The gathering, which had looked to be winding down, now seems infused with a new energy. It's Pardek's turn to be pelted with questions: What is the mood of the Senate? Of the Praetorate? Will Proconsul Neral sway public opinion in favor of peace? Will the Federation lend its support to Ambassador Spock, or disavow him?
I keep my eyes on Pardek's face, as though I have some interest in his answers. In reality, I'm searching for evidence of greed or ambition, corruption or venality--anything that might make someone who is known for his softhearted idealism betray an innocent man whom he calls friend. In my mind's eye I can still see Pardek's jovial features reproduced in Stilpa's facsimile: I believe you know who these people are.
Though we've been acquainted for decades, Pardek and I move in circles that seldom overlap, and he is in many ways a mystery to me. Decades ago, in the turmoil and confusion of the post-Hellguard period, he resigned from the diplomatic service to take up his family's Senate seat; at the same time, sick at heart and disgusted with myself and everyone I knew, I left military field duty for the relative peace and anonymity of diplomacy. My first assignment was a long-term mission aimed at mending our broken political and economic ties with the outer colonies. Pardek's task, like that of the other remaining legislators, had been to remake the Senate into a functional governing body. Over the years neither of us has had any time for, or interest in, socializing.
That isn't to say, of course, that our paths haven't crossed in significant ways.
* * *
I first met Pardek on the morning of the Federation's inquiry into the Enterprise incident. He was a junior diplomat then, newly promoted to his post as Nanclus's assistant. Because I was preoccupied with other matters, I paid little attention to him. I noticed only a bland, amiable face, a body quite unlike the classical Romulan somatotype, and an abnormally heavy brow ridge--still a rarity then, a natural phenomenon rather than a political statement.
Events progressed rapidly that day, and I didn't give Pardek another thought until many hours later.
I awakened in one of the guest cabins of Nanclus's cruiser, and immediately wished I were still unconscious. Physical awareness was returning in quick and painful stages: headache, nausea, and an overwhelming thirst.
As if she had read my mind, Satheil got up from her chair and put a steadying arm around me; she held a water-glass to my lips while I drank, just as she'd done during my childhood illnesses. As if she had read my mind--
I perceived the danger in the same instant that memory returned: Earth--the Federation inquiry--Spock! Conscious of the arm that supported me, I forced myself to raise the mental barriers that would prevent my mother's sensing my thoughts through the low-level touch telepathy that bound parent and child. As gently as I could, I withdrew from her embrace and lay back down on the bed.
"Yes, you must rest," she said. "And as soon as we dock, we're going straight home. The debriefing can wait until you're feeling stronger."
"High Command won't approve of that," I murmured, trying to focus on her face.
"Indeed," she said with a faint smile. Satheil had her own ideas about what High Command would and would not approve of, just as Tilendi had--and with that thought came something close to panic.
"Satheil," I said, trying to sit up, "Lidiya is in danger--these accusations they've made--" I broke off abruptly as the cabin door hissed open. Vanek entered, carrying a medikit and a tricorder. Pardek followed him, holding a padd against his chest as if to shield himself from a blow.
Satheil addressed Vanek with cool politeness: "Behold your patient, Healer. Was this really necessary?"
"Greetings, General," said Vanek, looking slightly embarrassed. "Sometimes one simply cannot take chances. How do you feel, Commander?"
"As if I've been stunned by a disruptor. I only wish I could return the favor."
"Ambassador Nanclus was pressed for time," said Pardek in an apologetic tone. "He wanted to make sure that we got you offworld safely, and with the least possible delay. He thought you might want to stop and--and discuss things."
"We'd agreed beforehand that a fast-acting sedative would be best if something was needed," said Vanek. He began to calibrate his tricorder. "Now, this will only take a few moments. I have to do a physio scan to gather evidence of any injury or mistreatment inflicted during your captivity by those Federation barbarians--"
The desire to scream out my rage at his stupidity was nearly overpowering. Nevertheless, I mastered it. "Go away," I said evenly. "Give me something for my head and my stomach, and then go away."
"But I must complete these tests," said Vanek.
"For Ambassador Nanclus's report," said Pardek.
"Commander Tayva has given you an order." Satheil's voice was deadly quiet. "Obey it."
Pardek opened his mouth and closed it again. Vanek hesitated, then took an airhypo from his medikit and held it briefly against my neck. "For the headache and nausea," he said. Then he motioned to Pardek, and the two of them quickly left the room.
In the end, Vanek never performed his tests, and Pardek never appended a medical record to Nanclus's report. And I never discovered whether they were reprimanded for their omissions: the two of them had taken great care to stay out of my way and Satheil's for the rest of the trip home.
* * *
From that point on, Pardek's life was marked by unproductive alliances, missed opportunities, and bad timing. He had an unthreatening, kindly nature, and during his service with Ambassador Nanclus he was often chosen to be the bearer of grim news: thus his appearance at my parents' house with the report of Tilendi's suicide.
After he took up his family's seat in the Senate, Pardek gained a reputation for good intentions and muddled thinking. Convinced that an accord between the Federation and the Klingons would somehow bring peace and prosperity to the Romulan Empire, he had insisted on accompanying Nanclus to the Khitomer Conference as a gesture of goodwill. When, thanks to Kirk and Spock, Nanclus's scheme to undermine the negotiations collapsed around him in a most public and dramatic fashion, Pardek was found guilty of incompetence by association: upon his return to the Senate, he was shut out from important committees, denied seats on advisory councils, and generally barred from the corridors of power.
Oddly, he appeared untroubled by his exclusion. He represented his Krocton constituency as best he could, sponsored a few useful pieces of reform legislation, and spent a good deal of time talking politics and history via subspace link with the one new friend he'd made at Khitomer.
In retrospect, I can understand how Spock and Pardek found common ground. Pardek would have responded to Spock's integrity and kindness; Spock would have thought Pardek's social conscience proof that not all Romulans were devoid of redeeming qualities. But at the time, I was astonished to hear Pardek casually remark, in the middle of a dinner at Tal's family home in Trae'kesh, that the recent Khitomer debacle hadn't been a total loss.
"I made the acquaintance of Captain Spock," he said.
Tal stared at him, all animation suddenly gone from his face. "Were you under orders to do so?"
"No," said Pardek. "He approached me after they took Nanclus away. I don't know why, really. But we talked for a while."
"About what?"
"History. Peace. Fear. The future. All couched in diplomatic language. After all, they were still cleaning up the blood and broken glass."
For a while no one spoke. Finally Tal said, "Well, I suppose the connection may be useful some day. The Vulcan owes us a number of debts. I hope you weren't moved to apologize to him for Nanclus's mistakes."
"I wasn't. But as the Terrans say, to understand all is to forgive all. Ambassador Nanclus did what he believed was right. Perhaps Captain Spock feels the same way about Admiral Cartwright and Lieutenant Valeris."
"Valeris," Tal said contemptuously. "She makes my skin crawl, that one. We told Nanclus he was asking for trouble when he brought her into it, didn't we, amkhoia?"
"Yes," I said, studying the intricate pattern etched on my wine glass.
"She was the weak link," said Pardek, "just as you predicted. Nanclus won't recover from this, I fear. The damage to his career ..."
"It's regrettable," Tal agreed. "The plan was a sound one. His only error was his failure to distance himself sufficiently from its execution."
Pardek shook his head. "The plan was flawed. Nanclus and the others couldn't defeat" --he hesitated, as if searching for the right words-- "an idea whose time has come. Or so Spock says, and I agree with him."
"It wasn't an idea that defeated them," said Tal. "It was James Kirk and his tame Vulcan. They have the luck of the gods, but--"
"'At steady gambling even the immortals lose,'" Pardek quoted. "Well, that's as may be. But I expect I'll hear from Captain Spock again. He seemed interested in learning more about Romulus."
* * *
For many years, however, that interest would remain purely theoretical. The decommissioning of Enterprise-A had scattered the ship's senior crew. It hadn't been difficult to keep track of their activities: Fleet Intelligence was at some pains to ascertain the whereabouts of the people who had caused the Empire such trouble and embarrassment. So when Enterprise-B was finally launched under the command of Captain Harriman, it was known that only three of the ship's former officers would be on hand for the ceremonial maiden voyage around Sol system. The others were unavailable for an assortment of flimsy reasons. Captain Hikaru Sulu, now in command of Excelsior, was ferrying a shipload of diplomats to witness a treaty-signing on Betazed; Commander Nyota Uhura was addressing the Interplanetary Linguistic Society at Hoagland University on Mars; Dr. Leonard McCoy had taken a medical leave on Vulcan to regenerate his liver. And according to Pardek, who was participating in his first high-level intelligence briefing as a result of his odd new friendship, Captain Spock was also on leave, engaged in what Spock's yeoman described as "private research" at the Vulcan Science Academy.
"What do you think that means?" I asked Pardek casually.
"I don't know," he answered, glancing around him in restrained awe at the high-ranking officers who were filing into the briefing room. "We didn't talk before he left. His yeoman sent a message saying that Captain Spock would be back on duty within a tenday."
"Strange that the Vulcan should choose to be away just now," said an officer next to me. "They're launching that ship today. Won't he want to make a show of loyalty by posing next to his former captain for the news nets?"
"I don't think so," said Pardek. "I believe he doesn't care much for ceremonies. He prefers to leave the spotlight to the others."
* * *
When that assessment, like so many others that followed, proved accurate, Pardek began to establish himself in the eyes of the government and High Command as the Empire's resident authority on Spock of Vulcan. The two men corresponded regularly; on the rare occasions when both were on the same neutral world at the same time, they met face to face. On the surface, it appeared that the Empire had little to gain from the friendship. No military intelligence was ever forthcoming from Spock through Pardek, and none was expected. High Command seemed content merely to monitor their discussions and send copies of their correspondence to the universities for metalinguistic and sociometric analysis. But Romulans tend always to take the long view, and I had no doubt that Tal's pragmatism was widely shared: Spock owed numerous debts of honor to the Empire; the connection might come in handy some day; and it cost us nothing to listen carefully and bide our time.
I was regularly provided with summaries of intelligence briefings that involved the Federation, which almost all of them did to some extent. If I happened to be in-system at the time, I was summoned to appear in person: High Command had gotten the idea that my stay on Earth had somehow qualified me as a pundit, if not an expert, on the psychology of the enemy.
At one briefing I attended, Pardek reported on his recent conversations with Spock. Later, when I encountered him in the transporter queue, I didn't bother to weigh the wisdom of what I was about to do.
"Senator Pardek," I began, "surely the Vulcan must be aware that his subspace messages to you are monitored. Logic alone would tell him that."
"Oh, yes, he knows," said Pardek. "He doesn't seem to care."
"When you meet in person--do you ever speak privately with him? Off the record, as it were?" Danger, whispered the inner voice. Go no further.
"Sometimes," said Pardek. "At dinner, when we're alone. Or if we're outside, walking in a street or a park."
"Does he ... what kinds of things do you talk about?"
"Nothing that touches on the security of the Empire," said Pardek, looking suddenly apprehensive. "I would report that at once."
"I know you would. I was just curious."
"Oh," he said, visibly relieved. "Yes, Ambassador Nanclus was a student of character too. He used to say that an understanding of sapient nature is as useful to a diplomat in bargaining as it is to a soldier in battle."
"Yes. Yes, that's it exactly."
"I can't help you much, I'm afraid. Captain Spock isn't very--well, I suppose I do most of the talking. I tell him about my family, about our new house, our holidays, things like that. He asks questions and then listens to the answers. He listens well."
"Does he ever speak of ... of the Enterprise incident?" It seemed impossible that Pardek could fail to hear the question beneath the question, could fail to perceive the hope and fear in my eyes and voice: Does Spock ever speak of me? Does he know that I'm still alive? Does he care?
"Oh, no," said Pardek. "Never. You know how Vulcans are. What's past is past, and it's illogical to dwell on things that can't be changed. I'm quite sure he's forgotten all about it by now."
* * *
The hurtful truth of Pardek's words was proved beyond dispute during the long period of isolation after Tomed, at a time when Romulans were enjoying from a distance the unprecedented spectacle of an old enemy in grave political disarray. The recent Cardassian annexation of Bajor had split the Federation into strident, hostile factions; the president and council were in desperate need of a cause or event that would, at least temporarily and superficially, reconcile the worlds once again.
Spock's wedding couldn't have come at a better time.
Although the ceremony itself would not be broadcast--except clandestinely, by time-delayed subspace signal to an uninvited audience in a briefing room hundreds of light-years away--billions of people would eventually see the carefully selected official images of the wedding. So a private family occasion had been transformed into a public exercise in damage control: feuding ambassadors, politicians, and Starfleet officers would mingle in apparent camaraderie and present a united front to their worried constituents.
Commander Ardra Toreth, a colleague and friend, had saved a seat for me at the back of the crowded briefing room. I greeted her and then sat waiting quietly, eyes fixed on the viewscreen, ignoring the others' derisive comments on the nature of the event we were witnessing. I'd heard it all before. Romulans scorned Vulcan ceremonies and rituals: their complexity and solemnity--pompous claptrap, in the popular view--bore no resemblance to our own celebrations of births, marriages, and lives lived. Of course, we made that judgment on the basis of nothing more than hearsay, for Romulans weren't routinely invited to witness Vulcan rites of passage.
Spock's wedding was the exception. Since Pardek had obtained a legitimate invitation to the ceremony, the Federation authorities were unlikely to suspect the Romulan government of planting any additional spies. Therefore we had taken the trouble to place a few operatives in the Great Hall of the Vulcan Embassy on Earth. While there had been no opportunity to install fixed cameras and directional microphones in the hall itself, the operatives were easily able to conceal miniature imagers and audio pickups in their clothing. A little cosmetic and genetic tinkering enabled them to pass security scans; expensive Rigelian religious credentials won them a place at the very front of the hall. But they probably would have had little difficulty losing themselves in the crowd in any case: nearly five hundred guests were in attendance, surely a record for any Vulcan wedding--and only a fraction of them were friends or relatives of the bride and groom.
I guessed that Sarek had arranged this spectacle in the hope that his own house too would be reconciled, for he and Spock had publicly declared themselves on opposite sides of the Cardassian question. I wondered how Spock had felt when he realized that his wedding was intended to serve as an opportunity for political posturing. More, I wondered why his bride--I could not think of her as his bondmate--had acquiesced in such a display.
And what a display it was. Banners and flags were draped on every wall and above every door, along with the heraldry and insignia of the various Federation worlds. The proscenium stage at the front of the hall, with its inlaid IDIC symbol, had been transformed--not into a Vulcan shrine, as might have been expected, but into a facsimile of an alien garden, complete with huge arrangements of yellow and white flowers and blood-green foliage. Tall candles stood in graduated ranks on either side of the stage, and a sextet of musicians played for the waiting guests.
The Romulan operatives were dutifully capturing views of the Great Hall from alternating vantage points. An imaging technician, seated at the console at the front of our briefing room, was switching between transmissions every hundred seconds, giving us ample time to make observations and notes.
"Sarek has orchestrated this event like a master," said a voice behind me. "Look, he's put the Tellarite prime minister right next to General Thirmar. And the Saurian attaché within spitting distance of the Trills! I only wish they'd let us see the Klingon contingent, or at least Kerla's entourage."
"You sound as though you're casting the stones of Rho, looking for portents," said another voice, laughing.
"Better, even," said the first voice. "I'm reading the devious mind of Sarek of Vulcan. There, now. It begins at last."
A Starfleet honor guard preceded the wedding party into the Great Hall. One operative panned an imager slowly along the double line of young officers, as if inviting us to memorize the faces of those who would be our adversaries in years to come. When the honor guard had dispersed itself around the perimeter of the stage, the procession began. I became aware that my palms were sweating and my heart pounding. I shifted slightly away from Toreth so that our arms didn't touch; I couldn't risk letting her sense my thoughts.
It was immediately clear that this ceremony was not to be a traditional Vulcan wedding. No bell-banner, ritual gong, or burning brazier was in sight: just a long column of mostly non-Vulcan and non-Terran witnesses, all attired in the formal dress of their various homeworlds--including, astonishingly, Pardek. I heard Toreth laugh softly beside me: "Pardek the private citizen. And not just a guest but a witness! Maybe he's worth something to the imperium after all."
In due course the procession came to an end, and the wedding party appeared. A Vulcan couple and a young Vulcan woman entered first--the bride's parents and sister. Sarek followed them slowly down the center aisle, supporting a white-haired and obviously frail human woman on his arm. Amanda, I thought with a faint shock of surprise. Spock's mother was nearly forty years Sarek's junior, yet she looked more than twice his age. Behind them walked a group of people in Starfleet dress uniform. It was easy to identify the ones who mattered to me. Nyota Uhura. Leonard McCoy. Saavik of Vulcan ... And Kirk should be here with them, to bear witness at this wedding. Spock, beloved, I grieve with thee. I drew in a breath. I had known that this would not be easy--
At that moment Spock and his bride made their appearance. I was grateful to the unknown operative who had placed himself or herself strategically near the center aisle. The concealed imagers did not permit extremely close viewing of the bridal party, so I couldn't study the participants' faces in all the fine detail I would have wished. But I could see enough.
My first thought was more a prayer of thanksgiving than a lucid observation: He lives. Oh, gods of Remus, he lives! Some part of me had feared, despite all evidence to the contrary, that everything I'd heard of him, every image I'd seen in the years since Mutara, had been a cruel deception staged by a treacherous Federation. But now there could be no doubt, for my second thought--at once trivial and heartbreaking--was that I would know his walk anywhere. Although he wore ceremonial clan robes that enveloped his body in meters of heavily draped fabric, he couldn't disguise that familiar long-legged stride; he could only moderate his steps a little to match those of the woman beside him.
He moved with the easy grace that I remembered, with a kind of self-assured, self-contained dignity that came, I supposed, from decades of living in the public eye. His dark hair shone in the incandescent lights; his impassive face was all sharp angles and deep hollows. There was nothing in his carriage or expression to suggest that he was experiencing even the slightest stress, and yet I had the sense that he was holding himself under rigid control. A ridiculous fantasy, worthy of a lovesick schoolgirl. You want him to be thinking of you, remembering you, wishing it were you who walked at his side today ... The two of them were moving out of the operative's imaging range. In the seconds before the focus shifted, I studied the woman.
She was tall, taller than I, so tall that her elaborately upswept hair brought her nearly to Spock's height. Straight-backed and reed-thin, she kept her eyes slightly downcast. What I could see of her face was neither beautiful nor plain. Her features were strong and symmetrical, her expression unsoftened by a smile: she simply looked like a typical Vulcan woman--aloof, enigmatic, and completely uninteresting. And what did you expect? said the mocking inner voice. The goddess Caltha made flesh, complete with scroll and flaming sword? I'd read her dossier often enough to have memorized it: biochemist by profession, flautist by avocation, author, public speaker--if a computer had been ordered to select the ideal life-mate for Spock, it would surely have spat out this woman's name.
Suddenly the holoscreen images shifted and resolved as another operative's transmission was brought into focus. I had a momentary glimpse of a smiling Pardek taking his place at the front of the hall. Clearly he was enjoying himself.
"Interesting," Toreth whispered. "They have many witnesses in the procession, but no one to officiate. A political statement, do you think? To distance everyone from Vulcan and its traditions, and thereby strengthen Sarek's stance on Cardassia? Or is that too subtle for a Vulcan?"
I nodded absently, only half-aware of what she was saying; my attention was fixed on the holoscreen.
The wedding party ascended the steps, and the bride turned to face her groom. I cursed the absence of parabolic microphones: the ambient sound of the Great Hall was a pervasive, echoing murmur that had no more definition than white noise. For the next fifteen minutes we were treated to a virtual pantomime of various participants mouthing in turn whatever recitations the bridal couple had prepared. Perhaps it's just as well I can't hear the promises they're making ...
As Toreth had observed, there was no hierophant or matriarch present to officiate: probably the domestic contract had already been registered at some Federation records office, and this lavish gathering was merely one more piece of propaganda in a meaningless dispute over a meaningless occupation of a meaningless planet ... I watched, barely breathing, as Spock extended his hand to his wife; her paired fingers met his for an instant. The marriage was sealed, a bond to be broken only by death or challenge to the death.
Or by mutual agreement, twenty-one years later, in a healer's office in Shanai'kahr.
* * *
"How are you holding up?" Venn's question is pitched low, for my hearing only, but it startles me nonetheless.
"Fine," I say, blinking a little. "I'm fine."
"Sure? You look distracted."
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"Well, we'll be able to leave soon. Pardek's greeting to you seems to have worked wonders. It looks as if they're willing to credit your good faith now."
"Not all of them," I murmur, glancing across the table at Hadrea. At present she's deep in conversation with the old woman, but for most of the evening I've been aware of her scrutiny: curious, suspicious, vaguely hostile.
"That one?" he says, following my gaze. "Don't take it personally. She mistrusts everyone's motives on principle. And she's very protective of--"
"Ambassador Tayva, I wonder whether I might have a private word with you?" Pardek appears at my elbow, seemingly out of nowhere. "Will you excuse us for a moment, Counselor Venn?"
"Of course," says Venn. "In fact, I probably ought to check my messages." He gets hurriedly to his feet and heads towards the public commphones near the door.
"I meant what I said earlier, Ambassador. It is good to see you here." Pardek lowers himself into the seat Venn has vacated. "You can't imagine how important your support is to us. This is truly an occasion for rejoicing."
How did the artless Pardek become such a good actor? Any listener would think that he actually believes what he says, that he's Spock's friend and not his betrayer. I long to challenge him outright and expose him to the others then and there, but Stilpa's orders were clear: I must treat Pardek as if he is exactly what he seems to be--a bumbling, credulous, well-meaning idealist wholly committed to peace. Yet Pardek and I are both working for Stilpa: for all I know, he may be aware of my true mission, as I am of his. Or, if not, he still may try to betray me to the Tal Shiar, thinking that I really am a unificationist sympathizer and therefore a traitor to the Fleet and the Empire. The labyrinth of treachery makes my head ache, and the worst of it hasn't even begun. Webs within webs.
"Hadrea tells me that you have intelligence concerning Spock," says Pardek. "And that you insist on seeing him in person."
"Yes," I say, striving for a believable combination of distress and sincerity. "I need to speak with him at once. This information--it came into my possession by accident, and there's a time factor involved. An urgent time factor."
"Tell me what you know. I promise you I'll see that Spock is advised immediately."
"No. No, I can't--I have to see him. I can't say any more." I can't say that I'm going to buy my way into Spock's confidence by warning him of your treachery.
Pardek regards me in silence for a moment. "All right," he says.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I've always known you to be a woman of honor, Ambassador. You've accomplished a great deal for the Romulan people, and you've done it without compromising your integrity. Naturally our first concern is for Ambassador Spock's safety. However, you seem to have put yourself in some danger in order to come to us in person, and I for one am prepared to trust you."
You fawning hypocrite! Spock trusted you, and you summoned him to Romulus only to betray him! But I have my own part to play in this deadly charade. "You honor me," I murmur.
"Can you meet me tomorrow?"
"Yes, of course. Where and when?"
A pause. "Where are you lodging?"
"At the Water Garden. Near the university."
"Then let's say ... the steps of the university's convocation hall, at the second hour? As if you were going to your work on campus."
"All right."
"Say nothing to anyone. Not even to Venn."
"Understood."
"Wear an ordinary suit and a plain overcloak with a hood. No jewelry except your lifebond." He glances down at my feet. "And when you clean your boots tonight, don't be too meticulous. There's nothing like a military shine to give the game away."
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.