Pardek stands in the middle of the atrium, wide-eyed and gaping, as if he's never been in this house before. Beside him Spock waits, his kitbags at his feet, his hands clasped behind his back. It's obvious that I'm supposed to be directing these proceedings, which means that I'm supposed to be thinking rationally. Then may the gods help us all.
I know that my most important task is to change the codes that govern the shields around the house and grounds. I wasn't happy about giving the datachip to Pardek, and now I'm eager to get things back under my own control. But first I have to do something about Spock.
"The guest bedrooms are up that far staircase," I tell him. "You may as well take the first one on your right. It has a workstation and a private lavatory." I don't add that it's separated by two floors and a maze of passageways from the room in which I intend to sleep: temptation is easiest to resist when you aren't stumbling over it every time you get up to get a drink of water. "Senator Pardek, you know where the kitchen is. I'll meet you there in a few minutes."
These arrangements seem to suit; or, if they don't, no one says so. I leave Spock and Pardek gazing up at the peeling fresco that dominates one wall of the atrium--a classical representation of the goddess Caltha, her face solemn and her hair wild, brandishing a fiery sword in one hand and a gilded scroll in the other. The personification of Retributive Justice, she is at once avenger and impartial judge. It's said that her memory for wrongdoers is as long as eternity; if so, I hope she's getting a good close look at Pardek's face.
* * *
Too late for everything ... I make my way purposefully through rooms and hallways, trying not to look around me or think about anything other than my immediate duty. By the time I reach the wardroom where the security console is located, my mind is focused entirely on the job at hand.
"Lights," I order. "Display." The room brightens, and a holoscreen descends obediently from its hidden recess. "Modify security settings."
"Authorization," says the console.
I recite a series of letters and numbers, then wait until a retinal scanner confirms my identity.
"Proceed," says the console.
I allow myself a small sigh of relief: it's been a long while since I've interacted with the system, and I was half afraid that some time-expiry safeguard would prevent me from altering the program. Working as quickly as I can, I trace the boundaries of grounds and airspace on the holoscreen, devising and memorizing new codes for each sector until the entire property is secured and Pardek's datachip rendered useless. When that task is finished, I reconfigure the transporter codes and download everything to a new chip--one only, for Spock, in case he should have need of it in an emergency.
No security override is necessary to activate the environmental controls. With a few keystrokes and spoken commands, stasis fields lift, air intake and exhaust systems come online, servo bays and thermal equilibrators energize themselves. In a little while the house will be a functioning entity, sustaining the lifeforms within it. The place has a purpose again.
I stow my boots, cloak, and bags in the small adjoining suite that once belonged to my parents' house-manager. My fingers come to rest on the disruptor at my waist; I weigh several options briefly, then decide to leave the weapon where it is. Satheil and Tor would be appalled at the idea of my going about armed within these walls, but so long as Spock is here I'm obliged to keep him safe. I'll see to that, or die.
A sound from the console makes me turn around. Not a warning, merely a notification: one more system has come online, enabled from a location on the ground level. Just as I predicted, a Vulcan computer scientist has found Romulan food-replicator technology an easily surmountable challenge.
* * *
The familiar walk to the kitchen, not nearly as long as it seemed in childhood. Eyes focused at an angle that preserves peripheral vision yet blurs the fragments of memory that hang on walls and stand in niches. A brief pause before a closed door, a decisive downward pull on the latch. The door opens with only a small complaint.
Spock and Pardek are seated across from each other at the old stone refectory table, deep in conversation. At the sound of the door they turn and, seeing me, rise.
"Setri haleth," I murmur. Literally, A happy day; but the elided formal Romulan is more closely rendered as Your presence brings joy to this day. The greeting, traditionally offered by a householder to her guests, is so often repeated that the words themselves have become meaningless; certainly I can find little joy in welcoming anyone to the empty, cheerless house that is, in law but not in spirit, mine. Nevertheless, the habits of domestic ritual reassert themselves easily. I take a stoneware jug and three cups from the high cupboard near the east window--exactly where they're supposed to be, where they've always been. Then I open the stasis cap on the water-cooler and fill the jug to the brim. Spock and Pardek watch as I pour water into the cups and hand them around. The cooler hasn't been activated long enough to chill its contents properly, but the stasis seal has held, and the water tastes fresh and sweet. The three of us empty our cups.
A moment of silence; Pardek surreptitiously checks his timepiece. "I see it's gone quarter-evening," he says hopefully.
Do they starve him at home? Evidently his wife doesn't pine for his company at the dinner-hour, for he obviously intends to settle in here for the duration. I can't think of a civil way to dismiss him, so I watch glumly as, with very little help from me, he and Spock replicate a few dishes whose appearance is more or less vegetarian.
When the meal is ready, I see to it that a single place setting is arranged on one side of the table, two settings on the other. Before anyone else can choose his seat, I stand behind the single chair; the last thing I want to do is put myself within easy touching distance of Spock.
My two guests are waiting for me to speak the ritual invocation. But if they think I'm going to offer a reprise of Hadrea's impious recital, they're mistaken. Beneath this roof the same thanksgiving has been recited since Planetfall, and I won't be responsible for breaking the tradition. I close my eyes and lift my hands, palms curved in the shape of an offering-plate.
"Golden land," I say, in a strong, steady voice, "chosen land. Strewn with flowers, mirrored with oceans, ornamented with suns and moons. I offer this pure land, held precious by gods and mortals. I offer all the virtues of the three times, past, present, and future, all enjoyments of body, speech, and mind of myself and these others, to all the assembly of gods. May they accept this offering for the sake of all sentient beings, and in their great compassion grant us their blessing." I lower my hands, sit down, and raise the water-glass to my lips. Now the meal, such as it is, can begin.
* * *
I'm well past feeling dismay or astonishment at the absurdity of the situation: from the moment Spock walked up to me in the museum, nothing has gone as I hoped it would. That he and I and Pardek should be together here, in a house I haven't seen in years, eating and talking in the kitchen as if we were members of one family, is surely the most bizarre occurrence of the day. And the day isn't over yet.
The single topic of discussion is Captain Picard's mission and how it might unfold. Pardek seems confident that Picard will fail to penetrate the secrecy that surrounds the unificationist movement.
"Nevertheless, he will be in danger from the moment of his arrival," says Spock. "Whatever ruse he adopts to conceal himself will very quickly be exposed."
Pardek frowns. "I suppose we could allow him to make contact with us. We'll say you've gone to--oh, I don't know, to Barol, maybe--and you're not coming back here. And then see to it that he gets offworld safely."
"You'd better tell your story well," I put in. "From what I've heard of him, Picard isn't easily duped. Or diverted from his chosen course of action." In fact, my colleague Commander Tomalak's recent reports have phrased that assessment much more trenchantly.
"What puzzles me," says Pardek, "is why they would risk the safety of such a high-ranking officer. Surely they have trained operatives more experienced in espionage."
"They have their reasons," says Spock.
"What reasons? Do they imagine the name 'Enterprise' will sway you somehow?"
Spock says nothing.
"Then is there the slightest chance that Picard could be made to see the value of your presence here? That he could speak out on our behalf to the Federation Council?"
"Unlikely," says Spock. "We have to assume that the Council will be most concerned with the wishes of the Vulcan planetary government. In view of recent events, the government will view a peace initiative with the greatest mistrust, and not only because of Ambassador T'Pel's exposure." The conversation turns to the baffling domestic politics of Vulcan, my opinions on which would probably go unappreciated in present company. I take the opportunity to satisfy my hungry curiosity as discreetly as I can.
Following my example and Pardek's, Spock has hung his outer tunic over the back of his chair. His shirtsleeves are rolled up above his elbows, and the narrow collar of his shirt is open. He's gained both muscle and mass over the years; the change suits his height and bearing, and lends him a certain gravitas that I find very becoming. I try not to imagine what it might feel like to put my arms around him, to lay my head against his shoulder.
His face is impassive, as always. But to one who knows how and where to look, fatigue is written there, and strain--and, in the set of his jaw and the thin, tense line of his lips, anger. Why anger? At what or whom is it directed? Not at Pardek, that's certain; in fact--and despite my warnings--I can sometimes discern the suggestion of a smile around his eyes when Pardek speaks to him. And not at me, or so I hope; whenever his gaze meets mine, I see only a detached, polite interest.
I dare not look at his face for very long. Far safer to study the movement of his hands as he eats and drinks, just as I often did when we were together. So graceful, those hands; so elegant, those long, clever fingers--
The sudden memory is explicit and overwhelming, impossible to defend against. His fingers at my temples, seeking and finding the meld points. The mindlink a charged current flowing between us, feeding back every thought, every sensation. His voice in my mind, tender and urgent: Are you sure this is what you want? And my hands moving on his face, deepening the link, my body moving against his body ... Don't stop. I will die if you stop.
Once, he would have sensed what was happening to me. At so near a distance, no more than an arm's reach across the table, the fire of my sudden arousal would have quickly engulfed him, burning hotter and brighter in the mindlink until it consumed and transformed us both. But now, when I stand up and excuse myself with scant courtesy and no explanation, he looks only mildly startled by the sudden scrape of metal chair legs against the tiled floor. When I leave--or, more truthfully, flee from--the kitchen, his conversation with Pardek continues uninterrupted.
I hide myself in the first secure place I come to: a small office at the end of the corridor, once used for the storage of records and the payment of accounts. The door closes silently behind me, and I lean against it, half-collapsing, eyes shut tight, heart pounding painfully in my side. At this moment I want Spock with everything that's in me: I would give my life to hold him in my arms, my soul to touch his mind. The helpless aching rush of physical desire is bad enough, but the emotional longing is devastating. My legs are shaking, ready to buckle: I let myself sink to the floor, back against the door, knees drawn up to my chin. Hiding my face in my crossed arms, I weep without words, without thought, without sound; only with a desperate, starving hunger for everything that I want and can't have. But beneath the firestorm of pain and desire, a small voice of reason is struggling to be heard. Eventually, inevitably, it succeeds: Too many shocks at once. Seeing Spock. Returning to this house. You can overcome this. Control. Control!
I draw in a ragged breath, sit up straight, push damp strands of hair back from my face. With a punishing effort of will, I get to my feet and dry my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt. How long have I been gone from the kitchen? Soon even the doltish Pardek will become aware of my absence; he and Spock might begin to wander the corridors, searching.
That thought gets me moving. Across the hall is the cooks' lavatory, where an old, discolored mirror plainly shows the damage I've done to myself. My legs are still shaking as I wash my face and smooth back my hair with wet hands. Where did those bitter tears spring from so suddenly? I haven't cried in years. Not since Argo, at any rate--when McCoy, with his innocent human cruelty, breached my carefully constructed defenses. Don't, says the voice. Don't think of it. Don't think-- Deciding that don't think is a wise maxim to live by, I empty my mind of all thought except the safe, familiar mantra: Feel nothing. Reveal nothing. I've failed to accomplish the first objective, but I might still achieve the second. I compose my face and body as best I can, square my shoulders, and return to my guests.
* * *
Spock and Pardek have finally, or perhaps temporarily, exhausted the topic of Captain Picard's mission. When I open the kitchen door, I find the table cleared, the dishes neatly arranged for processing in the cycler, and Pardek holding forth on the history of my family's house as though he is entitled to do so.
"Ah, Ambassador," he says, evidently seeing nothing unusual in my appearance. "There you are. I was just saying that this house is quite a remarkable example of early post-Planetfall architecture. I told Spock he should ask you for a tour."
Pardek must know that such a suggestion amounts to an invitation issued to Spock on my behalf. He's left me no choice; courtesy requires that I honor the offer. Sighing inwardly, I turn to Spock: "If you'd like to see the rest of the house, it would please me to show it to you."
"I admit that Senator Pardek's description of the library intrigues me. And the music room--"
For a moment our eyes meet. Long ago he shared my memories of that music room, of my sister Torryn at the chimeboard ... Oh, beloved, how can you not remember? The psionic plea rises up with such force that I'm afraid I might have spoken aloud. But I haven't: Spock regards me with nothing more than his usual grave equanimity.
"Splendid," says Pardek. "May I suggest that we start with the dining-hall?"
* * *
The exploration of the house takes almost an hour, mostly because my guests find every room, every architectural detail, every view deeply and interminably fascinating. The old family wing is off-limits for reasons of privacy; but even with that omission the "tour," as Pardek insists on calling it, drags on.
I'm miserable in my role as docent. Where Spock and Pardek read Romulan history in every crumbling frieze, every faded and mended wall-hanging, I see only the shell of a house that was once a home. By the time we reach the library, I'm trembling with the effort at control. Fortunately, this is one room in which my descriptive narrative isn't needed. Spock looks as though he could lose himself for days in the untidy stacks of paper-leaved, cloth-bound books and folios collected by my father over many decades. Pardek, his attention captured by a formal portrait of my parents, has also fallen silent--but not, as it turns out, for the same reason as Spock.
"Ambassador," Pardek says at last, "so long as we're here, I wonder if I might--if you have no objection--" His mouth is working as though a strong emotion threatens to get the better of him.
"No objection to what?"
"I thought--perhaps I might visit the sacrarium. On behalf of my family."
I stare at him in surprise. Coward and betrayer he may be, but perhaps he isn't yet entirely devoid of a sense of duty--and even a shred of honor. "I have no objection," I say, softening my tone considerably.
Has Spock caught the change in my voice? Or does he recognize Pardek's request for what it is? Impossible to tell; yet his attention is suddenly fixed on me.
"I would welcome an opportunity to remain here," Spock says, "and study this collection further."
So he knows, then. And with a tactful courtesy worthy of a Romulan, he has just offered us privacy. With equal courtesy, I reject the offer. "You will honor me," I say evenly, "if you accompany us." Let him see what his precious Federation has done to Romulus, and to this house, and to me.
A short walk down the hall, through a door. To an outworlder this is nothing more than a reading-room, an adjunct to the library--a quiet retreat furnished with worn couches and old-fashioned lamps. But any Romulan would understand its true function.
Given the age of the house and its general state of neglect, the mosaic that covers the longest wall is in surprisingly good shape. The chips of colored glass and stone, accented with burnished metal leaf, gleam softly in the lamplight; the odd patch or seam that indicates a repair--or, in more recent decades, a holomodification--is barely visible. Created only a century or two after Planetfall, the mosaic combines pre-Reform Vulcan iconography with the images of Romulan fates and tutelaries, latecomers to the pantheon. Taken by itself, it's an uncommonly fine example of early Remish design and craftsmanship. But its main purpose is far from decorative. Neither an altar nor a reliquary, the mosaic--indeed, the sacrarium as a whole-- is a family shrine in the truest sense: planetary and household deities are honored here, but so are all the mortals who by virtue of blood or marriage have dwelt under their protection in this house.
Pardek and Spock watch in silence as I open the drawer of a taboret and withdraw a handful of small ceramic cylinders, a sealed vial of water, and a tray filled with data crystals--varicolored and irregularly shaped, mimicking the appearance of mosaic glass.
A single crystal pressed into the mosaic, just so, and a holographic image flickers to life. Another crystal, another image. Then another, and another, and one more. Next, a finger-touch on a ceramic cylinder, activating its miniature arc light. A light for every image, placed securely in the grooved rail beneath the mosaic, as each prayer is offered.
It occurs to me briefly that I may not be able to get through this. An hour ago I was huddled weeping, wracked by longing for all that was lost to me, unable to gain control over body or mind. How, then, to perform this office, marking still more losses? But the ritual--simple, informal, and virtually unchanged over millennia--has the unexpected effect of steadying my nerves. All these losses are in the past, accounted for, accommodated if not accepted; they don't stand close enough that I can almost hear their breathing, catch their remembered scent, feel their living warmth. So I recite the familiar invocations calmly, half-thinking and half-whispering the words.
By rights the arc lights should be candles, but in a house where no one is available to sit vigil, artificial votives must suffice. Similarly, the vial of water should be used to extinguish the candles at the end of a vigil. When I've finished the recitations I unseal the vial, wet my fingertips, and make a token gesture of aspersion; the lights will continue burning safely until someone deactivates them. I step away from the mosaic so that Pardek can take my place.
He murmurs softly to himself as he kindles and places one arc light after another. I go to the far end of the room to stand beside Spock, and, in a voice low enough not to distract Pardek from his prayers, begin to tally for him the ruin of my family.
"My mother Satheil," I say, indicating the uppermost image on the left. "My father Tor next to her. They and my sister Torryn--there, just below them--were killed on Acthariet, in the first Federation raid before Tomed. My parents were on holiday, visiting Torryn and her family. My brother Darius is there at the lower left. He was commanding the battlecruiser Telamon near Station Tomed when Excelsior and its allies destroyed his ship." I can feel Spock watching me, but I dare not look directly at him. "And there, beside Darius, one whose face you may remember."
"Subcommander Tal," Spock says in a voice as quiet as my own.
"Commander Tal. Jascha, my husband."
Silence. Attentive, waiting silence.
"He was in command of Adjuvant, the Fleet's flagship. When Excelsior was finished with Telamon, it turned on Adjuvant, its true prey. Jascha was able to hold his position until reinforcements arrived, but he was injured in the battle. The healers did what they could--" I swallow, hating myself for that visible sign of weakness. "He died before Adjuvant reached the homeworld."
More silence. Then, at last, in Vulcan: "I grieve with thee." And in Romulan: "I share your sorrow, Ambassador."
I meet and hold Spock's impassive gaze. I'm no more than a breath, a thought, a touch away from clasping his hand in mine and letting him feel--making him feel--all that's within me at this moment. But Pardek has completed his devotions; he sprinkles the little arc lights with water, then turns and glances towards me. Seeing my nod of permission, he removes the holocrystals from the mosaic. The images of my family disappear.
"Ambassador Tayva's family is distantly connected to mine," Pardek says to Spock as he replaces the crystals in their tray. "So many branches of the old houses were wiped out during and after Tomed that--well, those of us who are left try to keep up the traditions. This is the first time I've been here since--oh, for many years. It was past time for me to pay my respects."
Pardek looks as distraught as I feel; no doubt the ritual has reawakened memories of the relatives and friends he himself lost at Tomed. Telling myself that he's still--and, from the look of things, indefinitely--a guest in my house, I do what any honorable host would do: "Senator Pardek, I believe there is a small reserve of Saurian brandy in the wine-pantry. Will you and Ambassador Spock honor me by taking a glass?"
He brightens immediately. "That's very thoughtful of you, Ambassador."
Spock, expressionless as ever, inclines his head in acceptance. But my overwrought imagination insists that I see something more in his eyes: understanding, even gentleness ... His gaze shifts towards Pardek and then quickly back to me: "Thank you, Ambassador," he says. "Your invitation is indeed most kind."
* * *
The single glass of brandy hits me with the force of a plasma mortar; I have to make an effort to keep my eyes open and hold my body upright in its chair. Spock and Pardek, apparently unaffected by the brandy, have returned to their favorite topics--Picard, reunification, and the merits of Surak's philosophy. The discussion progresses from circular to beyond elliptical and well into fractal. I long for sleep, but courtesy requires that I stay with my guests until they leave or retire. Since neither of them shows the slightest sign of doing either, I'm a prisoner in my own kitchen.
I sit there for another hour, knowing I can't stay awake much longer. Yet I need to be alone with Spock for a moment--and not for the purpose I might wish.
I wait until Pardek finally excuses himself to visit the lavatory; then I remove the security datachip from my pocket. "Here," I say, handing the chip to Spock. "This contains the codes for the perimeter shields, emergency transport, and all the house systems. Do you require instruction in its use?"
He examines the chip and runs his finger quickly over the data sectors. "No," he says.
"Good. When Pardek's wife summons him, if she ever does, let him out. Then raise the shields and seal the door. I regret the breach of manners, but I must go to bed."
"There is no need to apologize," he says, studying my face. "I am aware that we have imposed upon your hospitality."
"Take this too." I remove the disruptor from my belt. "The house is as secure as I can make it, but the shiar'rim have a way of slinking through cracks. You must guard yourself at all times."
"Unnecessary." The word is spoken gently, but with an undertone that suggests that any argument will be futile.
"A matter of pacifist principle?"
The faintest of shrugs. "If you like." Eyes still on my face, curious now, assessing.
"I don't. But it doesn't matter. You'll just have to rely on me for protection." I resecure the weapon at my waist. "Set the console in your bedroom for allcall. That way you can reach me at any time if you need me."
No answer. Just that same dark gaze, that vaguely questioning tilt of the head.
The door opens; Pardek comes bustling in, looking wide awake and enthusiastic. "Spock," he begins, "I've been thinking. There's always a chance that Picard might--oh, forgive me, Ambassador Tayva. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You haven't," I lie, far too weary to care that he has. I say goodnight to my guests with what little courtesy I can muster. They resume their conversation before the kitchen door closes behind me.
* * *
Barely aware of what I'm doing, I find my way to my chosen bedroom. I peel away layers of clothing, leaving them to lie where they fall on the floor. After the sonic shower cleanses me for an amount of time that may or may not be sufficient to the task, I rummage blindly in my kitbag for a nightdress and collapse exhausted on the narrow bed. Tomorrow I'll accomplish all that I've failed to do today. Make Spock understand the mortal danger he faces. Persuade him to leave Romulus for good. And find a way to deal with the knowledge that although we might--for the short term, at least--eat and sleep and live under one roof, we will never be together again.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.