This is easy, too easy. Why is this all so easy? The question nags at me throughout the night. Why did Pardek make only a token protest before agreeing to take me to Spock? Even if the others have been swayed by Venn's oratory, Pardek ought to be wary to the point of paranoia; he should deny me access, call my credibility into question, do anything necessary to stop an unpredictable element from interfering with his plan. Instead, he seems eager to cooperate.
It's possible that someone else has persuaded him to grant my request. After all, Stilpa is already using me to undercut his own operatives; how much more difficult would it be to add another new conspirator to the mix? Never mind that he has no reason to do so: a love of intrigue is hardwired into the Romulan psyche, and the shiar'rim have raised that natural inclination to a deadly art form.
What would a Vulcan logician have to say about this situation? Probably no more than the obvious: that warriors who thrive on machination and stratagems can never coexist with pacifists committed to openness and straightforward dealing. Why would Spock think anything different? Why would he choose to risk everything on an exercise in futility? And there's no doubt that he is indeed at grave risk. Less than a year ago Subcommander Selok, known in the Federation as Ambassador T'Pel of Vulcan, was extracted in the course of "peace negotiations" from her deep-cover intelligence posting. The Federation won't tolerate another such massive security breach: Starfleet is certainly organizing a covert mission to neutralize Spock. The only question is whose plan will succeed first, theirs or Stilpa's. I have to find some means of keeping Spock--and myself--out of the hands of his enemies, whether they wear the uniform of the Tal Shiar or of the Federation's Starfleet.
The thought brings me to complete wakefulness. "Full lights," I say aloud. Squinting against the sudden brightness, I find my dressing-gown and get up; there's no point in trying to sleep. I run a hot bath--the shiar'rim are paying for this hotel accommodation, after all--and spend a long time there, willing my mind to blankness and my body to repose, with not much success on either count.
* * *
Wear an ordinary suit, Pardek said. I open my kitbag and assess the meager non-military wardrobe that travels with me from posting to posting. The closest thing to ordinary that I can manage is the belted tunic and loose trousers I habitually wear to unofficial functions while on assignment. The dark grey wool is neither comfortable nor flattering, but at least the garments are cut in the current fashion. With luck, I won't be noticed among the workers and academics on campus.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I stare critically at myself. What will Spock see when he looks at me? A slender, dark-haired beauty not much changed from the young woman he once loved? Or a middle-aged enemy soldier marked by time, disillusion, and grief? I haven't had a single night of unbroken sleep since I received Stilpa's summons on Ferenginar; the evidence is written on my face in deep lines and shadows. I suppose that with a little effort I can repair the damage and make myself presentable. But is it even worth the trouble? It's been a long time since I've paid more than perfunctory attention to the way I look. As I turn away from the mirror, I imagine that I hear Tilendi's voice in my mind: One must always keep up appearances. I glance back over my shoulder at my reflection. Some color in my cheeks, perhaps--just a natural-looking shade of green, nothing too noticeable. A discreet tint on lips and eartips, lashes darkened a bit for emphasis ... My reflection lifts an ironic eyebrow. Go ahead, then. You can hardly make the situation any worse. I gather up my toiletries and sit down at the dressing-table. I'm not due to meet Spock and Pardek for another half-hour, but I'll need every minute of that time to complete my task. I'm sadly out of practice, and my hand, like my nerves, is none too steady.
* * *
Just before I leave the hotel room, I pin up my hair in a braided knot. In earlier, saner days, when Romulans glorified rather than depreciated their sexual differences, female soldiers performed that final ritual act just before going into battle.
* * *
I'm the first to arrive at the meeting-place. After a moment's thought, I position myself near the flowing stone draperies of one of the immense caryatids who guard the entrance to the convocation hall. From this vantage point I can see anyone approaching from any direction.
Throngs of students and professors are hurrying along the walkways to their classes. The morning is overcast and damp; the brief brightness of sunrise has been swiftly obliterated by masses of rain-laden clouds that threaten to release their burden at any moment. I pull the hood of my cloak as far over my face as I dare--I want to look inconspicuous, not suspicious--and try to control the shivering that's not at all due to the weather.
This isn't like war. You're not hiding in a bunker or on a damaged ship behind some asteroid, preparing to kill or be killed. And yet my body insists exactly the opposite: my heart is beating fast, my throat is dry, and a tight band of anxiety has anchored itself around my midsection. No, this isn't like war, I think bitterly. In battle I find it easy to remain detached and analytical; I've never been swept up in anything like the emotional maelstrom of regret and anticipation and fear that I'm experiencing at this moment.
Drawing in a deep breath, I shut my eyes and try to summon control. Soon I'll get exactly what I've wanted since my last day on Earth--a chance to explain, to make Spock understand why I left. It was the only choice possible. More than that, I'll be able to warn him of the danger he faces, the danger he's too idealistic or too stubborn to acknowledge--
I open my eyes to see Pardek's stout figure mounting the steps. When he catches sight of me, he raises one hand in an abbreviated gesture of greeting. He's out of breath and disheveled: the hem of his cloak is soaked and muddy, as if he's been walking through puddles or fields of wet grass. All these details I note in the space of a second or two, immediately after my brain registers the fact that, despite the numbers of people who are coming and going in his immediate vicinity, he is very much alone.
* * *
"Our signals must have gotten crossed somehow," Pardek says. "I don't understand it. I dispatched a message to Spock last night just after you left. I'm sure it was received. I'm sure it was."
I take a sip of lukewarm tea. "Then perhaps you'd better make contact with your people," I say patiently.
"Yes, you're right. Will you excuse me?" He gets up and waddles over to a commphone booth. I watch him go, thinking idly how I might remove the belt from my tunic, approach him silently from behind, and tighten the garrotte around his fat, sweaty neck before he can so much as gasp out a plea for his worthless life--No, don't dwell on it. The temptation might prove too great. I abandon the fantasy and concentrate on my tea, which is no better than I remember it from my university days.
Right now those days don't seem so far away. The common-room looks much the same as it always has--the crowded tables still filled with students and professors seeking sustenance between lectures, the warm, steamy air still a miasma of strong tea, thin soup, and weighty ideas. Though it galls me, I have to admit that Pardek has chosen our meeting-place well. Universities are almost the last refuge of political nonconformity on Romulus. A reassuringly large number of people are still possessed of their natural unridged foreheads and uncropped hair. I don't look out of place in these surroundings, and neither will Spock. If he ever gets here, that is.
Pardek makes his way back to our table, evading the trailing cloaks slung over chairs and the stacks of padds piled beside their owners' feet. Having negotiated the obstacle course, he sits down with a sigh.
"Well?" I demand.
"We have a problem."
The words send a shiver of fear down my spine."A problem? What kind of problem?"
"The tramworkers' guild in Kevas," he says in a low voice. "They've downed tools. No warning. The aerotrams are grounded."
"What in the name of the gods is Spock doing in Kevas?"
"He left yesterday evening to address a chapter of the movement. He caught the express aerotram. It was supposed to be a quick trip--now he'll have to take a groundcar to the next town and catch a tram from there."
"Are your people mad or merely stupid? Transport him immediately! There's a public platform at the west gate of the campus--we can be there in two minutes to meet him!"
"I'm afraid that's not possible."
"Why not?"
"Because we can't afford it."
"What?"
"Kevas is a continent away," he says, as if I don't know the geography of my own planet. "It would cost over five hundred in cash for a private citizen to transport from there. The movement simply doesn't have that kind of money to spare."
May the gods give me patience. "Cover the charges yourself! You're a senator. You must have sufficient cash."
"Not even sufficient credit," he says with a sad smile. "I have certain obligations--"
"I don't want to hear about them. If you won't pay, then I will!"
"No. You'd have to cash a chit, and the payment and transporter destination would be too closely connected. There mustn't be any kind of trail left for the authorities."
I stare at him hopelessly. "Then what do you suggest we do?"
"It's brightening up a little. We could go for a walk around the campus. My contacts will keep me apprised of Spock's progress."
"A walk?"
"Why not? Spock has taught us to accept with equanimity the things we can't change. This is one of those things. A walk will make the time pass more quickly. Unless you have somewhere else to be?"
"No," I say, suppressing a curse. "I have nowhere else to be."
* * *
At first I'm certain that Pardek's suggestion is merely a ruse to test my good faith. Who knows what kinds of challenges devotees of unification are supposed to meet before being accepted into the inner circle? But as we walk along the treed pathways that crisscross the campus, I begin to think that the situation might be exactly, and absurdly, as he says it is: we're simply passing the time while we wait for Spock to arrive.
It seems bizarre beyond belief that Stilpa's elaborate plan should be impeded by something so idiotic as a labor dispute. But the workers' guilds are a powerful and respected force in Romulan society, and even the Tal Shiar might hesitate to engage them unnecessarily. I just have to be patient--and, if I can manage it, cordial. One must always keep up appearances.
"Look over there, Ambassador," says Pardek, trying to pique my interest. "The new library. Not much like the old one, eh?"
"Not much," I agree. The old library, with its tiled roof and grand Vulcanesque columns and entablatures, had once housed my father's offices, as it had the offices of praelectors since the earliest years of the Empire. The new structure, all oblique angles and transparent curtain-walls, seems faceless and soulless by comparison--Careful, warns the inner voice. You're showing your age. At midlife, the old and traditional begin to seem inherently more valuable and desirable than the new and innovative. Keep an open mind ...
"And there," says Pardek, pointing towards a dome barely visible through the trees. "The science museum. At least that hasn't changed. When I was a child, I lived for those field trips."
"Yes, there was always something magical about the place."
"Do you remember the zero-G sims?"
"Of course. And the reproduction of the Remish farm, with those two hreinn'hm, always chewing their cuds and looking so bored? I can still smell that fresh hay."
"Not to mention that fresh manure." We exchange a smile: for the briefest of moments it seems as though we're friends, linked by experience and memory to a childhood we never shared in reality. But I quickly look away, regretting my lapse: Remember who this man is, and what he's about to do.
"Shall we pay the descendants of those hreinn'hm a visit?" says Pardek. "It's just about opening time. We could see whether the exhibits are as impressive as we remember them."
An automatic refusal springs to my lips, but until Spock arrives I have nothing better to do. "All right," I say after a moment.
"Splendid," says Pardek, seeming genuinely pleased. He glances around him, as if getting his bearings. "Let's take the shortcut through the quadrangle. Perhaps we'll be in time to watch the morning feeding."
* * *
As Pardek has observed, the museum is unchanged. Parties of tourists cluster in the echoing rotunda, gazing up at the great stained-glass dome, their faces bathed in patterns of colored light. The old stone walls and stairways--carved in Vulcan fashion from unbroken slabs of marble and granite--still blend oddly with the environment-controlled chambers that house modern exhibits and simulations. Shunning the lift by unspoken agreement, Pardek and I make for the stairs that will take us up several flights to the life sciences wing. Another childhood memory surfaces: Darius and Torryn and I once counted, each in turn, all three hundred forty-six of those steps ...
Pardek seems to think we have time to spare not only for the feeding of the hreinn'hm, but also for a long trek across the upper gallery to the hyperdimensional geometry exhibit. He even activates an educational holovid that purports to interpret the entire corpus of Hamalki non-causal physics. Not surprisingly, he and I are the only viewers.
When the vertigo-inducing vid is finally over, I emerge from the theater into the deserted vestibule with the beginning of a headache and no more than a bare remnant of patience. Turning on Pardek, I allow anger to mask anxiety: "How much longer are we supposed to wait? Call your people again, and find out what's going on. This is ridiculous!"
Pardek nods. "They should know something by now. Will you excuse me while I find a commphone?"
I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. He's sure to return with another excuse, another bizarre reason for Spock's failure to appear. Suddenly a new thought occurs: what if Pardek has already accomplished his task? What if Spock is even now in the custody of the Tal Shiar, being held at disruptor-point while mind-probes tear a hundred years of Federation secrets from him? What if this whole exercise is just some kind of diversion? My stomach twists in a spasm of fear that's close to the raw edge of panic. But I know that Stilpa has an agenda of his own, and Pardek is a part of it. Whatever is supposed to happen hasn't happened yet. To calm myself, I try to formulate a report to Stilpa: I was unable to carry out my assignment. Pardek failed to cooperate. Spock wouldn't see me. He must be gone from this system by now, gone to a colony world somewhere, gone from the Empire altogether, safely back in Federation space, safely home, let him be safe, please, please let him be safe--
When Spock enters the vestibule, escorted by a smiling Pardek, it seems as though someone has answered that last inchoate plea. Plainly he is safe, for here he comes, striding through the archway, looking like one of the scholars who work in the museum--tall, greying, wearing a shabby cloak and an ill-fitting suit. His demeanor is grave, abstracted, as if he's lost in the intricacies of some difficult equation or arcane hieroglyph.
I've tried to prepare myself for this meeting by recalling every holographic likeness I've seen over the past century, every simulacrum of digitized light viewed at a thousand removes from reality. I've told myself that I remember everything about him, that memory and imagination remain faithful to fact. Now, faced with this unexpected presence--this man, this living spirit I once held and loved and mourned, walking towards me, occupying real space, existing in real time--for a moment I literally cannot draw a breath. He is nothing like my memory of him, and yet he looks exactly like himself.
I have no time to consider the implications of that paradox. In the three or four seconds it takes him to cover the distance between us, I summon every scrap of learned control, try to curb every contradictory emotion that surges within me.
"Ambassador Tayva," Pardek says in Federation Standard, "I have the honor of presenting Ambassador Spock of Vulcan." Pardek's version of tact obviously involves the pretense that this is an ordinary diplomatic meeting--that Spock has never encountered me before, never boarded Eidolon, never betrayed my trust. Never changed my life beyond imagining--
"Ambassador," I say, taking in with a quick encompassing glance the entirety of him, barely meeting his eyes.
"Ambassador," says Spock. His voice reveals neither recognition nor curiosity.
"Welcome to Romulus." I lift a steady hand, part untrembling fingers.
"I am honored to be here."
Now there's an exchange worthy of two interstellar diplomats. Pardek smiles approval, as if a pair of slow pupils have somehow managed to recite a lesson without mistakes. He asks helpfully: "Perhaps you'd care to adjourn to a more private location? Someplace where we can talk without interruption?"
The "we" is enough to bring my mind into focus and slow my racing heart. I remember that I have a duty to perform: "I need to speak privately with Ambassador Spock."
A frown from Pardek. "I understand your position, Ambassador Tayva. Believe me, I do. Nonetheless, in the circumstances I think it best that I--"
"It's all right," says Spock, speaking colloquial Romulan like a native. "The ambassador has asked for privacy." He looks past me to the open door. "This theater is empty; we'll talk in there, while you stand watch at the entrance. If someone approaches, activate the holovid program." He nods towards the control panel on the wall.
I glance dubiously at the space Pardek and I have just vacated: I can do without repeating the Hamalki experience, especially since my stomach and heart feel as if they've been torn loose from their moorings at the sight of Spock. But he's right--it's still too early for many visitors, and Pardek can easily warn us if we're about to be interrupted.
"Let's go," I say.
Spock inclines his head to indicate that I should precede him. Conscious of him at my back--breathless and dizzy with the awareness of him at my back--I enter the theater.
* * *
How many times have I fantasized this moment? How often have I rehearsed what I might say and do if by some miracle, some divine repeal of the laws of the universe, I was granted a second chance with Spock? The habit of mind is such that whenever I experience a moment of mental relaxation--while gazing out a window or a viewport, or before sleep overtakes me--Spock appears in my thoughts. In fantasy, he listens and forgives. In fantasy, he understands--he must understand, he's a Vulcan, a soldier, bound like me to carry out his duty--that more lives than his and mine depended upon my returning to Romulus. In fantasy, he dries my tears and comforts me ... Oh, t'hy'la, beloved, hold me, forgive me, be with me now ...
The door of the theater hisses shut behind us. Spock waits, attentive and expectant, as if eager to finish this meeting so he can proceed to the next. "Ambassador?" he says inquiringly.
I gesture towards the semicircular rows of benches clustered around the holoprojector. "Spock. Sit down, won't you?"
A barely lifted eyebrow. Is he surprised by the omission of his title, or by the notion that our conversation will last long enough for him to bother sitting down? Regardless, he sits.
His face, softened and burnished by the flat, diffuse houselights of the empty theater, remains impassive. Promising myself that I'll take my lead from him, that I'll match reserve with reserve, ardor with ardor, I sit down on the bench--close but not too close, not nearly close enough--and murmur a noncommittal greeting in Vulcan: "It is agreeable to see you again."
He inclines his head politely. "Pardek tells me that your communication with the underground may have put you in danger," he says in Romulan. "And that you're pressed for time."
In other words, get on with it. "That doesn't matter, Spock. It's you who are in danger. Will you listen to what I have to say?"
He inclines his head again, as if to ask, Why else would I be here?
Why else indeed? "The shiar'rim know you're on Romulus. They've recorded your meetings with the dissidents. They have names and identity scans. Informants have already infiltrated the movement. They're planning to bring you down, and all your followers with you."
"I am aware that some of us are being monitored," he says. "I know the authorities are opposed to our movement."
"Opposed! Didn't you hear what I said? This isn't political opposition. In the government's eyes, you're advocating treason! You must know by now that death is the most lenient sanction for that crime!"
"We're aware of the risk, Ambassador. Some government informants have already been identified."
"Oh, yes? And is Senator Pardek among them?"
He says nothing, but he can't control that lifted eyebrow. There, I think with satisfaction. Now I've got your attention.
"Yes," I say, "that's right, your loyal friend Pardek. Very soon he's going to come to you with a proposal for a meeting with Proconsul Neral, saying that Neral supports reunification. But Neral is related by marriage to a Fleet officer called Sela, who's a supporter of the Tal Shiar. They intend to seduce you into believing that the Romulan government is ready to deal peace. But it isn't, Spock. It isn't, and it never will be--"
"It was my understanding," he interrupts, "that the Fleet was opposed to the Tal Shiar, not allied with it."
"Sela is a renegade and does what she likes. She's too well-connected for High Command to get rid of her. What difference does it make? The important thing is that you must leave Romulus now. Now, before Pardek can carry out his plan!"
"And what is that plan, Ambassador?" As if he's asking directions to the market square.
"Gods of Remus, what do you think it is? I don't know the details, but I can make a good guess. Pardek and Neral will persuade you that they're on your side, and then they'll kill you and as many of your followers as they can find. Eventually, that is. After they've gotten whatever it is they want from you."
"Perhaps even the shiar'rim are reluctant to create an interstellar incident by arresting a Federation citizen. Thus far no one has accosted me."
"Don't delude yourself. They're waiting for something, only the gods know what, and when they feel the time is right--" I draw in a deep breath, striving for control. "You have to leave now, Spock. Before Pardek can betray you. Before the Federation can send an assassination squad after you--"
For the first time I see a trace of expression in his eyes: a very slight, very distant hint of amusement. "There will be no assassination squad," he says.
"Oh, really? So the Federation doesn't care how many Vulcan ambassadors it loses to the Empire? Such generosity of spirit is admirable." As soon as I let fly the barb, I regret it: Spock and T'Pel--Selok--were close colleagues for many years, and no doubt her unmasking has caused him distress.
He chooses to ignore the remark. "Tell me something, Ambassador," he says. "Why have you risked your career and perhaps your life to come to me like this? Why assist the reunification movement? By Romulan law we are, as you point out, advocating treason against the very government you represent."
Stop now, says a warning voice. You've told him about Pardek. It's up to him to do something with that information. Don't say anything more-- "I don't care about the reunification movement, Spock. Last night I told your friends that a military alliance with the Federation was inevitable, and I meant it. But reunification with Vulcan--never. The whole idea is foolish and arrogant. Romulans are nothing like Vulcans, and unless you turn mind-probes on us one by one, we never will be."
"I appreciate your candor, Ambassador. But if you oppose reunification, then why--"
Always and only the truth. "The shiar'rim sent me here. They intend to make use of me somehow. I suppose they want me to buy my way into the movement with information about Pardek, to gain your trust and that of your followers by appearing to expose him. But I came to warn you, Spock! To give you a chance to save yourself!"
He hesitates, as if he wants to ask a question but is reluctant to do so. Finally he says, "Forgive me, Ambassador. I had assumed that the bad feeling that arose between our governments over the Enterprise incident would still be strong, even after a century. You were courteous to me while I was aboard your ship. That you would extend me such courtesy still, despite the outcome of that mission, is gratifying, and I thank you. But to turn on the shiar'rim, to risk their retribution, when you don't support our movement--" I can read the still unanswered question in his eyes: Why would you do this? His only unanswered question ...
Because he cares nothing for me, and "why" is all the information he needs?
Because he fears I care nothing for him, and won't risk embarrassing himself or me?
Or because he knows no other question to ask?
A stirring deep within me, a gathering of defensive forces. Vulcans, detached as they are from all natural emotion, are capable of inflicting great cruelty in the name of logic. But in a hundred years of imagining the best and worst that could happen if I were ever reunited with Spock, I have never imagined this.
Suppose that the Vulcan hierophant T'Lar--holding an exposed and vulnerable consciousness in her care like a heart in a surgeon's hands--was able to achieve in the fal-tor-pan what Spock had attempted to do years earlier in the discipline of Kolinahr. Suppose T'Lar wanted--as Spock must once have wanted--to remove some inconvenient and very un-Vulcan memories. Suppose she eradicated all that Leonard McCoy had seen while Spock's katra was in his keeping, all except the bare historical details of a long-ago military encounter with a Romulan commander--
Suppose the simple truth is that Spock does not remember me.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.