Romulans despise Vulcans for many good reasons. So I'd assured Leonard McCoy during my stay on Enterprise. At the time, I'd had one highly specific reason in mind: the Vulcans' insistence on torturing themselves unnecessarily with the ritualized horrors surrounding the pon farr. But the marriage-or-challenge ordeal was only the most dramatic manifestation of a society that had tied itself in psychic knots with its attempts to repress all emotion. Another good reason to hold Vulcans in contempt was their reverence for the discipline--less bloody than koon-ut-kalifee but no less destructive--known by the innocuous name of Kolinahr, or "enlightenment."
Before Surak appeared on the scene, when Vulcan was still whole and healthy in its diversity, the Kolinahru were merely one cult among hundreds. They were taken more seriously than the ornamental hermits who occupied wattle huts on the estates of wealthy landowners, less seriously than the high-minded contemplatives who kept to themselves in a mysterious walled compound near the summit of Mount Seleya.
The Kolinahru lived on the plains of Gol, a region as arid and devoid of life as they themselves were. Their discipline, modestly described by them as "Perfect Logic," attracted an odd mix of devotees, ranging from spiritual dilettantes who were working their way through belief systems to ambitious industrialists who wanted to pursue their activities unimpeded by guilt or compassion. The Kolinahru subsisted--barely--on revenues from tenday retreats and tuition fees from "acolytes" who were engaged in studying to be "high masters."
But when Surak's philosophy began to take hold, "Perfect Logic" ceased to be merely an amusing catchphrase. The notion of "enlightenment," which was understood to mean the ruthless purging of every passion and affect, came to occupy a place in the general consciousness. A new leadership--drawn from the inner circle of Surak's followers--transformed Kolinahr from a fringe sect into a mainstream social and political force. Eventually Gol became a destination for government officials, religious leaders, and ordinary citizens who thought they had something to gain by "freeing" themselves from all emotional ties, from everything that made life worth living.
* * *
When the news had reached me on Hellguard--via a routine intelligence briefing that was already out of date by the time it arrived--of Spock's resignation from Starfleet and his flight to Gol, I was enduring my own hardships in the wilderness.
Hellguard had proved more than deserving of its name: blazing hot by day, freezing cold by night, riddled with restless volcanoes, unstable in its core, it was every bit as inimical to life as Gol itself. How the native population had managed to progress beyond a stone age I had no idea; certainly their Romulan colonizers hadn't adapted very well to the brutal environment. The men and women under my command spent their off-duty hours gambling, fighting, fornicating, and consuming any substance, indigenous or contraband, that would allow them to escape briefly the misery of their isolation.
Nevertheless, the colony functioned. By blind luck--or by virtue of my skill in unarmed combat, which was put to the test more than once--I had managed to gain the loyalty of the misfits and halfwits who passed for a Romulan legion on that hopeless world. Perhaps they were impressed, in their addled way, by Tal's exaggerated stories of how Adjuvant would never have succeeded in its glorious mission against the Federation were it not for my brilliant strategizing; or perhaps they'd simply been looking for someone strong enough to tell them what to do.
On the day that the intelligence briefing arrived, I was busy preparing a report to High Command. In any normal posting, I would have had a data repository and a brace of clerks at my disposal; here I was lucky to have a few obsolete computers and a drawerful of cheap padds.
As it happened, Tal was lounging in my office when the secure-message signal sounded.
"See what that is," I said, not looking up from my task. If I lost my train of thought, I'd have to start the supply-requisition calculations all over again.
"Gladly," he said, unwinding himself lazily from the chair. "Thank you for allowing me to help with something."
"It isn't that I don't appreciate the offer. But I've got most of this information stored in my head, and it's quicker to do it myself. If you really want to be of use, you could bring me some lunch."
"What I want," he said quietly, "is to make things better for you."
"You are making things better, Jascha," I said. "Your presence here is what keeps me going. You carry far more than your share of the load. But right now, the thing I need most is something to eat. I have to finish this report, and I can't take time for a proper meal."
Tal retrieved the printout from the terminal, then glanced at the cover page. "More of the same from Fleet Intel," he said. "Read it tonight. Better than a dram of black whisky to send you to sleep."
"I'd better look at it now," I said. "If supply ships are still being delayed at the Velian checkpoint, I need to take that into account in my report."
"If you insist. I'm off to the commissary to find us something palatable. Try to stay awake till I return."
The cover page told me nothing. I flipped quickly through the printout, scanning rapidly for the information I wanted--so rapidly that I nearly missed seeing Spock's name. Resignation accepted by Starfleet, said the report. Plains of Gol ... the discipline known as Kolinahr ... Intel file coded inactive until further notice ... Centurion Selok, a.k.a. T'Pel, ordered to maintain deep cover on Vulcan and file periodic reports as required. Signed, Subcommander Jarok, Fleet Intelligence.
A familiar pain lanced through my side. As if from a distance, my mind noted the phenomenon with interest: How many times can a heart break? I stared out at the rock-strewn landscape, at the pathetic collection of prefabricated barracks and armories that represented the farthest outpost of empire. I had spoken only part of the truth to Tal: his friendship did indeed sustain me here, but what made me carry on past the point of despair was the certainty that as soon as this punishment was over I would do whatever it took to find my way back to Spock. The multiple tragedies I'd faced in the wake of the Enterprise incident would fade into the past, and Spock and I would go forward together, hand in hand ...
And so we might have done, would have done, except for the fact that he had chosen instead to deliver himself into the hands of the Kolinahru, to rid himself of all attachment to me and everyone else he cared for.
But what would make him do such a thing? Even if he wished to erase what had happened between us, why would he abandon Kirk, his closest friend? McCoy and Uhura, who were also dear to him? The rest of his shipmates, with whom he had served so long? His research and scholarship, which had formed such a large part of his Starfleet career? I turned the question over and over in my mind, searching for answers that never came.
* * *
A year later, the starship Enterprise had been dispatched on an intercept mission when the Voyager probe threatened Earth's survival. As I eventually learned from Fleet Intel, Spock's Starfleet commission was reactivated, and when the crisis was past he remained on duty. I had hoped--briefly and in vain--that I might find some way of communicating with him, for obviously he was no longer following the discipline of Kolinahr. But at the time I'd had no safe or sure way of getting a message to anyone in the Federation, much less Commander Spock of Starfleet. And later still, when I learned how close our paths had come to crossing on Hellguard, I had been in no position to initiate a rapprochement.
During the long post-Hellguard years, I waited and watched from a distance. Though my own diplomatic assignments sent me back and forth across the Empire, I was able, thanks to intelligence briefings and automated keyword searches, to share vicariously in tiny fragments of Spock's life--his Starfleet postings, his academic honors, his scientific publications. Throughout those years I told myself that an opportunity would arise sometime, that I would find a way to make it happen somehow, that anything would be bearable if we could only be together in the end.
* * *
In the end ... In the end, Spock was taken from me in a manner too terrible to imagine. He died because James Kirk had ignored or forgotten the warning of a friend: One day, out of nowhere, some vanquished enemy will rise up and exact revenge upon you--if not for your victory, or for your treachery, then for your mercy. Spock died in the act of saving his captain and crew, died with courage and honor and selflessness, gave his life so that many would be spared--his eulogists keened the litany of his heroism over and over on every subspace channel until I wanted to scream with the agony of hearing it. In my anguish I would have killed with my bare hands every one of the shipmates he'd saved if by doing so I could have brought him back to life.
Burial tube incinerated in rapid-decay orbit around so-called Genesis planetoid, said Selok's report from Vulcan. Intel file hereby terminated.
The loss of Spock--and with him all hope for the future--hit me with devastating force. Mind and body alike recoiled from the shock. Sick with grief, half-mad with pain, I took part of the accumulated leave that was due me and, pleading exhaustion from overwork, hid myself away. The prospect of my own long life stretched out like a prison sentence, every moment to be lived without hope, without Spock. I could see only one dark path left open to me. But even in my despair I knew that my family would never comprehend a suicide without apparent honorable cause; it would seem a weakness in character, a failure to carry out my responsibilities. Such a death would dishonor them and me. So, in the Romulan way, I fell back on the habits of duty and obligation. For my family's sake, I confided in no one. For my family's sake, I did not open my veins in the bath. For my family's sake, I went on concealing the deepest truths about myself.
If Tal was curious about the cause of my withdrawn state when I returned to duty, he never showed it; he was simply there, always there, as he had been since we were children, waiting as patiently for me as I had waited for Spock.
* * *
Some three months after Spock's death, and two tendays before I was to begin a lengthy round of trade negotiations on one of the Orion homeworlds, I was sitting in the officers' lounge at Fleet headquarters, staring at but not seeing the padd that contained my mission briefing. I was glad to be left alone: dinner would not be served for another hour, and most of my colleagues were either at the gaming tables or the bar.
"I thought I'd find you here, amkhoia." Tal, holding a glass of brandy in either hand, smiled down at me. "Put that work aside and join me in a drink. I've just received my orders."
I summoned an answering smile and took the glass he offered me. "Well? Are you going to keep me in suspense?"
"Certainly not. The flagship is mine." His smile grew wider. "And you may honor me with any toast you like, so long as it's replete with superlatives."
"Jascha, how wonderful!" I was genuinely happy for him; he had been hoping for command of Adjuvant ever since Ranen Devor's promotion. "When?"
"Two tendays from now, just after you leave for Orion. Hell of a lot to do before then, but tonight is for celebration. Well? How about that toast?"
"Congratulations, my friend. No one deserves this more than you. You'll be a brilliant fleet commander, and you'll come home covered in glory--no, drenched in glory, dripping glory, trailing glory behind you. This is what you were born to do. I salute you, Commander."
He took my glass and set it down carefully next to his. "You honor me, Commander." His smile had vanished.
"What is it, Jascha? Surely you're not having second thoughts? You've worked so hard for this--"
"Aerlyn," he said, "I don't know how long this mission will last. I'll be on extended cloaked patrol along the Klingon border--"
"You're commanding the finest ship in the Fleet. With the refit, you've got a hundred times more firepower than--"
He made an impatient gesture. "It isn't that. It's--" With a grimace, he fumbled in the pocket of his tunic, then opened his palm to me.
Green sparkle of emerald, bright gleam of gold. Wrought together in two wristbands, one larger and heavier than the other. Green for flesh and blood, gold for intellect and emotion. And someday--not soon, no, please, not any time soon, a long, long time from now--a strand of silver for spirit departed.
"This," said Tal, so softly that I could barely hear him. "This is what I was born to do, amkhoia. Will you let me love you as I was meant to? Will you let me love you always, after all these years?"
Let me love you, said another voice in memory. Oh, beloved, let me love you now--
But that voice was gone, silenced forever. And here was Jascha, who had once been my lover, whom I still loved with all my heart as a friend, a companion, a comrade. Jascha, who had stood before the Senate with me, who had never left my side during the long nightmare of Hellguard. Jascha, who would give me children, a home, a reason to go on living ...
I whispered his name, afraid to say anything more for fear that I might begin to cry and never stop. But he must have read my answer in my face. With an inarticulate shout he seized my hands, pulled me up and into his arms, and, in full view of the few curious onlookers who were waiting for their dinner, kissed me passionately, intimately, scandalously on the mouth.
* * *
The marriage contract was signed within a day; after all, it wasn't as though we needed time to get to know each other. The wedding-feast lasted two days more. For another tenday after that, we were fêted, counseled, hailed, and embraced by our jubilant families and friends. And when the refit of Adjuvant was completed ahead of schedule, there was a great deal of sympathetic outrage at our having to part so much sooner than expected.
We said goodbye in the observation lounge of Principia Base, near the docking ring where Adjuvant rested, powerful and sleek, waiting for its new commander. "Be well, Jascha," I said, laying my hand against his cheek. "Come home safely." That was all I could manage in this public place; we had made our true farewells in the privacy of our bedroom in Trae'kesh.
"Don't worry, amkhoia." He took my hand and pressed his lips first to my fingers and then to the lifebond that glittered on my wrist. "I'll always come home to you."
"Commander," said a voice behind us, causing us both to turn around. "Sorry," murmured the young centurion. "Commander Tal, Traffic Control has cleared you for departure. Commander Tayva, you're wanted in Main Briefing right away. Sorry," he repeated, blushing a little.
Tal grinned at me. "Just like old times. Go safely, my love. I'll send a message as soon as I'm able." He kissed my hand again, and with a final wave disappeared through the door that led to the airlocks.
I would have liked to watch Adjuvant's departure, but a summons to Main Briefing wasn't to be ignored. I headed directly for the transporter that would send me planetward to the Fleet command center. What's gone wrong now? If the Orion government has imposed another idiotic embargo-- I never completed the thought. The transporter set me down in the midst of a crowd of very senior Fleet officers and government officials, all of whom looked as puzzled as I. When Sel Nanclus, ambassador to the United Federation of Planets, took his place at the lectern, it seemed evident that war must be imminent; what else would have brought him home from his posting?
Normally calm and composed, Nanclus now looked as if demons were at his back. "Good evening," he said. "I'm sorry to call you here at such short notice, but I think you'll understand why I did so after you've seen this communication. Will someone please activate the viewscreen?"
A series of time-codes told the story of the transmission's progress from a distant point of origin, its noise reduced and its signal boosted at each stop in a long chain of relay stations. Then a sudden panoramic image filled the screen--lowering red sky, plateau of white sands, jagged cliffs stained fiery orange by an alien sun. "This report was sent from Vulcan," said Nanclus unnecessarily. "Please bear in mind that our operative recorded it several tendays ago, but was unable to transmit it safely until now. We are still awaiting further data."
On the screen, a young woman wearing a desert suit positioned herself in front of the recorder. "This is Selok speaking," she said. Even the audio distortion could not disguise the tension in her voice. "Three hours ago local time a badly damaged Bird of Prey, apparently under the command of Admiral James Kirk of the Federation's Starfleet, entered Vulcan space. The vessel was diverted to a shuttleport near the foot of Mount Seleya. A Klingon prisoner was detained for questioning. Kirk and his officers, along with a body identified as that of Spock of Vulcan, were taken up the mountain to a closed compound occupied by a religious sect. Ambassador Sarek is inside the compound with the others. He believes--he has stated that the body of his son still lives."
The transmission resolved into clear focus for a moment: Selok looked incredulous, terrified, and about to be ill. I wondered briefly whether my own expression was much different from hers. The body of his son ... There is no body! Spock's body is atoms, stardust ... gods of Remus, what is happening here?
Selok drew a deep breath, as if forcing herself to go on. "The leader of the sect is a hierophant called T'Lar, who is now--" She stopped, then began again. "T'Lar is said to be retrieving Spock's katra from its keeper, the Starfleet healer McCoy. She means to attempt the fal-tor-pan."
From somewhere in the room came a gasp, quickly stifled.
"I don't know when I'll be able to transmit this recording. The planetary communications net is down. No vessels in or out, no message traffic of any kind. They're saying it's a computer problem, but the truth is that they don't want anyone to know about this." Selok laughed, a half-swallowed choking sound that might equally have been a sob. "Can you blame them?" She glanced quickly to her left. "Someone's coming. I'll record a follow-up report as soon as I obtain further--" The screen went blank.
Silence. Appalled, disbelieving silence from a roomful of hardened soldiers and politicians, shocked beyond speech by the idea that ancient legend could have become modern reality, by a violation of natural order so profound that the heavens ought to open in retribution, by the heresy that one might reclaim life from death.
Nanclus was the first to speak. "As I said, Centurion Selok's report was recorded several tendays ago. Thus far we have had no further word from her. Earlier this evening, however, Fleet Intelligence intercepted and decoded a classified memorandum to the admiralty from the commander in chief of Starfleet." He held up a hardcopy. "It is a draft version of a bulletin to be issued to the Federation news nets. Briefly put, it says that the early reports of Captain Spock's death aboard the starship Enterprise were falsified for security reasons. It does not specify what those reasons were. It states that Spock and a science team from the starship Grissom were engaged in a secret mission near the Mutara sector, which mission is already the subject of a continuing inquiry. When Grissom came under Klingon attack, the science team was stranded on the planetoid code-named Genesis. Admiral Kirk effected a rescue. Spock was wounded during that rescue, is now hospitalized on Vulcan, and has been placed on indefinite medical leave. The Starfleet officers who accompanied him to Vulcan, including Admiral Kirk, have also been granted leave until such time as they are called to testify at the inquiry." Nanclus looked at us for a moment with haunted eyes. Then, quoting directly from the hardcopy: "'Though gravely injured, Captain Spock is now out of danger and is expected to make a full recovery.'"
* * *
A sound like breaking glass, amplified to the point of pain: Hamalki music, introducing the educational holovid. Pardek has activated the program to warn Spock and me that someone is approaching the theater.
Spock stands up, motions for me to do the same. "Say nothing when we leave this room," he warns.
"You don't have to tell me that." I wrap my cloak and my dignity around me. "I've said everything I have to say." Everything that was important, but nothing that mattered.
"It will be safest for both of us if you maintain the pose of a supporter of peace. If the shiar'rim expect you to infiltrate the movement, then you should allow them to believe that you've done so. In fact, you may even wish to--" He breaks off suddenly as the door hisses open.
"I regret the interruption," Pardek says, "but it seems that there is an urgent message for Ambassador Spock--"
"Good morning, Spock." Hadrea, the dark, intense woman from last night who kept me under such close surveillance, is straining to get a glimpse of us from behind Pardek's bulk. "I've just had word from the provincial chapter in--oh, Ambassador Tayva. I didn't see you there."
"Lady Hadrea," I murmur. Years of diplomatic training have schooled me in superficial courtesy to such repellent specimens as despots and slave-traders, so a polite greeting to Hadrea isn't much of a stretch.
"I'm sorry to take you away from your meeting," she says to Spock without a trace of sorrow in her voice, "but I must consult with you about this matter the chapter has raised. Ambassador Tayva, Senator Pardek, if you'll excuse us--"
"I would prefer that Ambassador Tayva and Senator Pardek join us," says Spock.
Pardek stares at him. "Oh, I'm sure you'd rather speak privately--"
"Yes, we would," says Hadrea.
"Unnecessary," says Spock.
"Well," Pardek says uncertainly, "the university common room isn't far from here. Perhaps we could all have a cup of tea ..."
* * *
Pardek and I proceed along the same pathway we followed earlier. Hadrea and Spock walk a little ahead of us, close together, talking in low voices. I keep my eyes on Spock's back, listening with half an ear to Pardek's prattle while repeating compulsively to myself the mantra I live by--Feel nothing. Reveal nothing--in time with the slight swaying movement of Spock's heavy cloak. A part of my brain notes idly the damp, muddy stains on the hem, stains identical to those on Pardek's cloak--
I look down at my feet. My boots are clean, as are Hadrea's; our cloaks too are unstained. If Spock managed to catch an aerotram from somewhere outside Kevas and walked directly along the pavement from the terminus to the museum--
Understanding dawns. Wherever Spock was waiting, it wasn't in Kevas. He and Pardek came to the university by the same route, probably through the wilderness park that borders the north end of the campus. Pardek's story was nothing more than a diversion, concocted to give him or someone else time to ensure that the shiar'rim were not following me or otherwise tracking my movements, and to choose a random destination--the science museum.
I'm angry with myself for not discovering the little deception before now, but I'm also curious. How was Spock persuaded to participate in the ruse? Perhaps he's beginning to think like one of us. As he will have to do, of course, if he intends to survive his misguided attempt to make peace with his Romulan cousins.
* * *
More lukewarm tea. More tedious--though cautious, owing to my presence--talk of peace, reunification, and the wisdom of Surak. More aching despair in my heart. Spock and the others seem willing to stay in the common-room forever. I, who have nothing to contribute to the conversation, am being slowly tortured to death by Spock's proximity and my inability to take advantage of it.
I want to stare openly and marvel at the miracle of him. I want to study the details of his face, read all the stories written there over the decades we've been apart. I want to take his hands, lace his fingers in mine, carry them to the meld points at my temples, make him remember what we once were to each other, show him what we could be again-- Fool! cries the merciless inner voice. Be grateful that he lives. Don't ask for anything more--
"Ambassador Tayva," says Pardek, "I believe Commander Toreth is a friend of yours. Do you think it worth approaching her to support our cause? I've heard that after her father's death she expressed some rather frank opinions--" A muffled beeping interrupts him; the noise seems to be coming from somewhere on his person. He reaches into a pocket and withdraws a small and very expensive-looking commlink.
Pardek is evidently as practiced at small deceptions as he is at larger ones. Acidly, I quote his own words back to him: "'Will you excuse me while I find a commphone?'"
An embarrassed smile, the suggestion of a shrug. He identifies himself to his caller, then settles back to listen to the reply.
I glance away from him and find Spock watching me. "I was waiting elsewhere in the museum," he says, answering the question I haven't asked. "Pardek came to fetch me when he was satisfied that it was safe to do so."
Unable to think of a suitable reply to that, I merely nod. I wait to see whether he might say something more, but he remains silent. When I can bear the eye contact no longer, I turn to Pardek, who is scowling into the commlink.
"All right," he says to his caller. "Well done." He closes the link and half-throws it down on the table. "Well, my friends, if my informant is correct, we're about to attract a good deal of official interest one way and another."
My eyes go involuntarily to Spock's, but he is already--or still--watching me.
"Why?" asks Hadrea. "What's happened?"
"A new intelligence report. Evidently the Federation has decided to act. They've sent someone after Spock."
"An assassination squad, perhaps," says Spock. His voice and face betray nothing, but I imagine that his eyes light briefly with the same tiny flicker of amusement I saw earlier.
"Not likely," Pardek says with a snort of laughter. "No, it's much more poetic than that. Who would have thought Starfleet capable of irony?"
"Irony?" Hadrea frowns as if she doesn't understand the word.
"Of a particularly pointed variety," says Pardek. "It seems that Spock's pursuer is none other than Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation starship Enterprise."
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.