We must talk. Of course Spock was right: we should be asking and answering important questions, questions that go to the core of lives and secret hearts--Who are you now? What have you experienced? Are you well? Are you happy?--and finally giving voice to the lament, the accusation, that underlies them all: Why did you abandon me? Why did you not move the heavens to find me? But I can't face the revelations that are sure to follow. Hadrea's image appears again in my mind, and this time I see her through Spock's eyes: a devotee of peace, a believer in reunification, a loyal and kindred spirit--and a far better match for the second Surak than, say, a skeptical, jaded, and willful officer of the Romulan Fleet ...
In any case, Spock seems to have taken my earlier rebuff to heart. His manner, though courteous enough, is cool and reserved; the momentary intimacy we shared in the sacrarium is gone.
Nevertheless, we are, after a fashion, talking.
"I was in the Congeries," I say. "On Ferenginar, leading a trade mission. I was granted indefinite secondment leave when the shiar'rim summoned me home. High Command probably felt it had no choice, given the circumstances."
"You are a diplomat, yet you still hold your military commission. That suggests a conflict of interest." Spock finishes the last spoonful of his porridge and observes me calmly, as though waiting to see whether his debating opponent will win the point.
"Diplomacy and warfare are the opposite ends of a continuum. More than half the members of the Romulan diplomatic corps are soldiers, active or retired. Military service is thought to provide superior training in strategic planning ..." My mouth goes on opening and closing: I only hope that what's coming out of it makes enough sense to convince Spock that I'm functioning normally. My consciousness feels barely tethered to my body--an alien lifeform floating above the table, watching curiously as an unkempt, barefoot creature in a nightdress trades inanities with a similarly disheveled man seated across from her. A man who, unlike his interlocutor, doesn't have to feign self-assurance.
Why did I ever imagine that my version of the Vulcan control techniques was anything more than a crude approximation of the real thing? I'm accomplished enough at hiding and, when necessary, repressing an unwelcome or inconvenient emotion; that skill is essential to diplomacy, not to mention self-preservation. But Spock can control--not merely conceal--such a feeling, just as he tried to teach me to do all those years ago: Observe it, accept it, move beyond it. His perfect discipline will always prevail: that which can't be changed will be acknowledged, meditated upon, and integrated, all with the correct degree of detachment and equanimity. My hovering consciousness looks down at his tousled head, unable to decide whether it despises or envies the powerful force of will housed therein.
Still, I know better than anyone that he was once capable of empathy and compassion, qualities that balanced and informed his relentless Vulcan logic. Unless he's changed beyond recognition, those attributes must still exist, must still draw people to him. I think of the scholarly young man who attempted to enlighten me in the matter of civil disobedience, and his litany of praise: Spock says, Spock says, Spock says.
The memory makes me smile, and my consciousness returns to my body with a jolt when Spock's eyes meet mine in quizzical response.
"My analysis of Romulan interstellar policy has caused some people to yawn in my face," he says mildly. "But no one has ever found it amusing."
"It isn't that. I was just thinking."
Of what? The unspoken words hang in the air between us. But while a Romulan might ask the question, a Vulcan never would.
"Spock," I say, "I want to ask you something."
"Please do."
"Why did you come to Romulus without the Federation's authority behind you? Your followers here have no power or influence. Why are you so eager to sacrifice your life for a cause that's already lost?"
His answer is delivered with the quick fluency of a speech long rehearsed and often repeated: "Pardek urged me to come. He said that Proconsul Neral was mobilizing a reform-minded caucus in the Senate, and that he judged the time right for an initiative that will eventually lead to reunification. He believes that my presence will improve its chance of success."
I bite back the retort I want to make. It won't do any good to browbeat Spock about Pardek and Neral--I've already warned him of their treachery several times over, and he's ignored me each time. "Even if that were true," I say, "you didn't have to come here in person. You could have opened a dialogue through normal diplomatic channels, or through Pardek himself. But this" --I have to search for the Standard phrase--"this cloak-and-dagger business of safe houses and secret cadres--it isn't the Vulcan style. It isn't your style. Or at least it wasn't."
A lifted eyebrow. "'Cloak'? And 'dagger'?"
"Listen to me, Spock. It's not too late. I have many friends in High Command. I can put you on a scoutship and get you safely to the edge of the Neutral Zone. From there you can board a Barolian transport, and be home by--"
"No," he says, quietly obstinate. "I must finish what I've begun." He gets up and carries his cup and bowl to the cycler. When I move to do the same, he takes the dishes from me. Although his fingertips brush the side of my hand, I can sense nothing of his mental or emotional state.
"Why must you be so stubborn?" I manage to keep my voice down with an effort. "The mere fact that Pardek asked you to come here doesn't mean that you have to stay!"
No answer. Just that speculative, assessing look.
"Then will you concede that there may be another side to Pardek? One that you're not aware of? And will you govern yourself accordingly?"
"I will concede that Pardek may not be all that he seems."
"Well, that's something, at least." In the morning light that slants through the window, I can see that his eyes are green-rimmed with fatigue, his face lined with strain; evidently he too has had more than one sleepless night recently. "You may as well go back to bed, Spock. You probably won't hear from Pardek again until much later."
"What are your plans for the day?"
"I told you. I have things to do."
He waits expectantly.
"Well, for one thing" --I try to think of some chores that sound both credible and pressing-- "I have to communicate with my delegation on Ferenginar to make sure they've closed the bargain I was negotiating. For another, I have to place an order with a provisioner. You and Pardek may be content to take all your meals from a replicator, but I prefer something better. Make a list of your dietary requirements and I'll see that you get what you need."
Even as I speak the words I recognize their fatuity. Yet I can't find the courage to say all that truly needs to be said: I seem to be capable only of banalities. What's wrong with me? No one--not even the unspeakable Stilpa, who's hated me for decades--has ever accused me of cowardice. But how else to describe my inability to be honest with Spock? A miracle of opportunity stands here before me, a chance to set right a lifetime of wrong, and I'm letting it slip through my fingers--
"I will accompany you," Spock says, looking thoughtful.
"What?"
"I will accompany you. To the market square."
"Why would I need to go to the market square? I'll transmit a requisition from here. The provisioner can send the order by transporter."
Spock looks toward the kitchen's east window. "The day promises to be bright," he says, "and mild. Amanda always said that one must trust one's own eyes and nose when purchasing food."
"You must be joking," I say, though he plainly isn't. "You're actually suggesting we leave this house to go shopping? Why, you wouldn't stand a chance in the market square in broad daylight! The shiar'rim--"
"Has it not occurred to you," he interrupts gently, "that if the shiar'rim wanted to kill or capture me they would have done so by now? You said that they have identified many of our meeting-places, and we already know that some members of the peace movement have been under surveillance almost from the day I arrived on Romulus. For that matter, if Senator Pardek is my enemy, as you believe he is, why hasn't he assassinated me? He's had many opportunities both on and off this world."
In fact, I've been asking myself that same question. "Who knows? Because it's not the right moment? Because they want to maximize the political impact of your arrest and execution? Gods of Remus, they don't need a reason for what they do!" Another thought suddenly comes to mind. "Don't assume that this is only about politics, Spock. There are those on Romulus who also feel you owe them a personal debt of honor." While I was more than willing to expose Pardek, I can't quite bring myself to speak Venn's name aloud; that broad hint will have to do. "If those people find you first--"
"In the course of my diplomatic service I have undoubtedly angered many people. Few bargains please both sides equally. To my knowledge, however, no Romulan falls into that category."
He seems to have missed the point entirely: can he really be unaware of his father's role in Ambassador Tilendi's downfall? But that topic is only one among many that I don't care to open. "If you're so sure you're not in danger," I say, "then why the deception in the museum?"
"That was Pardek's idea. He too believes it is his duty to protect me. And he has a flair for the dramatic."
"Yes, his portrayal of a loyal friend is outstanding."
"On this matter," he says, "we will have to agree to disagree."
Even when spoken in Romulan, the phrase evokes a memory: "That sounds like something Leonard McCoy would say."
The flash of amusement is gone from his eyes before I can be sure that I've seen it. "You honor me, Ambassador," he says with grave courtesy. "Now, if it pleases you, we should get dressed and be on our way. I've observed that Romulan shopkeepers display their choicest produce early in the morning. The stalls are sure to be well stocked in anticipation of the Planetfall festivities."
I resolve not to let my temper flare. "I'm not going to the provisioner," I announce calmly, "and I won't allow you to go anywhere unescorted. Besides, I have to get in touch with my delegation."
"A non-emergency transmission will take several hours to reach Ferenginar," Spock observes. "We can be back here within an hour. The message will keep, but the provisioner's goods will not."
He has a point: my query to Ferenginar isn't urgent, and I have no legitimate excuse for requesting priority in the offworld message queue. "And what about Picard?" I demand, desperate to find an argument that he won't be able to refute. "Be reasonable, Spock. Suppose Starfleet had the sense to give him a record of your bioidentity readings. If he's aboard a ship with half-decent short-range scanners, and you're walking around out in the open--"
But he has an answer for everything: "You stated that a space-based sensor array might penetrate even the shields around this house. If Picard or anyone else is determined to find me, I will be found."
Short of stunning him with the disruptor, which I'm seriously tempted to do, I can't think of a way to make him stay put. Even though I've refused to leave the house, he may very well decide to visit the market square on his own, for no reason except that--inexplicably--he wants to.
"You aren't going anywhere," I say with what I hope is convincing belligerence. "I'm sworn to keep you safe--"
The shrill signal of the commlink makes me jump; the kitchen console is less than a meter from where we're standing. I hit the answer key before the signal sounds twice. "What now?" I demand angrily when Pardek's face appears.
"Picard is here," Pardek says without preamble. "Sooner than we thought, but there's no question. The medical tricorder did the trick."
"Where is he?" Spock stands behind me, so close that I catch the faint spicy scent of senf on his breath.
"Prowling the Krocton, just as you said. Making a spectacle of himself, asking idiotic questions. He's already attracting notice. And he has someone with him--a strange-looking fellow, not a Terran. The tricorder couldn't pinpoint his readings, but Hadrea is trying to get an identification from the database. This fellow can't be Starfleet, though. He doesn't seem quite--you know--all there. They're both tricked out to appear Romulan, but they've made a pretty poor job of it. And their language implants are second-rate. They'll be found out in no time. What do you want us to do?"
"Get them to safety." Spock's voice is low and cold. "Take them to the old hydro tunnel, off the eastern branch line. Make a show of it, so no one will be inclined to follow. Wait for me there."
For once, Pardek and I are on the same side of an issue. Protesting, we drown each other out.
"I don't understand," says Pardek. "You said we were to send Picard offworld. Why risk a meeting in person?"
"Senator Pardek is right!" I cry. "You can't endanger yourself like this! Picard surely has orders to bring you back to the Federation alive or dead--"
Spock lifts his hand to silence us both. "I will be there as soon as I can," he says to the screen.
"Let us come and get you! You can't go alone --"
"He won't be going alone," I say. "If he insists on pursuing this absurd course of action, he will at least have an armed escort."
The look of relief on Pardek's face almost makes me sympathize with him. "Once again we are in your debt, Ambassador Tayva. We'll entrust Spock to your care, then--"
"There is no need," says Spock, "to speak of me as if I were not present. Ambassador Tayva, I accept with thanks your offer of protection, since Senator Pardek requires this reassurance."
I turn around to face him, not caring whether Pardek can hear me. "This is madness. You may as well surrender to the shiar'rim this moment."
"Picard is in danger." As if that explains, and justifies, everything.
"Picard! What about you?"
"I? I do what I must."
"And just what you like. Fine, then. If you're willing to squander what little cover you've been provided, that's your privilege. Just be aware that I promised Lady Hadrea that I would keep you safe, and I'm bound by my word." To the death, I don't add aloud.
"I will not give you cause to break your promise," Spock says. His tone is neutral now, unrevealing: the mention of Hadrea's name provokes no reaction that I can discern.
"Spock--" Pardek's interruption startles us both. "I'm afraid we haven't much time."
"Agreed." A look passes between them. "Transport, I think."
"I would prefer something else."
"We can't delay. Besides" --Spock's glance rests briefly on me, then returns to Pardek-- "I believe we can arrange things so that we will not attract undue attention."
"Whatever you think best. But I wish I could persuade you to reconsider--"
"Farewell, Pardek." Spock courteously but firmly precludes any further discussion. "We'll see you at the quarter-hour."
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.