The sound of a ship's tocsin wakes me, strident warning of danger and death; the disruptor is activated and in my hand before I even remember where I am.
"Lights!" I shout. An overhead fixture flares to life, revealing nothing more threatening than the sparse furnishings of the house-manager's bedroom. I can imagine the picture I make: a trained soldier, disheveled and wide-eyed with terror, aiming a fully charged disruptor at the phantoms of the night. With shaking fingers I reset the safety lock on the weapon. "Gods of Remus," I mutter aloud, disgusted by my own foolishness.
In the few seconds it takes me to orient myself, the dream begins to fade. I can recall only the wail of an alarm and the sensation of falling, oddly weightless, into an abyss. An old nightmare, one that recurs predictably during times of stress. Don't think about it. Don't think.
I get out of bed, rearrange the bedclothes, and lie down again. "Lights out," I order. The room darkens. According to the terminal's glowing chrono, dawn is still an hour or more away; if I can get back to sleep, I may be able to face the day with some degree of alertness and competence. All I have to do is calm myself, relax, think of nothing, dream of nothing ...
* * *
An hour later I'm still wide awake, trying to devise a means of defeating Pardek's treachery, Picard's interference, and Spock's stubbornness. My neck and back are rigid with tension, and my head throbs. I have no drugs, and even if I did I wouldn't risk impairing my ability to reason. I've attempted, without result, every relaxation technique I know--except one, the simplest and most natural of them all.
It would be so easy to summon the explicit images refined during long years of solitude. So easy to trace a familiar path over my body with practiced hands. So easy to reach the pinnacle of arousal, to wait there a moment with held breath and closed eyes, remembering Spock's face, remembering his cry. So easy, then, to attain that moment of swift, mindless physical release, and at last the oblivion of sleep. But too often I've ended in tears, consumed with a heartsick longing for Spock--a lost, empty feeling that lingers for hours or even days afterward. And now, for reasons I don't want to name, I'm more afraid than ever to invoke the fantasy.
So I have two choices. I can get up and make a start to the day, or I can lie here in bed, restless and confused, tying my mind into knots while trying to outthink the Tal Shiar, the Federation, and Spock of Vulcan.
Or I can choose a third alternative--confront the recurrent nightmare and carry out a duty that I ought to have attended to long ago.
The circumstances are right: Pardek is surely gone by now, and Spock is asleep at the other end of the house. Even if I encounter one of them, I can say that I only want a folio from the library so that I can read myself to sleep. No one will ever know ...
Just before I leave the bedroom, I tuck the disruptor into the pocket of my nightdress. Even on so private an errand as this, I'm not willing to take unnecessary chances.
* * *
The slate floor is cold under my bare feet, but I can't be bothered to go back for my sandals. I cross the atrium quickly, not pausing to look up at the dawn sky. If I stop for anything, I might think twice about completing the task I've set myself.
The house is silent and dim, illuminated only by safety beams in hallways and along staircases. I don't need their light. I could find my way in pitch blackness, blindfolded.
I pass the library and continue down the corridor. From beneath the door of the sacrarium comes a faint glow: the votive lights are still burning. I reach out for the latch, intending to free it, and find the door already open a crack. Someone is inside.
Possibilities flash through my mind. It can't be Pardek or Spock, and no servant or worker has been in this house for years. That leaves only an intruder, who must somehow have penetrated the security field and gained entry the old-fashioned way, through a window --
Scarcely breathing, I activate the disruptor and dial a lethal setting.
In a single quick movement I aim a vicious kick at the door and sight my weapon squarely at the back of the intruder's head. But before I can shout any command or threat, the dark figure swings around to face me, its hands raised in the universal gesture of nonaggression.
"Hold your fire, Ambassador," says a deep voice. "It is I."
I hear the words, I recognize the shadowed face, and still I keep my weapon trained on its target. "Spock," I say, as if to reassure myself that I've identified him correctly.
"I regret that I startled you. I thought you had retired for the night."
"I thought you'd done the same." I deactivate the disruptor and lay it carefully on a small table. "You're lucky I didn't fire straight through the door."
He lowers his hands and casts a sideways glance at the weapon. "Indeed."
"What are you doing here?" It's obvious that he's just gotten out of bed. His face is unshaven, his hair is uncombed, and I can see his bare feet beneath his sleeping-robe. Nonetheless, his dignity remains intact. I picture my own tangled hair, my carelessly fastened nightdress, and know that I can't say the same for myself. "Did you want something to read from the library? It's just down the hall--"
"I know. I was not in search of reading material. I came here to meditate."
"I see. Well, this room is conducive to reflection. If you'll excuse me--"
"Ambassador, please don't go."
His voice stops me as surely as his hand would have. Not that there's any expression in it: only the words themselves evidence some need unfilled.
"Is there something you require?" Reserved, courteous, a householder concerned for her guest's welfare, nothing more.
"I also wanted-- I wished to honor a member of your family, in the manner of your people. Call it a--a duty of conscience."
"A member of my family?" Whatever I might have expected or hoped for, this isn't it. "Forgive me, but I don't understand."
Spock opens the taboret, examines the tray of holocrystals, and extracts one. When I make no objection, he presses it into the mosaic.
The image of a handsome Romulan soldier appears--grey eyes alight with laughter, mouth curved in a self-mocking grin, hand raised as though in salute to the camera. The likeness was always a favorite of mine: it was captured at a family nameday festival, and I hadn't hesitated in choosing it when the time came to honor Tal's memory. Spock must have identified the crystal and taken note of its placement while we were here with Pardek. But why? And how can Spock, of all people, justify such an invasion of my privacy?
"Why are you doing this?" I manage finally. "Tal was no friend of yours."
Spock turns to face me. "Nevertheless, I am in his debt."
"In his debt? You owe a debt of gratitude to the gods that your path never crossed his! He would have killed you, or worse, for what you--for what you and Kirk did!"
Silence. Then, in a gesture wholly uncharacteristic of him, Spock holds out his hands as if in supplication. "Commander Tal stood by your side," he says in a low monotone, "as I did not. He bound himself to you, as I did not. He protected you, as I did not." Letting his hands fall, he looks away from me. "As I could not."
My brain, slowed by fatigue and stress, is forced to process his words one by one before comprehension dawns. When it does, the sound of my indrawn breath makes Spock turn his head sharply.
"Aerlyn," he says, and his voice is no longer without expression. "Do you understand me?"
Understand, beloved. Understand and forgive me ...
"I thought you'd forgotten," I say in a voice I don't recognize as my own. "I thought you didn't know me. Not as--as anything other than an enemy from long ago."
"Not know you--how could you think I would not know you?"
Because you tried to erase me from your life on the plains of Gol, and because I imagined the worst of T'Lar and all the adepts of Seleya. But that conversation is for another time. "You gave no sign. Even when I--you gave no sign."
"Nor did you. I could not be sure whether you wanted me to speak of those days."
"That's not true! I gave you every chance to speak while we were alone in the museum!"
"You revealed nothing. I was unable to read your expression."
"When we came to this house--I tried to make you remember--"
"Yes. But Pardek was present, and I--I was afraid I would compromise you somehow." He lifts his hands in that same oddly suppliant gesture; then, as if he realizes how that looks, he quickly clasps them behind his back. "And in fact I've done just that by coming here. I should never have agreed to this plan. I promise you that I'll leave after daybreak."
We stand facing each other across the chasm of a lifetime. I can feel tears gathering in my throat, a tight knot of longing. In a moment my precarious control will be gone, and if I follow my instincts I'll disgrace myself beyond redemption. "You said you owed Tal a duty of conscience," I say, trying to maintain my composure. "Perhaps you should carry out that duty now." I offer Spock one of the little arc lights. Wordlessly he accepts it, kindles it, and sets it next to the others. Then he turns his back to me and faces the image that hangs shimmering in midair. Whatever Vulcan reverence he offers is given in silence, and at length: minutes pass before he reaches for the water vial.
"No," I say.
"I beg your pardon. I understood that was how the ritual ended --"
"It is. Only--I too came here to perform a duty of conscience." Mistake, warns a distant voice. Not now. Not yet. But if Spock leaves this house as he's threatening to do, I may never have another private conversation with him.
"If you wish to be alone--" he begins, but the sudden shrill wail of an alarm interrupts him. I'm across the room and out the door in less than an instant; by the time I reach the small utility console in the hallway, Spock is only half a step behind me.
Scanning the readout, I silence the noise. "It's all right," I say, reassuring us both. "It's just the outside commlink on allcall. Don't let yourself be seen. It may be someone other than Pardek."
"Agreed." He moves to the side of the console, out of visual range. When I hit the answer key, Pardek's face--unsmiling, for once--appears.
"Good morning, Ambassador. Did I wake you? If so, I apologize."
"What is it, Pardek?"
"I have news for Spock."
"I am here," says Spock, stepping into view.
Pardek's eyes widen. No doubt this is the first time he's seen an uncombed, unshaven Spock wearing only a sleeping-robe. "Good morning, Spock. I've just come from Proconsul Neral's office."
"At this hour?" Spock says, frowning. "What did he want?"
"He says he's received notification that Picard is here. The civil authorities are looking for him now. But if the shiar'rim find him first--"
"You must locate him at once." An instantaneous flash of the anger I saw last night, gone as quickly as it came.
"I've alerted our people. Hadrea has created a simulation showing how he might appear disguised as one of us. This won't be easy, though. We have no way of knowing where to look."
"Begin with the Krocton," says Spock. "Starfleet will have done its research. Can you obtain a professional-grade medical tricorder? Not every biochemical signature can be altered, and if the instrument is sensitive enough--"
"I'll get hold of one."
"Tell Hadrea that Picard is almost certainly wearing a language implant, so if they encounter anyone who resembles him they must listen closely for generated syntactical asymmetry. That should also be of some help."
Pardek nods. "I'm off now. I'll be in touch as soon as I can."
"One thing more," says Spock. "I believe it would be best if I left the ambassador's residence and relocated elsewhere."
"What? Why? Are you in danger? Has something happened?"
"No. Nevertheless, I--"
"Then you must stay where you are, Spock. You couldn't be in a safer place. Ambassador Tayva, I can't tell you how much we appreciate--"
Before Pardek can finish his speech I disconnect the call and round on Spock. "I told you so! I warned you that Pardek was in league with Neral! Now do you believe me? Do you understand why you have to get off this planet now?"
He stands looking down at me, his face and eyes unreadable. "Will you come with me?"
It takes me a few seconds to grasp his meaning. "Yes," I say, as my anger drains away. "Yes, of course I will."
The sacrarium has grown a little brighter in the dawn light. I deactivate Tal's image and hand the vial of water to Spock. He wets his fingers, shakes a few droplets on the arc light, and murmurs something in Vulcan; though I strain to hear, I can't quite catch the words.
Myself, I have no plea left to make to Tal or anyone else, no blessing left to ask or give. I wait in silence until Spock is finished.
"Shall we extinguish the light?" he asks in a low voice. "Or leave it burning?"
"Leave it with the others. The power cells will last a few tendays."
"You said that you too came here for a reason--"
Mistake, insists the inner voice, and this time I heed its warning. "I'll attend to it later," I say. "Right now I have other matters to worry about."
"Aerlyn, we must talk--"
Experience has taught me the true meaning of those words. I think of the eternity we've been apart, I think of Hadrea, and suddenly I know that whatever Spock is about to say won't be what I want to hear. "Not now. I have things to do." I retrieve the disruptor from the table and slip it into the pocket of my nightdress.
"Indeed. What things?"
"Why, I have to--to--" I wave my hand vaguely towards the door. "I have responsibilities." Though I can't think what they are at the moment.
"Then before you discharge them I suggest that we at least break our fast."
And if I ignore such a request from a houseguest, I dishonor him and myself. "All right," I say with a sigh. "I suppose we can replicate some porridge and a pot of senf. You should eat something before you leave Romulus."
Spock allows that last remark to pass without comment.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.