Our conversations ought not to stray into political territory. However curious Spock might be about the Romulan ship that was thought to have entered Federation space, he seemed to have taken that admonition literally. He made no reference, direct or indirect, to Kirk's message or to my response; he merely closed the communicator and laid it on the table.
"The captain's timing leaves something to be desired," he murmured, turning towards me.
"That's not such a bad thing. Leaving something to be desired, I mean." I ran my fingers down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. "I think you must shave before you present yourself to your admiral. Unless Starfleet custom permits otherwise."
"It does not." He pressed my fingers against his lips briefly, then rose and straightened his clothing. "I will be as quick as I can."
I lay back on the pillow, closed my eyes, and fell into a light half-sleep. The sound of a step on the wooden floor startled me into wakefulness; I sat up and put my own clothes back in order, then rummaged among the sheets and retrieved most of my hairpins. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, using my fingers as a comb, I busied myself with my hair as I watched Spock, clean-shaven now and wearing his Starfleet uniform, leave a brief message for J.B. He logged off and opened the closet door. Like all soldiers, he kept a kitbag packed and ready to go; a duplicate was probably stowed aboard Enterprise, another in his family's home on Vulcan. He slung the strap over his shoulder, then took my hand in his.
I told myself that I should memorize the view from his room, that I ought to take a last look at the paintings that lined one side of the long gallery, that the grand architectural details of the house were worth remembering. But I could only focus on the warmth of his hand around mine and the strength of the link that bound us. From a comm panel by the front door, Spock gave quiet instructions to the security desk in my building; I rested my head against his shoulder as the familiar tingle of the transporter effect enveloped us.
As soon as we materialized in the apartment, he let go of my hand and went straight to the terminal, where he talked for several minutes with someone from Elydex's San Francisco office. When that conversation was concluded, he approached the security guards who once again stood outside my door. His manner was formal, distant, preoccupied: the first officer of the Enterprise was suddenly present in my living room, and the sight of him chilled me to the bone.
Spock turned and looked at me as if I had spoken aloud; then, with a nod to the guards, he shut the door and sat down next to me, clearly surprised and concerned.
"Don't tell me you can read my thoughts at a distance," I said.
"No. No, not precisely. It was ... an impression. And then your face--what troubles you?"
"Haven't you ever awakened from a dream and found that reality seemed less real, less true, than the dream? So that you wanted to drift back into it? Not to wake up, not to let the dream end?"
"Do you believe that what happened today was a dream?" His voice was very deep, very quiet. "The things we said, the way we feel--do you believe that is not real?"
"We are who we are, Spock. We are what we are. How could we have forgotten that? We're bound by our oaths and our honor, what remains of it."
He cupped my face in his hands and kissed my mouth: This is who we are, beloved. We are also bound by this reality, this truth.
When he finally released me, we were both trembling, breathless, aching for more. "I do not minimize the practical and ethical obstacles we face," he said. "On the contrary, I see them clearly."
"I don't think I want to know what that means."
"I must go now. I will speak with you as soon as I can."
"Don't say anything you wouldn't want the whole galaxy to hear," I said, trying to smile. "Messages to and from this terminal are certainly being monitored."
"I have no intention of using a terminal. I will return to you in a day or two."
That did make me laugh. "My watchers will find that very interesting. Why should a senior Starfleet officer be permitted to visit a Romulan prisoner who will bear witness against Starfleet at the inquiry?"
"You are not a prisoner. And did anyone object to Nyota's presence here? Or to McCoy's?"
"No, but it's not the same thing."
"To us, it is unquestionably not the same thing. But Starfleet has no jurisdiction over you. So long as the Federation, in the person of Elydex, and the Empire, in the person of your ambassador, voice no objections--"
"Starfleet has jurisdiction over you," I said. "Your Admiral Komack, for example, may order you to stay away from me. Or he may order you back to duty ..." I wasn't eager to pursue either possibility.
"Unlikely. The inquiry hangs over us all. I am on leave for the duration, as is the rest of the Enterprise crew. No one will pay much attention to where I go, or what I do."
"I hope you're right." I was far from convinced that he was.
"Starfleet and the Federation will look upon my contact with you as they do upon Nyota's, or McCoy's--harmless in the absence of complaints from the Empire. In fact, they may hope that it will produce information." He touched my hair lightly. "However, you will prove to be a disappointing source of intelligence. And as to the true nature of our relationship ... that is a matter of privacy." He spoke the last phrase in Vulcan. "I must go now," he said again. But his fingers moved on my face, and he sought my mind.
I opened to him eagerly, welcoming his touch: already the surface contours of his consciousness were as comfortingly familiar as the scent of his skin and the sound of his voice. Our heartbeats fell naturally into rhythm as our respiration slowed and synchronized. The instinctual need to touch more deeply in mind was growing stronger by the moment in both of us, and it was only Spock's force of will that kept us from giving in to that need now.
"I know," I said, before he could speak. "Too dangerous."
He smiled briefly; he too remembered the last time he'd thought those words. "Yes. In our present circumstances--" There was no need for him to elaborate. While only a healer or a master adept could create a true bond between a man and a woman, it was nevertheless possible for two unaided but motivated minds to form a link so strong that an involuntary separation of the partners could result in psychic and even physical damage. If I were to be sent back to Romulus after Spock and I had formed such a link ... the thought dismayed us both, for more than one reason. And my command conditioning was of no use to me in this situation.
"It's an all-or-nothing defense," I said in response to his wordless question. "I can erect barriers around specific categories of information, but I don't know how to control a desired contact in degree the way you do--to go so far and no further."
"There are many ways to regulate the depth and scope of mental rapport," he said thoughtfully. "Those who possess a natural psychic ability can be taught effective shielding techniques. We will practice them when I return." He touched my mouth with a fingertip. "I must go," he said once more, and this time he meant it.
He stepped onto the platform and gave a curt order to the security desk. He had already slipped into that familiar stance of detachment--back straight, eyes focused on some far point, hands clasped behind him. Wanting to do something, anything, to dispel the sudden foreboding that made the hairs rise on my scalp, I lifted my hand in a Vulcan gesture of farewell. But I couldn't recite the traditional, impersonal valediction. Always and only the truth, I told myself. In mind and in heart.
"Seia tre khoia," I whispered to the luminous stream of matter and spirit, not caring whether the words were heard, knowing only that I needed to speak them--as though, like a sorcerer's charm, they could somehow forever protect him from harm.
* * *
The public revelation of Adjuvant's success came as something of an anticlimax. Interestingly, the news webs appeared to know more than Ambassador Tilendi did; Kirk hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that leaks were springing everywhere.
For the rest of that day and a good part of the next, overexcited reporters bleated steadily on about the mysterious disappearance of the science vessel said to be carrying the Romulan cloaking device to a top-secret Vulcan research facility. Grim-faced Starfleet officials met the questions and innuendos with rote denials. Finally, though, as leaked information increased in quantity and reliability, those denials became partial and eventually total confirmation. Yes, there was a subspace glitch of some kind, and the communications center at Arecibo was unable to contact Al-Diraj. Yes, Al-Diraj had been carrying a highly classified payload that very probably was the cloaking device the reporters had heard so much about. No, there was no indication of sabotage or enemy attack. That last statement was later amended in a joint release issued by the president of the Federation Council and the commander in chief of Starfleet: particulate evidence indicated that a Romulan or Klingon ship--it was hard to tell the difference, since the warp signatures of the two fleets were nearly identical--was in the vicinity of Al-Diraj and its military escort just before communication was lost.
The Romulan Empire, speaking through Tilendi, professed deep bewilderment at all the fuss, since after all it was the offended party in this matter of the stolen cloaking device. I was amused to learn that my government's official "explanation" was a variation on the one I'd offered to Kirk: if it was true, which incidentally the Empire very much doubted, that a Romulan ship had been detected in Federation space, then the only possible reason was that the vessel had inadvertently strayed from its course. The Klingons, not wanting to miss out on any glory that might be going, took a similar tack: they hoped that by their denials they might be thought the guilty party, though we all knew that no ship of the massed Klingon fleet had breached the Zone. I was beginning to enjoy the sorry spectacle of three interstellar governments trying to best one another in accusations, obfuscation, and outright lies.
What all this might mean to me personally remained to be seen. Two days ago, these developments would have been the culmination of all my hopes. Certainly Adjuvant's success had already improved my position somewhat: the odds that I would not be executed when--there could be no "if"--I returned to Romulus had suddenly risen from zero to significantly better than slim. I could have rejoiced wholeheartedly in the knowledge that the honor of my family and friends would not be further tarnished, that the Federation had been deprived of the cloaking technology, and that I had had a part in ensuring both those results. I probably would have been looking forward to giving my testimony at the Federation's inquiry, for it would have meant that my repatriation was that much nearer. But now ... now I had a very compelling reason to want to prolong my stay on Earth.
Perhaps, I thought, I should treat my present situation as if it were a test set by my instructors at the Academy. Like every other final-year honors candidate, I had been required to solve a series of bizarrely inventive tests of character. That these battle simulations were what the humans would call "no-win scenarios" was thought irrelevant: even when you could not avoid defeat, you were expected to meet your fate with dignity, honor, and courage--and to take as many enemy soldiers with you as you could. I invariably lost my ships and crews in a virtual conflagration of exploding consoles, collapsing shields, breached hulls, and warp-core meltdowns, the effect of which was enhanced by the spilling of many liters of imitation blood. Nonetheless, the instructors seemed pleased with my performance, presumably because I consistently logged a high fatality count among the opposing forces. And I'd learned those long-ago lessons well enough that I could still hear my teachers' voices, reciting the watchwords of a successful campaign: objective, strategy, tactics, execution.
Well, my objective was easily stated: to protect my family and friends on Romulus to the extent that I was able to do so, and to find a way for Spock to remain with me permanently. A strategy would, I hoped, reveal itself as soon as I could determine the political climate at home. In the meantime, I could refine the two or three ideas that were already running through my mind. Tactics would be dictated by strategy; I couldn't address that third element until I possessed more information. And as to execution ... ah, now that was likely to be problematic. In order to realize any plan, no matter how carefully conceived, I must succeed where I had already failed once: in persuading Spock to turn his back forever on Starfleet, his friends, and his family, all for my sake.
I muted the sound of the newscast. This was as good a time as any to begin building the flawlessly logical case I would make to Spock.
* * *
Dusk had begun to darken the winter sky, and I was just about to test my luck with the food dispenser when Tilendi and Nanclus arrived, accompanied by Counselor Venn, my pro forma Romulan intercessor.
"You can't come to the embassy, so we thought we'd bring the embassy to you," Venn said, embracing me. "Lidiya assures me that this apartment is not under surveillance." He had the booming voice of an orator, incongruous in a man so slightly built.
"Apparently even the Federation hesitates to spy on the doings of diplomats," I said. "You look well, Taris."
"I'm starving. There was no food service on the courier that dropped me at Spacedock, and Lidiya and Sel didn't want to take time to dine at the embassy. I don't suppose you have anything--gods of Remus! Look at this room! Does the Federation treat all its political prisoners with such care, or are your captors simply trying to atone for the wrongs done to you?"
"Neither," I laughed. "They want to keep me securely away from the public eye, and they don't want the Empire to accuse them of mistreating me."
"Only of killing you with kindness, perhaps." He was peeking through the half-open kitchen door. "I see a mealmaker in there. Do you know how to operate it?"
"We'll soon find out. Dinner for four should be a challenge."
* * *
In the event, it turned out to be dinner for five. Ambassador K'trel, representing the High Council of the Klingon Empire, had called on Tilendi at the Romulan embassy. The embassy's too-helpful staff had advised him of her whereabouts, and he had asked for and received permission to join us in my apartment.
I could understand Tilendi's desire to keep K'trel happy. It was essential that the Romulan and Klingon empires present a united front against the Federation: any hint of discord at such a delicate time would surely be used against us. And I had to admit that, for a Klingon, K'trel was fairly presentable. He was well spoken in Standard, as might be expected of a diplomat, and he had no personal hygiene problems--for which I was grateful, since I was seated next to him in the apartment's conference room.
We ate our meals while we listened to Tilendi's briefing, though she could tell us little more than what we'd already heard on the newscasts. "The Federation authorities are still waiting for further information from Levana Prime," she said, glancing at her screen. "They're in a state of confusion. From what I can tell so far, though, the targets were destroyed with all hands. As soon as we receive Devor's mission report, we'll be able to fill in the details."
"And when will that be?" K'trel demanded. "It should have arrived by now!"
Tilendi looked patient. "The report must be encrypted and transmitted in a diplomatic packet," she said. "I expect it any moment."
"While we wait," said Nanclus, "I'd like you all to read a message transmitted by regular subspace from Aurigan, intercepted by Fleet Intelligence at 0400 local time en route to the Council president's office." At Tilendi's nod, he touched a key on his terminal. The document that scrolled down our screens was terse but informative: Ambassador Sarek would depart Aurigan Four on Starfleet's diplomatic shuttle, already dispatched; he was tentatively scheduled to arrive on Earth two days from now. As K'trel rudely noted, that information was nothing special, and would eventually have come to the embassy through normal channels. Still, it was good to know that our intelligence network was at least one step ahead of the Federation.
"This doesn't give us much time to prepare," Tilendi said. "If we judge by his past behavior in similar situations, Sarek will want to hurry things along."
Nanclus nodded: "We estimate that he will move quickly to select his commissioners, establish the terms of reference, and prepare a session schedule and a witness list."
"And we know whose name will be at the top of that list," said Venn, grinning at me.
The discussion segued into a boring debate about whether I should appear before the tribunal dressed in military uniform or civilian clothes. K'trel evidently shared my opinion of the topic, for he pointedly withdrew from the conference table and planted himself on one of the chairs that lined the far wall. He motioned for me to join him; one look at Tilendi's face convinced me that I should comply. As K'trel ate his dinner--a wet, fibrous meal of uncertain composition that threatened to overflow the tray--he extolled between bites the virtues of the gallant Romulan warriors who had defeated Starfleet's vile and dishonorable scheme. Of course, he didn't neglect to point out that a Klingon-crewed ship would have blasted Al-Diraj from the quadrant long before the Romulans got around to accomplishing the task. I should have said, but didn't, that the Klingons could afford to be magnanimous: they had procured the benefits of Adjuvant's success at no cost or risk to themselves.
K'trel had just launched into a highly embellished version of his latest diplomatic achievements when one of the terminals emitted an urgent beeping. "Your pardon, Ambassador," I said sweetly. "This may be the mission report we've been waiting for."
The room fell silent as Commander Devor's recorded image appeared on our screens. He looked tired and relieved, but he also looked--frustrated? Annoyed? I'd never seen that expression on his face before.
According to Devor, the transit through Federation space had been uneventful. If I'd had reason before to thank the fates that Enterprise had devoted its unwelcome attention exclusively to Eidolon, I had a hundred times more reason now. Apparently Kirk and even Spock had never thought to wonder why the commanders of the other two Romulan battlecruisers hadn't joined Tal in pursuit of Enterprise. Perhaps they had assumed that the ships' cloaking devices had drained their propulsion and weapons systems even more severely than Eidolon's had. If so, that had been a lucky assumption for us. The truth was that we couldn't risk the possibility that Enterprise might damage or destroy Adjuvant, which was equipped with the only successful prototype of a full warp cloak so far developed. Tiercel had held its position in defense of the one ship that could never be allowed to fall into enemy hands. My own flagship, which by rights should have tested the warp cloak, was denied that privilege for good cause: if word of our field testing had spread to the Federation (the chances of which were said to be vanishingly small), Eidolon would quickly move to engage the enemy and divert fire from the other two ships. Adjuvant must be protected at all costs ... at any cost! Without the ability to travel through hostile space at sustained warp speeds while cloaked, Adjuvant could never have completed its mission.
I brought my attention back to Devor. So far his report had been routine: descriptions of hazards and checkpoints bypassed, propulsion and cloak performance stats, confirmation of approach and attack vectors. Once again Fleet Intelligence had proved reliable: Al-Diraj and its escort were easily intercepted less than one light-year out from Levana Prime.
"We decloaked, shielded, and powered up the disruptor banks," said Devor, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. "The target's escort fighter detected us and came around, preparing to fire as soon as we were within range." For an instant his sardonic smile appeared: "What manner of fool would send a fighter instead of a battlecruiser to defend such valuable cargo? Never mind; it's not my job to do Starfleet's thinking for it! Even with our shields and weapons at one-quarter power, the fighter posed no threat. But before my weapons officer could so much as lay a finger on the console, the target ship disappeared from our screens. At first we thought it had merely engaged the cloaking device. But instead of fading away gradually, in seconds, with the characteristic energy waveform, it vanished into nothingness, and the fighter with it. I repeat, General Tilendi: we did not fire on them. The target did not cloak in the normal way, and the fighter had no cloaking capability at all. Sensors showed no spatial or other anomalies in the vicinity--no rift, no displacement, no gravitational fields, no disturbances of any kind. The ships were there, then they were not. And I regret to say that, just as in the other reported cases, we cannot even begin to guess where they might have gone."
© 1996, 1999 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.