Venn the advocate, Venn the orator. Venn the rhetorician, architect of grand gestures, spinner of word-webs, who fatally entangles his opponents in the sticky threads of their own flawed arguments. Pitted against someone with experience and skills such as his, Spock's followers, for all their justifiable mistrust of me and my motives, don't stand a chance. They listen politely to his greeting, acknowledge it in kind, watch me curiously. Venn introduces me then, and as he dramatically recounts my heroism, my influence in high places, and my burning desire for unity with our Vulcan cousins, I can almost see their skepticism begin to ebb away.
But while they want to believe what he's telling them--that a famous soldier and diplomat stands ready to ally herself with their cause, that she has information of critical importance to Ambassador Spock and indeed the entire unificationist movement--they're still Romulan enough to demand that assertions be backed with proof.
"We're taking an enormous risk, Ambassador." The speaker is a woman of about my own age, dark and intense. "When your friend Venn first told us of your commitment to peace and your desire to work for unification, we agreed that he might bring you here. But to ask for a personal meeting with Ambassador Spock is another matter altogether. Even if we knew where he was, we couldn't be sure that an officer of the Fleet--"
"I assure you, madam," I interrupt rudely, "that your risk is no greater than mine. The information I possess may well have been secured at the cost of my life." I allow her to reflect on that possibility for a moment, and on the methods of execution reserved for military officers who turn traitor to the Empire. "I won't waste my time trying to convince you of my good faith. I know that Ambassador Spock is on Romulus right now, in this city. The civil authorities know it, the Fleet knows it, and you may be certain that the shiar'rim know it. Take me to him or not, as you choose. But if you choose not to ... well, I can't answer for the consequences to him. Or, of course, to you and your associates."
Just as I hoped, I've provoked her into an emotional display. I see anger in her eyes rather than acquiescence, and her voice is suddenly cold: "The military may be accustomed to achieving its ends through threat and intimidation, Ambassador, but I assure you those tactics won't work here. Every one of us has made sacrifices for this cause, and we are prepared to make many more if necessary." At those words her comrades sit up straighter, hold their heads a little higher.
"Forgive me," I say sweetly. "I wouldn't dream of questioning your commitment to peace. It's just that I've traveled a long way to see you, and my nerves are a bit raw." I pass a hand across my eyes, as though the strain of it all has overtaken me. It isn't wholly an act.
"Please sit down, Ambassador," says an old woman, holding out a chair for me.
"Thank you. I wonder --might I have a glass of water?" Behind me I hear Venn stifle a cough, or a laugh.
Several people move simultaneously towards the cooler that stands in the corner of the room. Between them they manage to fill a cup, which I accept with a grateful smile. My simple request has reminded them all of their shameful lack of manners; right now they're probably feeling embarrassed and guilty for having let their suspicion override their duty of courtesy to a stranger. Well, they'll just have to make it up to me somehow ...
"It's not that we doubt your good faith," says the old woman. "You must forgive us if it seemed so." She looks meaningfully at the younger woman who challenged me. "Hadrea intended no offense. We welcome all who come to us with the desire to work for peace and reconciliation. But when someone of your stature, with your connections and background, suddenly appears and alleges that she has life-or-death information that can be entrusted only to Spock himself ..." She shrugs apologetically. "We did feel obliged to make some inquiries."
This comes as no surprise; Stilpa and Venn will have seen to it that the right answers were given. "I hope you were discreet," I say, trying to project both concern and annoyance. "You're endangering me and yourselves by asking any questions at all."
"Don't worry," says the old woman. "We know something about discretion." She regards me gravely. "I understand that Ambassador Tilendi was a friend of your family."
At last--a question I can answer honestly. "A close friend. She and my mother were at school together. She was also my commanding officer."
"And something of a mentor to you, I think."
"Yes."
The old woman nods. "Tilendi was one of the very few of her generation who were able to envision a radical transformation of our culture and our future." She tilts her head inquiringly: "How do you see our future, Ambassador?"
"Speaking as a Fleet commander?"
"As you wish."
More truth, then. Let's see whether they can take it. "No matter how bold a front the Senate puts up, our situation is grave. The plain fact is that the Empire stands virtually alone in the Beta Quadrant. The Klingons remain strongly allied with the Federation, whose area of explored territory in its portion of this quadrant grows steadily. Every other government of any size, from the Congeries outward, is either a spent force or aligned with a hostile power. As for the Cardassians--well, I know something of their nature. They may not be an immediate threat, but I guarantee you that when they decide to make an expansionist move out of Alpha they won't stop at the Neutral Zone or at any other border." I pause, certain that my audience knows what's coming next. "And of course there is the question of the Delta Quadrant. We learned firsthand the power of that enemy" --nameless, always nameless, no one should ensoul such a monstrosity, such a perversion of sapient life-- "when our outposts along the Line were destroyed. If we should ever have to face our own Wolf 359 ..."
"Go on," says the old woman.
"In my opinion, an alliance with the Federation is both inevitable and necessary if we're to survive into the next century. I would rather negotiate such an alliance than have it forced upon me."
"A logical analysis." A scholarly-looking young man nods approvingly, as if he's bestowing the ultimate compliment. I incline my head as if I'm honored to accept it.
"Logical indeed," agrees the old woman. "But the goals we seek to achieve are not merely political. Not only must we determine our own future, we must reclaim our own history. The future may belong to the Federation, just as you suggest. But the past belongs to us, and to the world from which we came. Before we can speak of union with the Federation, we must speak of reunion with our place of origin. Romulus and Vulcan are of one blood, one spirit, one mind. We have been separated too long, and both worlds have suffered greatly because of that separation."
"Two halves of a broken vessel," I say, "lying useless for our purpose until mended." The words come out of nowhere--or rather from a deep well of memory, long blocked up and barricaded, or so I'd imagined.
The old woman exchanges a glance with Hadrea, who in turn gives me a long look that is not at all comradely. For a while no one speaks. At last a man says to the group at large: "We have to accept the risk."
"The opportunity," says another man.
"Agreed," says the old woman. "If we truly mean to live by the teachings of Surak, then we must learn to trust in the goodwill of those who come to us with open hands and heart. And," she adds with a smile, "open minds." She looks questioningly at the others, and is rewarded with a general murmur of assent.
"Then you'll take me to Spock?"
"No," says the old woman.
"Why not? I've already told you I must deliver my information to him in person--"
"And so you shall. But that isn't possible just now. One of our people will be in touch with you in due course."
You're a diplomat, I remind myself. Act like one. "I understand your need for caution, but--"
"Someone will be in touch with you." She looks around the table, then stands up. "The meeting is concluded," she says, and turns to me. "Will you honor us, Ambassador, by joining us in our evening meal?"
* * *
I have no desire to socialize with the unificationists. But a glance at Venn's face reveals what's expected of me, so I trudge along with them through the mud and muck of the tunnel, trying not to breathe, until we emerge into the clean streets and fresh air of the city. I notice that I'm not the only one who draws deep grateful breaths as we stand clustered together, regaining our bearings.
"Why don't you wear protective masks?" I ask the middle-aged man next to me. "The stench is unbearable down there."
"Ah, that's just it," he says. "It's not unbearable. Disgusting, but not unbearable. Disgust is an emotional response like any other, and we must control it if we're not to be controlled by it."
"It's the Vulcan way," adds the scholarly young man who earlier complimented me on my logic. "The disciplines are difficult, but Spock says that's what makes them worth learning."
"But wouldn't it be easier just to wear a mask? Or to meet in a different location? Then the feeling of disgust would never arise in the first place."
Venn touches my arm unobtrusively and exerts a gentle warning pressure.
"Surak teaches that we must cast out all emotions that speed entropy, and master those that do not," says the old woman. "A difficult task indeed for a Romulan, even when the emotion is merely disgust at a bad smell. Think of it as an exercise, an opportunity to practice our skills."
The scholarly young man nods agreement. "We learn by doing," he says. Then, helpfully: "That's one of Spock's favorite maxims, Ambassador. I believe it's an ancient Vulcan proverb."
* * *
From the street, the Velvet Mantle appears dark and deserted. The dinner-hour is over, and any casual customers are long gone. Venn touches the scanner embedded in the worn brick; a moment later, the doors slide open, releasing a wave of spicy, exotic aromas. I wonder briefly whether my companions are still finding it so easy to control their emotional responses to smells.
D'Mel greets us, then leads us through the tavern into a private chamber well away from the street. Lightblocks are fitted securely over the windows: the room is illuminated only by sconces and candle-trees. A small vase of glasshouse-grown pirum blossoms holds pride of place as the centerpiece on the long table. Those few must be all he can afford, I think with surprise. At the refectory where Stilpa and I dined the night before, trailing masses of the out-of-season flowers spilled onto every table and servery from silver urns, as if they and their cost were of no importance.
"Pretty, aren't they?" says Venn, following my gaze to the little bouquet. "Makes you think summer can't be far away."
"Very pretty. Now what happens next?"
"Remember high table at university?"
"Too well."
"Exactly. Be brave."
The old woman, who seems to be first among equals, makes gathering-up gestures; Venn takes care to place himself beside me when we seat ourselves at table.
It's been many years since I've participated in, or even been invited to, an old-fashioned Romulan communal meal. On the few occasions when I was home long enough to bother dining anywhere other than on a starship in high orbit, I usually chose the anonymity of a private booth in a refectory or, more often, the replicator in my hotel room. Nonetheless, the old rituals come back to me without much difficulty: the cleansing of fingers with moist towels, the pouring of water for one's neighbor on the left, the reciting of graces to the deities of household or encampment. According to custom, that last office is performed by the householder or commanding officer--or, in a public place such as this, the eldest person present. I look towards the old woman, waiting for her to speak the familiar verses of my childhood. But she remains seated while the younger woman called Hadrea stands and begins a recitation unlike any prayer I've ever heard.
"If someone with courage and vision," she says, "can rise to lead in nonviolent action, the winter of despair can be turned into the summer of hope."
"It is possible to live in peace," the group--including Venn--responds in unison.
The litany continues:
Nonviolence is not a garment to put on and off at will. Its seat is in the heart. It is an inseparable part of our being.
It is possible to live in peace.
Nonviolence is a plant of slow growth, growing imperceptibly but surely.
It is possible to live in peace.
If a single person achieves the highest kind of love, it will be sufficient to neutralize the hate of millions.
It is possible to live in peace.
If we are to attain peace and carry on a war against war, we must begin with the children.
It is possible to live in peace.
The future depends on what we do in the present.
It is possible to live in peace.
Hadrea sits down and picks up her water-glass. That signal, at least, is familiar: conversation springs up immediately around the table, and D'Mel emerges from an adjacent room bearing a tray piled high with food.
I turn to Venn and ask: "What kind of thanksgiving was that? To whom was she praying?"
The scholarly-looking young man seated across from us hears my question. "It isn't a prayer, Ambassador," he says, eager to instruct a neophyte. "She was quoting a Terran hierophant who practiced a philosophy called 'civil disobedience.'" The last two words are pronounced carefully in Federation Standard. "Spock says that many of the Terran's teachings can be applied here on Romulus."
"Civil disobedience? What does that mean?"
"Nonviolent confrontation," says Venn. "Sounds like an oxymoron, doesn't it? But the Terrans apparently had some success with it over the centuries."
"Many times," says the young man, "in many situations. Spock says they called it Satyagraha, 'truth-force.' Spock says it requires great self-discipline and moral purity. Spock says when law and justice cease to coincide, we abdicate our moral responsibility if we obey an unjust law. Spock says--"
His paean is interrupted by D'Mel, who begins to serve our dinner. In his wake comes a grim-looking woman bearing a jug of foaming ale in each hand.
I've prepared myself to accept with good grace a cup of senf, which at least will keep me awake, or hreinn-milk, fruit juice, or some other bland beverage conducive to Vulcan-style clear thinking and sober discussion. So when the ale-jug is offered, I hold my glass out eagerly.
"What's this?" says Venn. "You're drinking ale now? You used to say it was worse than poison."
"Tastes change," I reply casually.
One sip is enough to bring back another memory, this one buried not by will but by time. Long ago on Hellguard, the strong blue ale of the homeworld was the drink of choice, mostly because the only alternatives were tasteless synthetic senf and stale, flat water from underground holding-tanks. And Romulan ale, consumed in sufficient quantity, had the singular virtue of inducing a numb forgetfulness, something every one of us on that world desired to attain. By the time I left, I'd actually developed a liking for the ale--or at least a formidable tolerance, which perhaps amounted to the same thing.
* * *
At first, though, I could barely stomach the stuff. On my initial inspection tour of the base, it seemed incredible that so much valuable storage space could be given over to the stasis-sealed kegs. When the quartermaster politely suggested that I might care to exercise commander's privilege and wash the dust from my throat with a cold draft of Romulus's best, I stared at him in disbelief, wondering whether I should laugh or be horrified at the idea that I would accept a drink while on duty.
Subcommander Tal, with his usual presence of mind, responded more favorably. He instructed the quartermaster to draw off two large mugs; then, apparently as an afterthought, he proposed that the man should have one himself. That suggestion was received with such enthusiasm that I was sure Tal had gained a friend for life.
We took our drinks outside so that the quartermaster wouldn't feel obliged to make conversation with his superior officers, or we with him. "Over there," said Tal, pointing towards a shaded bench near the ramshackle communications building.
"Well, I'm off to a fine start." I set the mug down on the rocky ground. "We haven't been here a day, and not only am I drinking on duty with my executive officer, I'm as much as ordering my staff to do the same!"
"Begin as you mean to go on," said Tal, grinning. "You're not commanding the praetorian guard or a legion of starfighters, amkhoia. You're commanding--"
"A garrison of layabouts and revolutionaries," I said with contempt. "The Fleet's castoffs."
"True. But you'll have them in fighting trim soon enough."
"Oh, yes. By the time I'm finished with them, they'll be hardworking and loyal layabouts and revolutionaries."
That brought a snort of amusement. "They're not the only problem."
"No, when I'm bored I can devote my attention to a whole planetful of played-out mines and quarries. Maybe I'll be able to stop the indigenes from falling down the shafts and breaking their necks--or whatever it is they use to prop up their heads."
"They do seem to have a collective death wish. Well, there's always the Kharsalen Center, if you want another challenge."
"A challenge? More like a dare, I'd say." The mysterious "deep black" genetic-research project lay hidden behind walls and forcefields half a world away, but its presence was almost palpable. "Those people don't answer to anyone except the praetor. They certainly won't appreciate my presence here." I picked up the mug and squinted at it, turning it back and forth in the late afternoon sun, thinking of the persistent rumors I'd heard. "Let's not talk about it now."
We sat in silence for a while. Presently Tal said, "Things will work out, you know. This place isn't so different from the old relay outposts near the Vilathi frontier. I've served with these soldiers before--with their type, anyway."
"And I daresay you never thought you'd be serving with them again."
He shrugged, unconcerned. "One more turn of the wheel, amkhoia."
I studied his angular features, the set of his jaw, the fine lines that were just beginning to show around his eyes and mouth, and thought for the hundredth time, He's sacrificed his life for me. "Jascha," I said softly, "you know you don't have to do this. You can still go back to Romulus, apply for another command--"
"Shh," he said, laying a finger briefly against my lips. "We've been through all that. Now, do you plan to drink your ale or just admire it?"
I took a sip and grimaced. "Tastes like smendl piss."
"You'll get used to it," he laughed.
"Gods," I said, feeling faintly ill. "I hope not."
* * *
"A little more ale, Lady?" D'Mel's wife, or so I guess her to be, holds the jug poised over my glass.
I give her a smile tinged with regret, as if to say, I appreciate your asking, and I only wish I could say yes. That facial expression is an ingrained reflex learned early by diplomats, an all-purpose response equally useful for turning down tedious social invitations and rejecting a colony world's plea for development assistance--or, in this case, refusing more ale for appearance's sake. "No, thank you," I say. "Perhaps later." This is the second part of the trick--hold out some hope that the supplicants may eventually receive the answers they want. Then they're likely to stay loyal, ready to stand by and support you on the off-chance that you might eventually come around to their way of thinking. And even though the tactic is neither necessary nor appropriate in the circumstances, I can't stop myself from using it. The woman nods, smiles, and goes on her way.
"Very impressive," Venn says in a low voice. "Senya doesn't smile at just anyone."
"Then she fits in with the rest of them. The old woman seems normal enough, but the others are sour as vinegar. Do they imagine that makes them more Vulcan?"
"Quiet," he says. "I think we're in for some speeches."
His analogy to the university high table proves apt. During our student years, formal academic dinners were held every tenday. Honors candidates were forced to dine in an anteroom with their professors. While the other students were free to laugh, gossip, and tell rude jokes, our unhappy group had to endure two hours of intellectual bombast and impromptu interrogation on symbolic logic, Remish art history, hyperdimensional geometry, or any other arcane topic that happened to cross a professor's claret-addled mind.
Tonight, at least, it seems that I'll be spared the interrogation if not the bombast. I can't tell whether the unificationists are putting on a show for me or whether they seriously are attempting an exegesis of Surak's Guidelines. The paper text from which the old woman reads is enclosed in a cheap binder embossed with computer-generated Romulan characters--clearly someone's amateur translation from the modern Vulcan, which in turn is probably a highly questionable rendering of the archaic dialect of Surak and his followers. Over the centuries the Vulcan gatekeepers have managed to distort and misrepresent the substance of Surak's writings, until his simple injunction Learn reason above all has been perverted into a way of thinking--a way of life, if one can call it "life"--that denies intuition, imagination, and every natural emotion.
Still, my brief time with Spock did teach me that not all Vulcans are infected with the sickness of that philosophy. Spock is half Terran, and though he chooses to call himself Vulcan he cannot--or at least in those days could not--completely suppress the heritage of his mother's people; I discovered that truth for myself. But his half-brother Sybok, a full-blooded Vulcan, had seen more clearly than Spock how Surak's wisdom had been misinterpreted and misapplied by a world that was prepared not merely to strive for peace but to sacrifice its very heart and soul to attain it.
Another memory surfaces suddenly--one of the rare, precious nights Spock and I spent together, a night when we confided to each other the deepest secrets of our hearts. I can hear Spock's voice in my mind:
I am not an only child, Aerlyn. I have a half-brother ... In Sybok's view, our cultural norms are a corruption of Surak's teachings ... he believed that I should embrace my humanity ... he tried to persuade me not to choose the Vulcan path.
Any Romulan would agree with him, I'd answered, never dreaming that Sybok would re-enter Spock's life at the cost of his own or that Spock would one day strive to teach Romulans how to become everything that Sybok had despised.
I shift restlessly in my chair; Venn turns, catches my eye, and frowns a little, as if to remind me of the role I'm supposed to play. I summon an expression of alert interest and allocate a larger portion of my consciousness to the discussion--which now seems to involve the whole group--of what, exactly, Surak meant by enlightenment. From the look of things, the night is going to be a long one.
Observing the others, I deduce that it's acceptable to eat while listening, so I pay discreet attention to my dinner. The food is palatable enough despite the absence of meat: sautéed vegetables, coarse bread, and steaming plomeek soup, served in deep stone bowls of the kind used on Vulcan.
* * *
By the time the table is cleared and the ale-jugs emptied and refilled and emptied again, every person at the table has spoken to me at least once. This is no more than ordinary courtesy, of course. A stranger must be made welcome in a group, and each member of that group must offer a conversational opening to the newcomer, who in turn is expected to listen attentively and speak only when she can contribute an intelligent question or comment. The established group, whether a literary circle, a gaming syndicate, or a cadre of revolutionaries, has its own dynamics and agendas, and the outsider mustn't attempt to change them.
That behavior suits my purpose tonight. Stilpa has instructed me to pay attention to what is said, no matter how trivial, in the hope that it will aid him in what he mysteriously refers to as the "persuasive" aspect of his plan. A simple enough assignment--except that my dinner companions ask more questions than they answer. Do others in the Fleet know of my political leanings? How many share them? Will they follow my example and work for peace with the Federation? Can the schism between the Fleet and the Tal Shiar somehow be used to advance the unificationists' cause?
Always mindful of Venn's presence, I recite the appropriate speech: I've been away a long time. I know nothing of intrigues and conspiracies. I can't speak for anyone in the Fleet. I've stumbled accidentally upon important information, and I must impart it only to Spock himself, for how am I to know whom else to trust?
"Why would you do this for us?" asks Hadrea, who has been watching me surreptitiously--but not surreptitiously enough to prevent my noticing--all evening. "You don't fit the profile of a sympathizer. The Empire honors you as a war hero. Your mother was a Fleet officer, as was your brother. Your father was a senator, your sister a civil servant."
I stare at her in silence.
"I grieve your loss," she adds grudgingly; but she's not going to be diverted. "Your whole life has been spent in service to the Fleet and opposition to the Federation. How can a military officer suddenly repudiate everything she stands for and advocate peace and unification?"
"You said you made inquiries concerning my good faith," I reply, ignoring Hadrea and looking towards the old woman. "If the answers to those inquiries hadn't satisfied you, I wouldn't be sitting here now. Every moment that goes by puts Ambassador Spock's life in greater danger and your movement in greater jeopardy. I've given you my honest assessment of the Empire's political situation and my reasons for approaching you. I don't know what more I can say."
"Nothing more," says the old woman. She turns to Hadrea: "A soldier knows better than anyone the waste and ultimate futility of war. We should welcome Ambassador Tayva's overture rather than rebuff it."
"You honor me," I murmur, hoping that her use of my name is a good sign.
"Your friend Lidiya Tilendi was also a friend of mine," says the old woman. "I will see to it that you are permitted to meet with Spock at the earliest--D'Mel, what are you doing?"
"One more guest," says D'Mel, nudging the scholarly young man to move aside a little and make room for another chair. "Pardek is here. The Senate's adjourned at last, and he won't have had dinner. I'll just bring him some soup and bread, and perhaps some--"
"Some ale!" cries Senator Pardek, maneuvering his round figure through the narrow doorway. "Greetings, everyone! Yes, D'Mel, I need sustenance. Thirty-seven hours in session, and nothing more than water and nutrimeals on offer--" He breaks off suddenly as his eyes meet mine. "Ambassador Tayva! Venn said he would bring you to us, but I didn't expect it would be so soon! It's good to see you! Welcome, my friend!"
"Senator Pardek." I return his smile as warmly I can for the benefit of my dinner companions, hiding my revulsion at the sight of his traitorous face. The sick sense of foreboding is back. Though I've seen Pardek only rarely during the past century, every one of his appearances in my life has signaled at best a bitter disappointment, at worst a shattering loss. There's no reason to suppose that he'll spoil his record at this late date.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.