I get myself dressed in, relatively speaking, no time. When I enter the wardroom carrying my shoes in one hand and my disruptor in the other, Spock is already waiting for me--shaved, combed, and wearing not his drab professorial cloak but a well-made garment that might belong to a businessman or a house-manager. Unbelievably, a satchel is slung over his shoulder, as if he still means to visit the market square--to purchase a new shirt at the haberdasher's, perhaps, or a flask of wine at the vintner's. I can't decide whether to smile at his appearance or shout out my anger at his recklessness. But when I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the glass transporter enclosure, I do neither, for it's suddenly clear what he intends.
"Well done," I say, sliding my feet into the shoes. "For a spur-of-the-moment charade, that is. Do you travel with a costume for every occasion?"
He bows very slightly, already immersed in his role: an employee awaiting his employer's instructions. "We're unlikely to attract notice so long as we play our parts," he says. "And once Picard is dealt with, perhaps we'll have an opportunity to visit the market square."
"It may not be easy to get rid of him. And why are you so obsessed with the market square? I assure you there's nothing at all special about it."
He bows again, the very picture of a deferential employee. I have to admit that his plan is likely to work: we'll be much less conspicuous than I feared. The Krocton is overrun with immigrants and dissidents, but here and there one can still find the stubbornly immovable descendants of the Vulcan metalworkers who first inhabited the segment. Those who work in gold and silver are often commissioned by members of the noble houses to produce plate or jewelry to mark a wedding or a birth; my own lifebond was created by such an artisan. It isn't unusual to see a wealthy patron browsing the Krocton in person, searching for just the right design, the right piece of craftsmanship. Equally, no onlooker would be surprised to see such a patron escorted by her house-manager or business adviser, a functionary traditionally entrusted with carrying the credit chits and keeping track of extraordinary expenses. Including, of course, the expense of transport to the arcology from a country house ...
Wordlessly, Spock and I position ourselves on the platform. He uses his security chip to enable a time-delayed lowering and raising of the forcefields that protect the house. Then he taps in a set of coordinates, barely looking at the console. Just before the transporter effect takes us, I satisfy myself that the disruptor is well concealed beneath the wide belt of my tunic, and that the safety lock is off.
* * *
We materialize in the middle of the Krocton, on a platform housed in a busy transit hub. Our arrival attracts attention, but--thanks to Spock's convincing demeanor--of an unthreatening kind. The onlookers are merely curious to see who would want to visit a neighborhood so far beneath her apparent station, and which artisan is to be favored with her custom.
Without waiting for a signal from Spock, I head for the street and a nearby jeweler's workshop. The small display window contains a modest selection of gold and silver ornaments; I pretend to study the pieces carefully. When Spock comes to stand beside me, he points at one piece after another, as though advising me on their craftsmanship and value.
"We won't stay here long," he says, bending low so that his voice is audible only to me. "After a few moments, no one will take any further notice of us, and we can move on."
"How far do we have to go?" I keep my eyes focused on the window display; Spock is so near me that our arms are almost touching.
"Not far. Just behind the transit hub, then down the service stairs."
"Oh, good, more service stairs. Another chance to build Vulcan character--"
"Perhaps that ring there, Lady," Spock says suddenly, for the benefit of the passerby who has stopped to peer into the window and see what we are seeing. "Lyssian silver, I believe, and the workmanship is very fine. An offer of two thousand should secure it for you." With a snort of disgust or derision, the passerby shakes her head and hurries away.
"You could earn your living doing this," I mutter. "That ring really is Lyssian silver."
Spock glances around us. "No one is watching now," he says. "Proceed back to the transit hub and turn the corner. I'll follow you until we reach the stairs."
We walk along the street, not slowly, not briskly. Spock remains a pace or two behind me. But as soon as we reach the deserted rear entrance of the transit hub, I step aside, allow him to wrench open the rusting metal door, and follow him cautiously down a set of creaking steps.
From that point on, I endure a variation on the maglev-tunnel experience, though one that is thankfully less smelly and less muddy. The abandoned hydroelectric corridors are several centuries older than the maglev tubes, and the biggest contaminant here is dust. By the time we reach our destination, my nose and eyes are itchy and watering.
The tunnel opens out onto a large space that probably was once used for equipment maintenance and repairs. Despite the presence of old-fashioned electrical fixtures at close intervals, the chamber is badly lit. The cement floor is cracked and crumbling, and remnants of structural girders and conduit protrude here and there, creating hazards for the unwary.
Fifteen or twenty people, some of whom I recognize from the Velvet Mantle, are standing at one end of the room. Hadrea, who is at the center of the group, hurries towards us.
"Spock!" she cries, and on her face there is written such naked relief and happiness that I actually have to look away. "Pardek said you were on your way here, but I didn't think--oh, thank the gods you're safe!"
Spock appears not to be offended by this un-Vulcan display of emotion. "Ambassador Tayva kindly agreed to escort me," he says, "to guarantee my safe passage."
"You shouldn't have come," Hadrea says to Spock, ignoring me. "We don't know what unholy trickery Picard might be capable of."
"Where is he now?" Spock asks.
"Meril's tricorder located him about half a kilometer from here, in Amal's refectory. Pardek sent Caphar and Meril off in Fleet getup to find him. They'll be back soon. You'd better wait in the alcove until we can be sure Picard and his friend aren't carrying any hidden weapons or explosives." At last she directs her attention to me: "Ambassador, one of our people will see you up to the street--"
Before I can reply that if she wants me to leave she'll have to carry me out bodily and it would be my pleasure to see her try, Spock intervenes.
"If it will not inconvenience you," he says to me, "will you stay a while, and observe? I would be interested in your impressions of Picard. You needn't reveal yourself; the alcove will conceal us both."
"As you wish," I say, as if I wouldn't have stayed without an invitation. Although my hopes are fading fast--and I don't have to look at Hadrea to perceive her opinion of this arrangement--I'm still certain of one thing: so long as I remain at Spock's side I can keep him safe. Or, adds the inner voice, die trying.
"This way," Spock says. Hadrea starts to follow us, but one of her comrades approaches and stops her with a question. While she is occupied, Spock leads me away from the group and up a short flight of steps.
The alcove is an old storage area converted to use as a dining-hall. Its door, if it ever had one, is long gone: I can hear the hum of conversation from the open chamber below. The unificationists have fitted out the gloomy, dusty room with a table and chairs, a water-cooler, and an ancient microwave food-warmer. Containers of dried legumes and noodles are stacked in one corner--someone's idea of a Vulcan diet. No wonder they all look so malnourished. Except, of course, Pardek ...
"Take care," says Spock, but not in time to prevent me from bumping my leg on the table.
"Ow. Isn't there a better light?"
"It needs to be replaced," he says. "Please sit down. We may as well wait in comfort."
"Comfort! Gods of Remus, look at this place! Why, Spock? Why are you doing this to yourself?"
Spock pulls out a chair and sits down at the table, not quite directly across from me. I can barely make out his features in the dim light. "If the question is not merely rhetorical," he says quietly, "I will attempt to answer it."
"So long as you don't recite that speech that begins 'Pardek asked me to come.'"
"As it happens, Pardek's invitation was timely. But it was not the proximate cause."
"What, then?"
"A number of factors influenced my decision."
"Well?" I say after a moment. "Are you going to tell me what they were?"
"You asked earlier why I came here without the Federation's authority behind me," he says. "The short answer is that I would not have been able to obtain the Council's permission for this journey. T'Pel--Selok--compromised Federation security for so long and to such a grave extent that--well, let us say that the Council and Starfleet cannot bear to hear the words 'peace,' 'Romulus,' and 'Vulcan ambassador' in the same sentence. Pardek feels that we stand a better chance of success if the initiative originates with the Empire rather than the Federation. He hopes that Proconsul Neral and his caucus can persuade the Romulan Senate to open a debate--not about an immediate political alliance between the Empire and the Federation, but about the cultural and philosophical reunification of Romulus with Vulcan. An indirect way of achieving the same thing, perhaps."
"Then he's delusional. Does he seriously believe the Senate would entertain such an idea? Or that the Vulcans would welcome us with open arms?"
"He is aware that your people and mine mistrust one another, and that the road to unity will not be easy."
"You have a gift for understatement. And I'm sure Selok's mission hasn't won us any new friends on Vulcan. It must be galling to realize that a Romulan operative was able to rise to such a high position in your diplomatic corps." When he doesn't answer, I say, "I mean no offense, Spock. You know the Federation has its share of deep-cover agents seeded in the Empire--it's all part of the game."
Spock shifts slightly in his chair. "That Selok should have remained undetected for decades ... yes, her presence on Vulcan has raised many awkward questions."
"No doubt. Your planetary security force has a good deal to answer for."
"Not only that."
I wait for more, but he doesn't elaborate. "I still think you were wrong to come by yourself," I say at last. "You could have gone through other channels, perhaps found a neutral ally who would support you--"
"I had to come alone. I could not put others at risk."
The tone of his voice leads me to a leap of intuition. "Spock--did you tell anyone you were coming here? Your family? Your colleagues?"
"I have no family other than Sarek, and there was nothing to be gained by discussing my plans with him. I once tried to talk to him about opening a dialogue with the Empire, but he ridiculed the idea as illogical." He pauses. "And I told none of my colleagues. Selok's deception is still fresh in their minds. They would view my going to Romulus as equivalent to defection, and would have acted to stop me."
"But your work--your obligations--"
"Contrary to what you may think, I did not make this decision overnight. I spent more than four years completing my assignments and settling my personal affairs."
"You and Pardek have been planning this for four years?"
Another long pause. "Pardek was not the first person to insist that I must go to Romulus."
"Who else, then?" I demand impatiently. "No matter what he says, Pardek hasn't got a true ally in the Senate, and unless someone in the Praetorate has suddenly acquired a spine--"
Spock silences me with a quick gesture; the murmur of conversation in the chamber below has ceased abruptly, and the sudden quiet has the effect of an alarm. My hand goes automatically to the disruptor at my waist.
Spock rises from his chair and points silently to the back of the alcove, indicating that I should hide myself there. But as he moves towards the doorway to listen, I push in front of him: anyone who attempts to enter this room will have to get past me first. He exhales sharply through his nose, managing thereby to express disapproval of my tactic and to acknowledge that he can do nothing to stop me.
A commotion from below: the clanging of a metal door, the shuffling sound of several pairs of boots descending the stairs, and then a man's voice issuing a terse order: "Wait here."
"What for?" demands a second man's voice. "What have you brought us here for?" The challenge, though spoken in Romulan, sounds strange to my ear; the words are oddly inflected, and a native speaker would use the more common locution, Why have you brought us here?
The temptation to look out and down is nearly overwhelming, but I don't dare risk drawing anyone's attention. In any case, no visual identification is necessary, for a moment later Pardek's unctuous greeting, carefully phrased in Federation Standard, confirms the intruder's identity:
"Welcome to Romulus, Captain Picard."
Even as Pardek speaks, Spock is responding to Picard's voice. Before I can protest or stop him, he takes me by my shoulders and gently shifts me to one side so that he can leave the alcove. "Are you mad?" I demand in a harsh whisper. "Stay here! They may be armed!"
He continues moving away, as if he hasn't heard me. I seize his arm, trying to hold him back.
Pardek's voice booms through the echoing chamber: "Don't let our 'soldiers' frighten you. We had to get you off the street as quickly as we could. Romulan security knows that you are here. I am Pardek. You are among friends, Captain."
My fingers clutch at the heavy fabric of Spock's cloak. "Spock, please! Stay here with me--"
Picard's voice rises: "I have come on an urgent mission from the Federation. I'm looking for Ambassador Spock."
Spock's fingers close tight on my wrist. In the split second before he removes my hand from his arm, he drops his mental shields, and his consciousness--familiar yet distant, impersonal yet infinitely compassionate--touches mine. His thought reaches me with perfect clarity: I told you, Aerlyn. I must finish what I've begun. In the next instant he's gone, lost to my sight but not to my hearing.
"Indeed," he says, and his ringing voice is as clear and cold as winter on Terra. "You have found him, Captain Picard."
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.