"They call him the second Surak!"
Major-General Stilpa, chief functionary of the Tal Shiar and an old adversary of mine, obviously expects me to react somehow to that news. "The title has a certain appeal," I answer calmly, determined to show nothing more than a superficial interest in the topic. "You yourself said that Spock preaches to his followers like a hierophant. Perhaps the similarities are compelling, for those who care to find them."
Stilpa pushes his plate aside. A servitor appears instantly to whisk it away and replace it with another--this one filled with the uncooked roe of Remish suckerfish, a delicacy seldom seen outside the dining-rooms of the imperial praetor's palace. Evidently the proprietors of this refectory are eager to gain the custom of the Tal Shiar. But their expensive effort is wasted: Stilpa, a scrawny, sour-faced abstainer, barely notices what's set before him. He frowns at me suspiciously: "You don't seem surprised by any of this. You scarcely blinked an eye when we informed you of his intentions."
I'm relieved to hear it. "He's not the first zealot to argue for reunification, Stilpa. I daresay he won't be the last." I raise my wine glass to my lips, noting with satisfaction that my hand is rock-steady. "What does surprise me is that the Tal Shiar should deem this matter worthy of notice. Surely the civil authorities are capable of containing any unrest created by his followers."
Stilpa makes a sound of derision. "When this zealot, as you call him, happens also to be one of the most prominent political figures in the Federation, every step he takes, every word he speaks, is the business of the Tal Shiar. He threatens the internal security of the Empire! You don't seem to comprehend that!"
"I'll tell you what I don't comprehend. You recall me, with no notice or explanation, from an important--a crucial--trade mission, only to show me a holovid of some nonentities engaged in a clandestine political meeting. I will concede that the person who addressed them was Ambassador Spock. No one would dispute your ability to identify subversives." I ignore Stilpa's glare; it's common knowledge that just last year his officers arrested and executed a young academic on grounds of treason, only to discover later that the true conspirator was still at large. "Then you inform me that I'm supposed to assist you somehow, even though I've barely set foot on the homeworld in years, and even though I know next to nothing about who conspires against whom these days, or why. So I repeat what I said this morning: I don't see how you expect me to be of use to you. Spock is a citizen of the Federation, and this is an interstellar matter. The Senate may not be all that it once was, but you can't usurp its jurisdiction by fiat. Are you going to eat those?"
Stilpa curls his lip in faint disgust; I can't tell whether he's offended by my disrespectful tone or by the sight of the suckerfish roe lying pale and glistening on the plate. He flutters his fingers in a gesture of permission, and I reach for the dish before he can change his mind.
"I did not come here to debate you, Ambassador," he says. "We think it desirable for you to meet with Spock's followers. Therefore you will do so."
"And how am I supposed to find them? What can I possibly say that will sound credible to them?"
"Your contact is in place and will be in touch with you. As for what you will say to the insurrectionists--you need only listen carefully to what they say, and then tell them what they want to hear. You share their desire for peace, unity, friendship, the usual Federation smendl'kla. Pay attention to the kind of language they use, the turns of phrase, the political rhetoric."
"They may be more interested in Vulcan philosophy than in Federation political dogma. There is a difference, you know."
"Then you'll just have to spout their Fal'kan'in drivel. We require your cooperation, and you must carry out your duty."
"My duty is to my lawful superiors in the external branch of High Command. I'm a diplomat, not a spy." The words ring hollow even to my own ears. I know the Fleet will stand behind me if I refuse to cooperate; High Command is itching for an excuse to move openly against the shiar'rim. But then Stilpa will only send someone else, someone who cares nothing for Spock's life ... "How can I undertake any type of covert mission? Spock's followers will know me in an instant."
"Of course they will know you. That is exactly the point." Stilpa speaks with exaggerated patience, as if he's lecturing a halfwit. "Put yourself in the place of the unificationists. What thing do they desire above all else? Credibility! Credibility among those who influence policy and wield power! We know they've been trying to add politicians and soldiers to their list of converts. Imagine their joy if a renowned diplomat should express support for their cause! One who enjoys the confidence of praetors and Fleet commanders, one who has been honored for her heroism--"
"Some would say that I was only doing my duty and deserved no special honor. Did say so, in fact."
Stilpa's thin lips twist in a grimace that's meant to be a smile. "Can we not rise above past animosities, and act together for the good of the Empire once again?"
Has he forgotten his personal history, or simply chosen to rewrite it? I decide not to pursue the matter. While I hold Stilpa in the deepest contempt, I know the extent of his power and his willingness to use it. And it seems that I still have a few things left to protect. "I'm sworn to protect the Empire's interests with my life," I say, thankful for once that the oath is phrased in precisely that way. "But I still don't understand what you expect of me."
"We expect you to assist us in bringing the Empire's enemies to justice. So long as you accomplish what is necessary to the larger purpose, you'll be permitted to exact your personal retribution in whatever way you wish. The debt is yours to collect, after all."
"If you're referring to the theft of the cloaking device," I say, "that debt of honor was discharged on the day Al-Diraj disappeared from this reality. It's ancient history."
"Nevertheless," says Stilpa, "consider what flowed from that theft! If Spock and Kirk had never boarded Eidolon all those years ago, the face of the Empire--the fate of the Empire--would have been different! We might have avoided the aftermath of Hellguard, the debacle at Khitomer, even Tomed! Who can imagine all that might have been had Enterprise never crossed your path?"
The butterfly effect ... But I have no desire to reflect on all that might have been. "You astonish me, Stilpa," I say lightly. "You're growing philosophical in your middle age."
"Nonsense. I am simply reminding you that with every difficulty comes opportunity, and the Empire must stand ready to take advantage of what is presented to it. You, Ambassador, are to be given a chance to serve the Empire and redress a personal grievance at the same time. You should be thanking me for my generosity." Stilpa's tone becomes suddenly businesslike. "I trust that you've reviewed the intelligence briefing."
"Yes." In fact, and for no good reason, I've brought the data bar with me; I can feel its small weight in the outer pocket of my tunic. "But I was unable to access certain text files--"
Stilpa silences me with a sudden gesture: his gaze rests briefly on a communal table occupied by a few ordinary-looking diners. "We won't discuss it any further here," he says. "Come to my office at the fourth hour tomorrow so we can review logistics. I think you'll approve of my tactics." He beckons to the servitor, who scurries over, guiding a wobbly antigrav trolley laden with a tray of pastries and an old-fashioned samovar. "Now that our official business is behind us, you must tell me all your news. Perhaps you're not aware that I was recently commended by our praetor for the arrest of a hierophant in Kremai. The fool had issued a public manifesto advocating independence for the Acthariet colonies! Needless to say, she was brought to swift justice. You'd think she would have learned something from the execution of Procurator Margor ..." Stilpa launches into a well-rehearsed account of repression and brutalization of the citizens he is sworn to serve.
I drink several cups of steaming tea as I listen to his ramblings. Sometime during the course of that interminable evening, it occurs to me that I might best protect the Empire's interests by dispensing some swift justice of my own against its enemies--not the poor and ignorant who dream hopeless dreams of peace and reunion, but the cowards in illicit power who subvert Romulan honor and Romulan will from disruptor-proof underground bunkers.
* * *
By the time I return to my billet at the Tal Shiar compound, the strain of preserving outward control has caught up with me. A century ago I might have stayed awake all night devising an elegant, efficient means of undermining Stilpa and securing my own ends. Tonight, though, mind and body demand respite.
I take off my uniform and unbraid my hair. Then, mindful of my surroundings, I step into the sonic shower still modestly clothed in singlet and leggings; the shiar'rim are overfond of surveillance technology, and I have no intention of giving my watchers any pleasant surprises.
* * *
Sometime before dawn I awaken with a start from a restless sleep, unable to shake off a strong sense of foreboding. I get up, retrieve Stilpa's data bar from the pocket of my tunic, and slot it into the portable terminal. Anyone observing me will think only that a diplomat who rises before daybreak to review a mission briefing must be exceedingly devoted to her duty.
The picture track of the bar is already cued; I haven't bothered resetting it after the first viewing. Viewings, I amend silently; be honest with yourself, at least. I touch the screen to enable the player, then sit back on the bed to watch, hugging my knees to my chest.
The images have been recorded by a well-placed hidden camera in one of the old utility tunnels that run through the center of the arcology; the audio track either doesn't exist or has been deliberately excised. Hanging worklamps illuminate the scene, casting a harsh light on the small knots of people who sit talking among themselves, plainly waiting for something to happen.
I know to the millisecond exactly when the tall, tired-looking man will emerge from the shadows. When he will pause to speak to the old woman in soundless conference. When the toddler will free itself from its father's hold and stagger towards him, demanding and receiving grave acknowledgment of its presence. I know when he will take his seat, not at the center of the gathering but off to the side, nearly out of range of the concealed camera. I know when he will lean forward and observe with interest the animated discussion that suddenly arises between two young people who look like university students. And I know how the restless group will subside to an intent, listening stillness when he stands and addresses them. How the light will sculpt the planes and hollows of his gaunt face. How he will lift his hand in the Vulcan gesture of leave-taking before moving on to the next band of believers, the next tunnel or back room or safe house, the next stop in his senseless, self-imposed journey of exile ...
My fingertips come to rest for an instant on the frozen image of Spock's upraised hand. How is this possible? But I am no closer to answering that question than I was on the day Stilpa's directive summoned me home.
I touch the screen again, and Spock's image disappears. At this moment he is on this world, on this continent, in this city. I might leave my room and search for him now, might find him in a familiar street, at a refectory, in a park. I might walk up to him and lay my hand against his face; I might warn him of danger and treachery, might tell him--
Tell him what? And how? What will you say to him after a lifetime of separation? Stilpa will, of course, put words in my mouth to further whatever plan he has devised. But it's up to me to speak the truth to Spock. And if he refuses to hear it, then I must plead for the only thing left to me, to us, just as I did on my last day on Earth: Understand, beloved. Understand and forgive me. It was the only choice possible.
But I never said those words to Spock. I scribbled that last sentence--meaningful, surely, to no one but him and me--on a padd in the few moments before I was taken away, drugged and helpless, by those who imagined they were saving me from banishment and disgrace. I convinced myself that my Federation-appointed lawyer would read and relay the message, and that Spock would comprehend its allusion. But in fact there is no reason to think that either of them even saw it; for in the century that has passed since that day, neither Elydex nor Spock has ever spoken to me again.
* * *
From the window of my quarters I watch the daystar climb slowly on the horizon. When I first returned to Romulus from Earth, the rising and setting of that sun marked off what I was sure were the last days of my life. Fragmented images of that horrific time have persisted in nightmare for a hundred years, probably will persist for another hundred if I'm unlucky enough to live that long. And now the sight of Spock's face has brought them flooding back once more.
In memory, I'm far from this small, warm room, far from the pale morning sky of home. I'm being half led, half carried along an expanse of frozen tarmac to the shuttle that will take me to Ambassador Tilendi's--no, Ambassador Nanclus's--cruiser. The alien sky is a blinding blue-white, and a bitter wind slashes at my face like a blade. I've never been so cold in my life--
* * *
The drug that Vanek had used to sedate me must have sent my blood pressure plummeting, for I'd been unable to stop shivering. Cursing, Tal had torn off his cloak and draped it around my shoulders, shouting angry words of accusation at Vanek, who was trotting along beside him. A phalanx of Federation security guards paced us in tight formation, as if they feared, or hoped, that we might suddenly change our minds about leaving.
I had a surreal impression of onlookers staring at us from the observation windows of the airpark terminal--Starfleet personnel, dressed like Romulan children in bright primary colors. I tried to formulate a witty remark to that effect, but found myself unable to complete it; I couldn't organize the words in my mind, and in any case my teeth were chattering, my lips numb with cold.
By the time we reached the shuttle's ascender, I could barely stand. Adiv and Tal held me in an upright position between them, so that it might appear as if I were still proceeding under my own power. Somehow we made it up the moving ramp and into the shuttle.
The ambient warmth enveloped me like a blanket; I closed my eyes and sagged against Tal.
"Get us up to the ship," a familiar voice ordered from somewhere behind me. "Don't give them a chance to think twice."
"She's in shock!" Tal cried. "That idiot Vanek overdosed her! We should have beamed her directly to the ship's infirmary!"
"Ambassador Nanclus wished to make a public point," said the voice, "and he was right to do so. Attend your station, Jascha, for time is precious. I'll look after her."
I felt myself handed over into someone else's supporting embrace. Gentle fingers brushed windblown hair from my face as voice and scent and faint psionic current coalesced into meaning. Willing my eyes to open, I saw my own gaze reflected back at me, my own mouth curved in a closed, familiar smile. "Satheil," I said, forming the name with an effort. I wondered vaguely whether I ought to be surprised, then decided that I oughtn't.
"It's all right," said my mother, tightening her arms around me, lending me her strength. Her voice was low, pitched only for my hearing. "It's over now, Aerlyn. You're safe now. We've come to take you home."
* * *
The memory makes me smile a little. Commander-General Satheil Tayva--much-decorated war hero, renowned military strategist, member of the Romulan Fleet's senior staff council--was known and respected for her unshakable will. And when she perceived that one of her children was in danger, her determination doubled and redoubled. Nanclus and the others had undoubtedly welcomed her participation in what they saw as a rescue mission. We've come to take you home ...
And when have I last thought of Romulus as home? For decades I've lived on starships and in guesthouses, traveling from one diplomatic mission to another, from world to remote world, cajoling and intimidating governments into acceding to the will of the Empire. Because I'm better than good at my job, I've been allowed to have my way in small things, and in some that aren't so small. I've let my hair grow long in defiance of the current military aesthetic; I've refused the cosmetic alterations that would mark me as a loyal adherent of the ruling faction; most astonishing of all, in the upheaval after Tomed I was permitted to assign to a more willing citizen the Senate seat that came to me from my father's side of the family. In return, I've declined to strive for either power or status, something that continues to puzzle and please my superiors--
A strident comm signal breaks my reverie. "Ambassador," says a filtered voice. "This is the security office. General Stilpa wishes to remind you that you are expected at a meeting at the fourth hour."
"Thank you," I say to the empty air. Only Stilpa can manage to insult my intelligence while appearing to do me a service. "I'll be ready."
* * *
Precisely at the fourth hour, I materialize in the same windowless room I was taken to yesterday, when I arrived on Romulus. A Tal Shiar operative confirms my identity and begins to deactivate the lethal forcefields that surround the transporter platform. When she finishes, Stilpa--summoned, presumably, by some hidden signal--enters the room.
He stands rubbing his hands together. With his beady eyes and long nose, he looks very like a plindl dismembering prey in its scaly claws. "Welcome, Ambassador," he says, mimicking civility. "Let's talk in my office, shall we?" He stands aside to let me enter, not out of courtesy but to make sure I'm nowhere near his back. When I'm seated so that my own back is exposed to anyone who might enter from the anteroom, he fixes me with his reptilian stare. "Before we begin," he says, "I should tell you that one item was omitted from that intelligence briefing." He pushes a paper facsimile across his desk. "I believe you know who these people are. No names," he adds hastily, as though he fears his own office might be wired for surveillance.
I glance at the likenesses. "Of course I know these two." Senator and proconsul--gods of Remus, is there no one left on this world uncorrupted?
Stilpa nods, watching me closely.
"As for the other--" I study the image. The woman's hair is a drab, artificial-looking yellow, her skin unnaturally pale and pinkish. "I know who she says she is."
"I find your choice of words interesting." A glint of something--Amusement? Speculation?--shines in his small black eyes.
Tread carefully. He wears that expression only when he's about to lay a trap, or spring one. "I've been told that she's one of the Tal Shiar's principal military supporters."
"She has been useful to us," he says. "It's a pity that more of your comrades in the Fleet don't follow her example. However, some of her recent stratagems have proved less than successful."
How am I expected to respond to that astonishing understatement? "Ah," I say, hoping Stilpa will read it in whatever way he wants.
"Precisely. You are going to assist her and these others in accomplishing our end."
"Assist them how? If they're already working for you, why in the name of the gods do you need me?"
"You are about to be given a rather remarkable opportunity to serve the Empire."
"Exactly what does that mean? Or should I be afraid to ask?"
"Ha," he says. "Ha. No, not at all. Let us just say that in due course you may find yourself undertaking a certain diplomatic assignment. An assignment that will, I promise you, be a good deal more challenging than bargaining with those vulgar little chiltor'rim in the Congeries." A death's-head grimace intended as a smile: "Yes, Ambassador Tayva. An assignment that one might safely call historic."
No amount of questioning will persuade Stilpa to part with any further information, except for a hint that whatever is to happen will happen soon. He gives no sign that he cares where Spock is at this moment or what he's doing; he seems confident that whatever lure he has fashioned will be enough to draw him in when the time is right. What kind of "diplomatic" assignment he has in mind for me I can't, and don't want to, imagine.
I try to listen politely as he outlines the next steps in his scheme. If I can keep this line of communication open, if Stilpa thinks he can trust me further, he might speak openly about what he's planning.
Not today, though. Eventually he dismisses me with fulsome thanks, promising--or perhaps threatening--to stay in touch, and escorts me out of his office.
* * *
By the time I stand on the pavement in front of the Tal Shiar's headquarters, blinking in the halfhearted light of early spring, it's after midday. My head is spinning: I need time to think, time to hypothesize, time to assess the breadth and depth of Stilpa's deviousness. Unfortunately, time is at a premium. By this hour tomorrow, if all goes according to Stilpa's plan, I will stand face to face with Ambassador Spock of Vulcan, forging the first link in an unbreakable chain of betrayal.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.