement of Jean-Luc Picard's death and burial in 
space. The loss of that noble man and beloved leader had left a great hole in 
the hearts of the Empire's peoples. It was quickly filled by worry, for the 
details of Picard's arrangements for a successor had still been sketchy when he 
left Earth for what turned out to be his final journey.

What the average citizen didn't know was that plans had been in place for months 
to ensure Julian Bashir Picard's place on his father's throne. He'd nursed the 
ground carefully for a long time, eliminating potential rivals and wooing 
Council members with promises of wealth and favor. Others he neutralized with 
meticulously collected blackmail materials.

His hard work paid off. Even before he arrived on Earth Julian was declared his 
father's heir and sole claimant to the Bashir legacy of Imperial rule. Now all 
he had to do was convince the people of his worthiness to lead them.

The arrival of the Enterprise was part of that. It demonstrated that Imperial 
borders were so secure that the main defender was better employed returning the 
Emperor to his home. The impressive vessel would stay a day or two, a symbol of 
Imperial might, before departing once more for the frontier. Its new captain, 
Will Riker, would be in the command chair when it returned to duty. Though no 
official announcement had been made, he was for all intents and purposes the new 
Admiral of the Fleet.

***************

Will stood before the viewport in his still-unfamiliar Ready Room, watching a 
dozen small ships darting around the Enterprise's hull like a swarm of bugs. He 
didn't understand what had happened that first day after the battle with the 
Dominion. The Emperor he had served for years died, his Admiral and good friend 
Chakotay vanished without a trace or word of explanation. Chakotay's own second-
in-command, Gregor Ayala, declined the top position in the Imperial Fleet. 
Instead, he accepted leadership of the Guard, which rarely ventured outside the 
core Imperial worlds.

A great honor, to be sure, and an easier job for certain. But a transfer from 
one military branch to the other was unheard of, especially when the head of the 
Imperial Guard was alive and well and summarily retired before her time.

Will sighed as he stared at the planet he rarely called home. The glimmer of the 
ships now heading for Earth was soon absorbed in the light reflecting from the 
blue sphere. He felt very much alone.

************************************************************

The cameras were out in full force, along with a sizable contingent of 
spectators. They milled about the sidewalks of the main thoroughfare of San 
Francisco. The broad avenue led directly to the imposing Imperial complex, which 
included the palace and Council building.

Suddenly excitement rippled over the crowd as a parade of gleaming shuttles 
began. Though nowhere as impressive as the Enterprise in orbit far above them, 
they still made an impact. In the middle of the procession the shuttles gave way 
to hovercars filled with Guards. They stood straight, their commbadges and 
weapons gleaming in the sunshine.

Then came the Emperor himself. Besides an anonymous driver, Julian's vehicle 
also held Greg---the recently appointed Chief of the Guard, and Tom Paris, 
brother-in-law to the new leader and a familiar fixture from prior Imperial 
events.

The crowds did applaud, but not too enthusiastically. Their new Emperor was a 
man of uncertain reputation and untried ability. They would withhold judgement 
until they saw what he could do.

Julian waved to the throng, his pleasure unaffected by the lukewarm welcome. He 
knew he possessed the intelligence and cunning it took to hold the throne. His 
easy conquest of the Council already proved it. He had ways to win over his 
people as well, and soon he would put those plans into motion. He craved 
adulation, and he would have it. The Empire *would* recognize his greatness---or 
else.

***************

On the steps of the palace a handful of representatives awaited the arrival of 
the young Emperor. At the front of the group were LaForge and Shelby, freshly 
arrived from the Mercury. With them was the leader of the Council, Kathryn 
Janeway. Sitting on the steps in front of the trio was a group of children 
holding flowers for their new leader. Among them flashed the golden-brown hair 
of Lucien Picard Paris, Tom's young son.

Kathryn smiled as she regarded the boy. He'd been staying with her for the last 
few weeks, since Tom didn't like the child to be left alone with only servants 
in the huge palace. Then her eyes wandered down the steps to the people loosely 
packing the pavement awaiting the triumphal parade. "He returns to Earth a 
conquering hero," she mused, "but what has he conquered?"

Shelby, who believed in the Empire and was firmly in Julian's camp, bristled at 
the question. "Give him time, Councilor. I think he will surprise you and do 
very well indeed."

"For the Empire? Or for you?" Kathryn's blue-gray gaze flashed with knowledge as 
one brow arched. She herself was the primary proponent of a return to the 
Federation. She disliked the amount of power vested in a single individual, and 
the fact that non-Terrans were openly discriminated against.

Fortunately for her, Kathryn had first expressed her opinions years ago. Jean-
Luc Picard was at the height of his power then, and both liked and respected 
her. At the time his tolerance of her ideas was the only thing that kept her 
from slavery or assassination. Now both she and her position were well 
established, a shield of publicity that kept her safe even in this new regime. 
Kathryn also knew her hopes for a return to better ways of governing were shared 
by many of her colleagues, but only a few brave souls like LaForge were willing 
to say so openly.

Shelby's narrow lips thinned further, but she held her tongue. Glancing down at 
the children she called, "Lucien!"

The 8-year-old gave her a wary glance from hazel eyes, but stood and approached 
the adults. He automatically headed to the spot between Janeway and LaForge. 
"Yes, Councilor?" he asked politely.

"It's a proud day for us all, isn't it, young man?" Shelby's smile was edged. "I 
bet Councilor Janeway never thought she'd live to see such a grand display."

"I'm just happy my father's back," Lucien replied, remembering his parent's 
advice to not engage in word games with people he didn't trust. Lucien thought 
Shelby looked like a blonde ferret, and he definitely didn't like her. He felt 
Geordi give his shoulder a quick squeeze of reassurance.

Janeway smiled at the boy, then glanced to where the Imperial hovercar was 
settling at the base of the steps. "Go to your father," she said, giving him a 
little push, "He's dying to see you."

Lucien happily sprinted ahead of the flower-bearers, throwing himself into his 
father's open arms. "Dad!" he shouted ecstatically, hugging Tom tight.

***************

Tom crouched down to Lucien's level then began a second embrace, clutching his 
son, blinking back tears. He knew that for the moment they were safe. His bold 
move had seen to that. By striking Julian and then acknowledging his right to 
rule, Tom had ensured that the new Emperor realized that Tom was aware Julian 
had murdered Jean-Luc, but supported his childhood friend anyway. It eliminated 
him as a target for Julian's paranoid suspicions.

Tom pressed his face against the child's neck and squeezed his eyes shut. He 
still ached for Chakotay, but knew that he couldn't grieve openly for him 
either. He hadn't heard Julian ranting or spouting dire threats when Chakotay 
rejected Julian the night Jean-Luc died, so he had assumed the new Emperor 
intended to woo his Admiral back into the fold. Instead Chakotay had 
disappeared. Worse still, all record of him had been completely wiped from the 
database. That was enough for Tom to understand that Julian had foreseen 
Chakotay's stubbornness and decided to remove a powerful threat to his rule. And 
from the shift in positions in the military, Julian must have had some help.

In his role as fervent follower of Julian Bashir Picard, Tom was unable to do 
any research or ask questions about how the revered leader of the Imperial Fleet 
vanished overnight. So he would keep his silence and make his own plans. He knew 
Lucien was only Julian's token heir. There was no way that arrogant, ambitious 
bastard would let anyone but his own child succeed him to the Imperial throne. 
Fortunately for Tom, Julian hadn't even picked out an Empress yet. The one thing 
Tom did have on his side was time.

He glanced up as Julian and the giggling children passed him, then looked around 
and caught Janeway's welcoming nod and smile. He returned the greeting, glad 
that he also had a friend or two. He would need them.

***************

Julian swept up the marble steps, surveying the Council delegation. Some, like 
Shelby, he knew were securely in his pocket. Others, like Janeway and LaForge, 
were courteous but clear opponents. The rest were sheep who followed whoever was 
in power. Right now they, like the populace, were giving Julian a chance to 
prove himself.

Shelby stepped forward, her voice raised. "Earth greets her returning Emperor," 
she said with a bow. "Your loyal subjects bid you welcome."

Julian tossed the flowers he'd been given to a waiting slave. "Thank you, 
Shelby, for the welcome and the loyal subjects." He grinned. "I trust they 
didn't cost too much." He focused on Janeway as the elegant woman moved in front 
of her associate.

"Sire, we grieve at your loss and rejoice in your return." Her gaze was somber 
as she regarded the young man entrusted with the power of an empire. "There is 
much to discuss."

************************************************************

Tom kept a careful eye on Julian from his seat on the steps of the palace 
atrium. It did not bode well for relations with the Council that its members 
were not even welcomed into the formal reception rooms. He saw a well-concealed 
expression of annoyance flash across Julian's features as Janeway held out a 
padd toward the new leader.

"To ease the transition, sire, the Council has prepared a series of protocols to 
guide you and outline the current status of the Empire. We thought you could 
study it at your leisure and---"

Julian decided to take hold of the reins of power, now. To start strong and show 
that he meant business. "My father *studied* thousands of missives from the 
Council during his tenure on the throne." He stalked around the room, running 
his eyes over his audience. "At home with his children, in space in the midst of 
battle, even on his deathbed he was plagued with protocols---his people were 
forgotten."

"The Council members *are* the people, sire. Elected from among them to serve as 
their voices," Janeway calmly replied.

Julian raised a brow. "I doubt all of our people eat as well as you, Janeway." 
He glanced at Geordi, "Or have cybernetic eyes like Councilor LaForge. I have 
listened to and learned from my father all my life. I am sure I know my own 
people."

"Perhaps then you would care to share your wisdom with us, sire, and let us know 
your plans." Janeway's smile and voice had acquired a bit of an edge.

"I intend to love them, as a father loves his children. Holding them tightly in 
my embrace." Julian's chin tilted. "The details are unnecessary at this time."

"Communication between the throne and the Council chamber is the lifeblood of 
the Empire. You cannot simply cut us off," Janeway protested.

The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "It is not the *Empire's* lifeblood that will be 
spilled if you continue to---"

"I think that we are a bit tired from the journey, Councilors," Tom smoothly 
intervened. He walked up to Janeway and grasped the padd. "If you leave your 
list with me I will ensure it makes its way to Julian's desk. The Emperor plans 
to meet his obligations in full." He gestured to a house slave. "Please escort 
the Councilors out."

Janeway bowed to her new leader but addressed Tom. "As always, a Paris is a most 
able aide to a Bashir. We will look forward to hearing from the Emperor." She 
led the way out.

Julian barely restrained himself until the last Councilor departed. "Damn them, 
especially that meddling witch! Who are they to make demands of me!"

"Please, Julian, don't let them bother you. The Council has its uses," Tom 
soothed.

"They are nothing but a bunch of impotent windbags. I hold the Guard and the 
Fleet. I should dispense with the Council's services." His eyes gleamed with 
ideas.

"There has always been a Council. The people would not accept such a shock to 
their---"

"Illusions?" Julian mocked.

"Traditions," Tom answered firmly. "They would balk at such an abrupt change. It 
would...detract from their vision of the Empire."

"Unless they truly believed that the Empire *is* the Emperor. That I am the sole 
source of their wealth, comfort, security---greatness." Julian's face suffused 
with excitement as he turned to Tom. "So I will change their vision. They will 
see me. And love me."

Tom's knuckles whitened on the padd as Julian lost himself in dreams of glory.

TBC