Given the recent outcome of Selok's long-term undercover mission, it's no surprise that an embarrassed and angry Federation Council isn't inclined to view Spock's presence on Romulus with benign neglect. That Starfleet would send Picard--who, like every other captain of every other starship named Enterprise, is well known in the Empire--to extract Spock signals the seriousness of its intentions. Not a team of assassins, true; only one man. But Picard is the man--the Terran, unbelievable as that seems--who stood as arbiter of succession on the Klingon homeworld. He is someone to whom attention must be paid.
* * *
Fleet Commander Lir Tebok, an officer respected by his colleagues and crew alike for his sharp tongue and sharper mind, had had the questionable honor of initiating the first semi-official contact with the Federation some fifty years after--to use the euphemism favored by our enemies--the "Tomed incident." That Tebok's opposite number on the other side of the Line that day should have been Jean-Luc Picard later came to be seen as portentous, for the Romulan Empire had quickly learned that Picard was possessed of many of the same qualities as Tebok himself. The theme of evenly matched adversaries was a popular one in Romulan myth and drama; there could be no challenge, and certainly no honor, in engaging a foe smaller, weaker, or duller than oneself. Though the encounter between Tebok and Picard had ended inconclusively--it would be some time before we understood what unthinkable power had destroyed those outposts on both sides of the Neutral Zone--it served to convince the Senate and the Praetorate that it was past time for us to reclaim our rightful place in intragalactic affairs. The Federation that had sent its finest crew to confront the representatives of the Romulan Star Empire was still, apparently, a power worth reckoning with.
For all his ability, however, Jean-Luc Picard did not fit the template of certain earlier captains of those starships named Enterprise. Unlike James Kirk, say, and Rachel Garrett, who had been known for their dynamic personalities, their unconventional command styles, and their willingness to defy their Starfleet masters, Picard was reputed to be a creature of rules and regulations. The first intelligence report on that encounter at the edge of the Neutral Zone characterized him as a strategist, a logician, a consensus-builder, but not as a charismatic leader. His crew was said to be loyal, but that loyalty consisted in an intellectual admiration rather than the fierce emotional allegiance that Kirk and Garrett had inspired. In fact, if one had not known better, one would have thought that Picard, as described in the report, was not a Terran commander but a Vulcan.
Nevertheless, he surprised us often enough with his quick thinking and innovative approach to both combat and diplomacy. And perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, some of our most vexing encounters with Picard were either provoked or deliberately engineered by that persistent thorn in the side of the Romulan Fleet, Sela.
Naturally enough, the Romulan Empire had long been at pains to undermine the alliance between the Federation and the Klingons. In theory, that task should have been easy. The two powers had nothing in common except, presumably, a shared hatred of Romulans. The Klingons--uncouth, volatile, and deeply xenophobic--viewed their Federation allies as they viewed us: with unconcealed contempt. But where the Romulan Empire had, in the end, been unable to stomach the Klingons' excesses, the Federation proved more tolerant. Their alliance maddeningly resisted all our efforts to subvert it.
Regardless, Sela, in particular, kept trying. In her last attempt, the failure of which had so annoyed Stilpa, she had sought to take advantage of the civil war on Qo'noS. Her scheme was a fragile construct built upon the sorry remnants of the treacherous Duras family--a construct that had crumbled to bits when Picard and his crew exposed the involvement of Sela's renegade faction, which had then broken and fled like terrified snarrath into the night.
That episode had finally put paid to her chances of advancement within the Romulan Fleet; but High Command, for all its hatred of the Tal Shiar and Sela's unauthorized involvement with it, would not risk dismissing her outright. Instead, her accomplices were charged, tried, and executed for their bad judgment, while she remained free. Sela occupied a kind of no-man's-land in the Fleet. She drew a salary, held a high rank, enjoyed all the privileges that a Fleet uniform afforded in a society that respected and honored its military. Yet she was not with us or of us, and no principled officer or soldier would consent to serve or even be seen with her. Her lackeys came from the ranks of those too stupid or too corrupt to retain their rank in the Fleet: she scooped them up when discharge or court-martial threatened and, with the tacit consent of High Command, which was glad to rid itself of troublemakers and placate Sela at the same time, turned them to her own use.
Her skill at controlling others through terror and stealth, a skill undoubtedly perfected with the help of the Tal Shiar, had gained her an effective power base. Nonetheless, in spite or perhaps because of her mysterious origins, Sela was very greatly concerned with her personal status. Whatever scheme she had devised with Stilpa to defeat the unificationists was certainly aimed, at least in part, at regaining her formal affiliation with the Fleet. But the Fleet's patience with her was exhausted, and, from the sound of things, the Tal Shiar's was growing thin. Stilpa had implied strongly that this plot to undermine Spock was Sela's last chance to make up for her earlier failures. Much was at stake for her, which could mean either that she had thought of every possible eventuality and made her plan watertight, or that stress and pressure would cause her to overlook a crucial point. With luck, the unexpected appearance on Romulus of her old enemy Picard would provide exactly the right degree of pressure ...
* * *
The news that Picard is bound for Romulus is sufficient to prod Pardek into action. "We're going to have to move you again, Spock," he says. "Picard could be here in days or even hours. The best thing to do is take you further underground. Hadrea, what about the safe house in Telampir? Is it a possibility?"
"No, not for a long-term stay." The frown now seems permanently etched on her face. "Why not the commune in Savaden?"
They go on discussing security arrangements, referring always to prefectures and provinces rather than specific cities. Spock says little, seemingly content to take direction; but I notice that the other two defer to him at every turn, waiting for his reaction after each suggestion is put forward. I listen with growing anxiety; in another moment they'll agree upon a destination--probably far offworld, if they have any brains--and he'll be gone again, gone forever, before I have a chance to tell him--
"I know a place," I say, surprising all of us.
"Ambassador?" Pardek looks as though he's just heard a table speak.
"I know a place. It's well secured, and it has a shuttle berth and a transporter pad. No one would ever dream of looking for Ambassador Spock there."
"That's ridiculous!" cries Hadrea, turning on me. "You must be mad to think we'd send him any place known to an officer of the Fleet! Why, we may as well hand him directly to --"
"Wait," says Pardek. "Just wait a moment. Ambassador Tayva, what is this location you have in mind?"
"A place you know, Senator." Understand, you traitorous fool, I will him silently. Don't make me say this aloud.
"What place? Where is it?" demands Hadrea.
I ignore her, waiting for Pardek to speak, conscious of Spock's eyes on me.
"It may be just the thing," Pardek says at last. "Yes, by the gods, it may be just the thing! Secure, that's certain. And a private transporter--oh, that would be a tremendous advantage--"
"What place?" Hadrea is nearly shouting.
Pardek ignores her question and addresses me: "This is very generous of you, Ambassador. Very generous indeed."
"Spock!" cries Hadrea. "You can't possibly approve of this! You mustn't trust her! You don't know where you're going! You're taking your life in your--"
"Senator Pardek." Spock's tone of voice makes us all turn towards him. "Is it your opinion that this accommodation is suitable in the circumstances?"
A firm nod. "Yes. Absolutely."
"Then we will proceed. Ambassador Tayva, I am at your disposal."
* * *
We stand near the crossroads of several pathways leading to the four gates of the university. Deep in conversation, we might be taken for a group of academics arguing a point of philosophy.
"Here are the master codes," I say, handing Pardek a datachip from my notecase. "Use them to lower the shields if you arrive before I do."
"Aren't you coming with us?"
"No. I have a few errands to run. I'll catch up with you later."
"Is there anything special we need to know?"
"Not much. You can use the code on that chip for emergency stepwise access to the transporter if necessary. I'll have to reconfigure it when I get there. It hasn't been used for a while."
"Understood. Oh, Ambassador--"
"Yes?"
"Is there--um--we seem to have missed our midday meal ..."
In one respect, at least, Pardek hasn't changed much over the years. "The food replicators are offline. You'll have to load the matrix stores before you can program them." I glance briefly in Spock's direction. "I daresay a Vulcan computer scientist should be able to assist you."
Spock inclines his head as if accepting a compliment. "We will manage," he says.
"I don't doubt it. If you need anything else, just look around till you find it and help yourselves. I'll join you as soon as I can."
Pardek dispatches a not very happy Hadrea to the movement's temporary headquarters in the maglev station, and instructs her to contact him as soon as any further intelligence regarding Picard is intercepted.
"May I accompany you as far as the tram line, Lady Hadrea?" I ask politely. I want desperately to be by myself and take stock of my situation; but I also need information, and Hadrea may be able to provide it.
"Do whatever you like. I don't care." Abrupt and ungracious: pulling any facts from her will be a task. For a moment we wait together, watching the retreating figures of Spock and Pardek. How they mean to reach their destination I have no idea, and don't really want to know.
Without a word, Hadrea turns and begins walking in the opposite direction, leaving me to keep up or not. Hiding my annoyance, I pace her as she hurries towards the west gate.
"Lady Hadrea," I say, "I wanted to ask you about--"
"It's a ship, isn't it?"
"What?"
"It's a ship!" She gives me a venomous look. "A shuttle berth, you said! A transporter! Shields! Replicators! You've sent them up to your own private ship, where they won't be able to escape from orbit, where they'll be easy targets for the shiar'rim or the Fleet or anyone else you care to betray them to!"
"I don't intend to betray them."
"Don't make me laugh! You, a ranking Fleet officer still, for all your diplomatic titles! What use do you have for peace? You live for war! You thrive on war! Without war you'd be useless, forgotten, all your glory gone--"
"That's untrue. I meant what I said last night--the Empire must eventually make peace with the Federation if it's to survive. Any fool can see that."
She quickens her pace to a near-run. "Oh, yes, any fool! And I suppose you think we're all fools to risk our lives for something more than peace--for reunification with Vulcan!"
Ah, you've got me there. "No, Hadrea. I don't think you're --"
"And now to send him up to a ship to await an ambush! What sorcery did you work on him? And on Pardek, that he would agree to such a thing without even stopping to take counsel? Without even stopping to think?" She sounds close to tears.
"They're not going to a ship. They're going to a place not far from here. Please believe me--Spock is safe, and he'll stay that way." I'll see to that, or die.
"Where?" She comes to a sudden stop and swings around to face me. "Where are they going?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
Because it's a matter of privacy. "Because it's a secure location, and the fewer people who know of it the better."
"This is wrong!" she cries. "He must know it's wrong! He's in danger! He'll be discovered, betrayed, lost to us forever--"
I study the pale, drawn face, the dark eyes gone even darker now with outrage and fear. Although I don't know this woman, I recognize her nonetheless: I see her every day in my own mirror, and I know that the "he" she speaks of so passionately is not Pardek.
"He'll be safe," I say, repressing a surge of anger, despair, and reluctant empathy. "I swear to you, Hadrea. On my life and my honor, he'll be safe."
* * *
We part in silence at the west gate. I haven't obtained any useful information, and the single truth I've stumbled upon is one I'd rather not know. But I can't stop to think about it now. Heedless of Venn's caution against the appearance of affluence, I make use of the university's public transporter platform. A few seconds of the familiar falling-soaring-falling sensation, and the hotel lobby solidifies around me.
I spend the next while packing my things, settling my bill, and returning the calls of a few friends who've heard of my arrival on Romulus. At least one thing has gone right today: no message from Stilpa is waiting for me.
At last, when I can think of nothing more that needs to be done, I proceed to the hotel's transporter platform. Telling myself that I'm acting solely out of concern for Spock's safety, I key in a set of coordinates.
* * *
The transporter sets me down at the edge of a wide, empty road. Rows of tall trees, their branches tinted silver-blue with fuzzy, tightly curled leaf buds, form an arching canopy above me. The late afternoon sun, still winter-weak in the shell-colored sky, filters through the branches, casting faint lacework shadows on the road. The countryside is nearly silent; it's still too cool for much birdsong, too warm for the buzz of winter-loving insects.
I open my kitbag, take out a small Fleet-issue disruptor, and set it to charge. When its tiny green telltale glows steadily, I tuck it into the belt of my tunic, within easy reach. Then I activate a tricorder and calibrate it with care. Turning in twenty-degree increments, I perform a slow and very thorough scan of my surroundings. When I'm certain that it's safe to proceed, I hang the tricorder over my shoulder and pick up my bags.
The walk is a short one, no more than five or six minutes. I take regular tricorder readings, just as I would do if I were exploring an unknown world with a landing party. But the territory is far from new: I've walked this path so often I could do it in my sleep. Have done it in my sleep, in fact. Just as I have no defense against memories of Spock, I can do nothing to prevent this place from appearing unbidden in my dreams.
I walk steadily on, willing myself to a state of detachment. When I judge the time right, I withdraw a keypad from my pocket and enter a series of commands. In the near distance above the treeline I see a brief shimmer of light; a little later in the year and it might easily be mistaken for heat lightning. Satisfied, I pick up my pace. There's no point in leaving the shields down any longer than necessary.
The paved road branches into a broad flagstone walkway that leads to a walled compound. I pause only a moment to take in the view; so long as I keep myself focused on my task, I'll be all right. Everything will be all right ... I hurry towards the tall ironwork gates that guard the main approach to the grounds and buildings. I'm about to enter the keycode that will activate the security override when my tricorder emits a sudden insistent beeping. I study its miniature readouts, then apply myself to the keycode again.
The hydraulic hinges are dry, the ancient metal fittings rusty; but as soon as I complete the code, the gates swing open on command. The tricorder's beeping grows faster and more urgent. I step inside the gates, then turn back to face the way I came. Beneath my cloak I hold the disruptor in readiness.
A small groundcar rounds the curve, moving at slow speed. Even without the tricorder I would have had adequate warning of its approach: people who can't afford transporter passage are unlikely to keep a car in good repair, and this one looks and sounds as though it's overdue by a century or two for a maintenance overhaul. I observe it for a moment; as soon as I'm able to confirm visually the identity of its two occupants, I engage the safety lock on the disruptor.
"Ambassador!" Pardek is at the controls, craning his neck and waving through the open window. I lift my hand in response, indicating with a gesture that he should drive the car behind the gates. He does so, and with some difficulty manages to unseal the doors and free himself and Spock from the cramped vehicle.
Spock retrieves his bags from the minuscule cargo compartment, then favors me with a Vulcan salute. "Greetings, Ambassador," he says courteously, but his eyes stray quickly from my face.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Pardek says, following Spock's gaze. "Now you understand why I didn't want to spoil the surprise."
I turn in the direction they're looking, wishing I could see through Spock's eyes. What does he make of this place, coming upon it for the first time? The building is recognizably Vulcan in its truncated tetrahedral architecture, yet wholly Romulan in its masonry and glass construction. And its pyramidal mass is silhouetted against no empty desert vastness here: though today we can see almost as far as the river, a month from now a dark blue forest in full leaf will nearly obscure the view from three sides of the structure.
Like every other building on Romulus, this one is designed to serve multiple purposes. A military officer might plan strategy with her colleagues in its hardened wardroom. A respected academic might hold colloquia with his students in its library. A father and mother might raise their three children in the warm, secure embrace of its family quarters ...
"Impressive," Spock agrees. "A private residence?"
"It is where I stay when I am on this world." Show me that you remember. Please, please remember ...
Nothing. No smile, no frown, not so much as a raised eyebrow. Just the merest suggestion of a nod, as if in polite acknowledgment of a question answered.
Pardek glances around him nervously. "Perhaps we'd better get those screens up," he says.
I close the gates behind us and reactivate the grid: another brief shimmer of light, and the entire compound is shielded from unwanted inspection and entry. "The shields can't defeat every scan," I say, anticipating Spock's question. "But an intruder would need access to a fairly sophisticated space-based sensor array. Only the Fleet can manage that at present, and we're not about to lend the technology to the Tal Shiar." Or to the traitor Pardek. "You'll be safe here, just as I promised."
"You'd be safe anyway," Pardek says. "No one would ever dream that Ambassador Tayva would open this place to guests."
Wordlessly, I motion the two men towards the building's entrance. Too late now to retract my impulsive offer of sanctuary. Too late for second thoughts, too late for regrets. Too late for everything, says the inner voice, and for once I can't bring myself to argue with it.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.