I've arranged to set us down outside the main entrance to the house. Picard and Data probably wouldn't appreciate a walking tour of the countryside, and this way I can get everyone inside the shields quickly. I fumble in my pocket for my datachip, but Spock is faster: he uses his own chip to lower the forcefields before I even begin to key in the code.
Picard's keen eye doesn't miss much: I watch him watching Spock, and decide that his unspoken question deserves an answer. "Ambassador Spock has been my guest since yesterday," I say. "Senator Pardek agreed with me that he would be well protected here."
"Yes, this is an ideal safe house," says Pardek. "Shields, secure communications, private transporter, even a shuttle berth over there." He lists the house's advantages as if he were a property agent trying to impress a purchaser. "No shuttle at the moment, of course, though you could land one if you wished."
"I don't think we'll attempt it," says Picard. I'm surprised to hear an undertone of amusement in his voice.
"Come inside," I say, and shepherd them into the house. When I turn to raise the shields, I'm struck by the sudden feeling that far from offering Spock and the others sanctuary, I've just shut them up inside a prison.
* * *
Once again, sleeping arrangements have to be organized. The guest room across from Spock's goes to Picard; Data, who assures me that he doesn't require a bed, nevertheless seems agreeable enough when I invite him to take the third and smallest room at the end of the hall. Out of respect for my newest guests, I conduct the conversation in Federation Standard. Although I don't often use the language, I'm still more fluent in their tongue than they are in mine, even with the help of their implants. After the brief discussion about room assignments and the location of kitchen and lavatories, I begin to feel more confident. By the time we sit down to lunch, I'm actually starting to think in Standard, something I haven't done since I was aboard Enterprise.
Pardek, who would probably like to be invited to stay over so as not to miss out on developments, settles for accepting my invitation--none too graciously offered--to join us at table. No one seems to care that we have to make do with replicated food.
Try as I might, I'm unable to concentrate on the details of the conversation. I know that I should be paying attention, that everything they do and say may have an impact on Spock's safety, but the only thing I can think of is the plan I've begun to formulate--a plan that will prove to Spock once and for all that his friend Pardek is about to betray him. But so long as Pardek himself is present, I can't begin to get the information I need. If I have to throw him out, I will. He's not going to stay here all day and all night--
"I regret that I must leave you for a while," Pardek announces suddenly. "I have a Senate committee meeting this afternoon, and if I don't make an appearance questions will be asked."
I'm so stunned by this unexpected turn of good luck that I escort him to the transporter and say goodbye far more cordially than I intended. He vanishes into the ether, looking pleased and surprised by my warmth.
When I return to the kitchen, I resolve not to beat around the bush. Interesting. Even the idiom is coming back. "Captain Picard," I say, "I would like your permission to make use of Commander Data" --I almost stop there, but remember Data's earlier speech just in time-- "of Commander Data's computer skills."
Picard frowns at me. "I'm afraid I don't follow you, Ambassador."
"I have good reason--extremely good reason--to believe that Senator Pardek is conspiring to betray Ambassador Spock, and that this so-called reunification initiative is a sham. I have access to the Fleet command net, Captain. With Data's help, I believe I can create a secure bridge from that platform into certain civilian intelligence files." I turn to Spock: "If the files reveal what I think they will, then you'll know everything I've said about Pardek is true."
I don't know whether to take their silence as a good omen: Picard looks thoughtful, Data alert and almost curious, and Spock--as usual, there is no reading Spock's expression. At least he isn't saying no ...
"Civilian intelligence," Picard says at last. "Do I take it that you mean the Tal Shiar?"
"Correct." My palms are beginning to sweat; I clasp my hands tightly in my lap.
"Ambassador Spock?" Picard isn't about to trust me so easily, and who can blame him? As far as he knows, I'm an enemy soldier with a longstanding grudge against the Federation who might herself be plotting against Spock.
"I do not believe Pardek intends to betray me," says Spock, looking only at Picard.
"But you have no objection to what Ambassador Tayva is proposing?"
"No. It may answer certain other questions." What those questions might be he doesn't say.
"Then I'll give it some thought," says Picard.
This won't do. "With respect, Captain, we don't know how much time is left to us."
Picard exchanges a look with Data. "Let me be blunt, Ambassador Tayva," he says. "If Data assists you in breaking into the Tal Shiar's files, I will expect a quid pro quo."
"Forgive me--'quid pro quo'?"
"Consideration in exchange," Spock volunteers.
Suddenly I see where this is going. "That's ridiculous. You can't expect me to give you access to the Fleet command net--"
"I do not," says Picard. "However, I understand that the Fleet and the Tal Shiar are not often du même avis. Is this correct?"
I look helplessly at Spock. "In agreement," he says. "Of one mind."
"Oh, I see. Yes, you might say so. The shiar'rim would like to do away not only with the Senate and Praetorate but with the Fleet as well. If they were ever to succeed in their scheming, they'd destabilize the Empire and probably the entire Beta quadrant." Another Standard idiom suddenly comes to mind: "There's no love lost between us."
Picard favors me with a chilly smile: "In that case, Ambassador Tayva, I sense that we may be able to reach an agreement."
* * *
I have many decades of diplomatic experience under, as they say in Standard, my belt, and Picard himself is not unskilled in the art of protracted negotiation. But this bargain takes little time to conclude: both parties are highly motivated, and the pact is simple, unwritten, and grounded in nothing more substantial than a blind faith in the honor of one's enemy. We agree that in exchange for his assistance in proving the truth of Pardek's treachery, Data may download as much information as he can manage from the Tal Shiar's private databases--including the identities of agents working within the borders of the Federation. I have only Picard's word that his instruction to Data, given in my hearing, to ignore all other files, databases, programs, and archives will be followed to the letter.
In the late afternoon Data and I finally sit down at a workstation in the wardroom. The terminal is tied directly and securely to the Fleet command center: my mother used it to send and receive confidential orders and directives, and I've kept it operational for use during my rare visits home.
To his credit, Data turns discreetly away while I enter my access code. I only hope he isn't equipped with optical sensors in the back of his head.
At first it's easy enough for me to find my own way through the system, peeling away layer after classified layer of protection, until I reach the gateway to the secure external links. I can't proceed past this point: entrance is prohibited to anyone below the rank of commander-general. I spend some fruitless time trying to defeat the safeguards, but I'm no computer scientist, and certainly no codecracker. In the end, I have to defer to Data, whose fingers fly across the keypad so fast that to my tired eyes they seem no more than a blur.
"I have penetrated the gateway," Data announces tonelessly. "No one has detected my presence."
"Gods of Remus! You're in already? How can it be that easy?"
"It was not easy. It was merely fast."
"What now?"
"Now I must break through the remaining barriers in order to reach the Tal Shiar's databases. There are" --he pauses for a moment-- "seventy-nine. Each of the barriers is guarded by a unique progressive encryption lock. This may take a while."
I've already heard my share of understatements for the day. "Do you need me?" I ask, fervently praying that the answer is no.
"No," says Data. "Thank you for your cooperation, Ambassador Tayva. I will call you when I am ready to log off."
* * *
When I go in search of Spock and Picard, I can't find them anywhere. My calling out their names produces no results. The kitchen, the dining-hall, and the reception room are empty. Don't panic, I order myself. They've got to be here somewhere. Maybe they're resting. But Picard's bedroom shows no sign of use, and except for his kitbags, sealed and neatly stacked on the chair by the window, Spock might never have been here at all. I'm just about to put the commlink on allcall and try to locate them when a thought occurs.
* * *
The library door is half-open, and I can hear the low murmur of voices from within. The temptation to stop and listen is strong, but I resist it. I knock loudly to announce my presence, and then enter.
"Your pardon, gentlemen," I say in Standard. "I thought I might find you here. It's nearly dinner-hour. Would you care for a meal, and perhaps a drink?"
Spock and Picard get to their feet simultaneously. "We don't want to inconvenience you, Ambassador," says Picard. "I'm sure we can manage--"
Spock, who understands Romulan ways somewhat better than Picard, provides a more courteous answer. "You honor us, Ambassador. A meal would be welcome."
"Will you take it in here?"
"If it pleases you," says Spock formally. "This room is most agreeable. Will you honor us with your company?"
He's trying hard to maintain a precisely correct social manner, probably for Picard's edification, but my nagging suspicion has now become certainty. Something is wrong. If I accept his invitation, at least I'll get a chance to observe him. "Thank you, Ambassador," I say with a smile. "I would be honored."
* * *
Data, who is still engrossed in his illicit project, declines my offer of food and drink, and I don't press him, knowing that for him it's a matter of biochemistry and not manners. Spock and Picard and I pass the next hour or two in the library, eating our replicated meals from trays just as if we were on duty aboard a starship.
Picard, like Spock, finds my father's library fascinating. He asks intelligent questions, and I answer them politely. Though he and Spock still seem uneasy in each other's presence, they nevertheless exchange a few stories about great libraries on worlds they've visited--Berengaria, Sarpeidon, Danula, Zadar.
Outside, the sky is darkening. A few of the room lights turn themselves on, and the library suddenly looks as I remember it from my childhood--lambent, restful, its familiar statuary and mementos made mysterious by the shifting shadows. For the first time, I have a sense of being truly at home.
"This is very pleasant," says Picard, echoing my thoughts. "I must say that nightfall has caught me a little by surprise. I must still be functioning on the Kruge's time."
"Night comes early at this time of year," I answer. "The evening is almost warm enough for summer, but the calendar says springtime isn't over yet." As if on cue, a mild breeze blows through the open window.
"The fresh air does smell wonderful," says Picard.
"Perhaps you'd like to go outside for a while? We're safe from detection under the shields, and it should be a fine night for stargazing."
"If you won't think me rude, Ambassador, I would prefer to retire early. I haven't been able to get much sleep aboard ship."
I remember the few unhappy voyages I endured on Klingon vessels back in the days when the empires were allied, and sympathize immediately. "Of course," I say. "I promise you you'll sleep better here. You'll find everything you need in the--"
A light tap at the door interrupts us: "Captain Picard?"
"Yes, Data," says Picard. "Come in, please."
"Pardon the interruption, sir. Ambassador Tayva, I must log off from your terminal now. If I am to succeed in breaching the final barriers to the Tal Shiar's databases, I require access to a more powerful computer."
"How much more powerful?" asks Spock.
"I am afraid I require something equivalent to a starship's mainframe." At my astonished look he adds, "Your security blocks are efficacious."
"You surely can't expect me to smuggle you aboard a Romulan starship--"
"There is a non-Romulan starship in synchronous orbit above us, Ambassador. And we did agree that it would be safer for us to initiate emergency transport from the ground."
"And I suppose you also require my access code."
"I cannot initiate entry from the Kruge's computer without it," Data points out reasonably. "I will delete it from my memory as soon as I have completed my assignment. You may also disable the code and select a new one at that time." Neither of us feels it necessary to add that he will have had ample opportunity to explore and copy, if he chooses, thousands or even millions of data sectors in the Fleet command net.
"We may have another problem," says Picard. "Captain K'vada won't want Data to have his entry codes to the ship's computer. We'll need a bargaining tool."
"We could share some information with him," Data suggests.
Picard looks at me and then adds hurriedly, "Some very specific information, perhaps. Say--the Tal Shiar's security files relating to Sela's co-conspirators on Qo'noS?"
Data nods agreement. "I will simply say that I am authorized to share any information we obtain from the Romulan databanks. Not all information," he adds, as if to reassure me.
"Sophistry, Captain Picard?" I say as calmly as I can. "I would have thought it beneath the Federation's noble Starfleet. I've already agreed that you might take what you want from the files of the shiar'rim. Isn't that enough?"
"You will have to trust us, Ambassador, as we must trust you. Neither of us seems to have a choice."
If you only knew how right you are. "Do you swear on your personal honor that your Klingon friends will not be given any degree of access to the Fleet command net?" For all I know, the oath means nothing to a human, but I'm in no position to bargain with him.
"I will." His eyes hold mine. "I do."
"Agreed, then," I say, certain that I've just made the biggest mistake of my life. And I may not live long enough to make another. "Let us contact the Kruge, Captain, and tell them that Lieutenant-Commander Data is on his way up."
* * *
We proceed as a group to the wardroom. I allow Data to record my access code; then I enable a shore-to-ship commlink for Picard's use.
"It's as secure as I can make it," I tell him. "Audio only, to conserve bandwidth. And because the Klingons probably wouldn't approve of your domestic arrangements if they got a look."
That brings a grim smile from Picard. "Probably not," he says.
The message is received safely, the reply likewise. I don't need a translator to tell me that the captain of the Kruge is not happy about having Data beam aboard his ship for any reason other than to depart Romulan space. But Picard's position as arbiter of succession must constitute a rather big stick: despite his growls and grumbles, the Klingon complies with our request.
"I will do my best, sir," Data says to Picard as he waits on the transporter pad.
"I know, Data. Tell Captain K'vada that I will be remaining here for a while longer. And keep me informed."
We spend a few more moments discussing how, exactly, that task might be accomplished by the use of scrambled signals and code-words; by the time we're finished, Data is in possession of my commcodes and the necessary information concerning types and frequencies of Romulan communication signals.
Spock comes to stand beside me at the transporter console. "May I assist you, Ambassador?" he says quietly.
I can't take the time to thank him. "Raise the security shields around the house the moment transport is complete. If the signal is detected, they'll trace its origin immediately."
"Understood."
"And can you backstop me on the board?" Once again the Standard idiom has surfaced out of nowhere; Spock's eyebrow rises very slightly, but he nods assent and takes his place at the second station.
"All right, then. Ready to energize." My eyes are glued to the console now; even though the system itself will initiate and complete the process faster than any mortal hand can move, I can't relax. I've programmed the transport as closely as I can to fall within the interstices of the orbital sensor sweeps, but if anything goes wrong, I'll have to fix it in seconds or risk the loss of Lieutenant-Commander Data--and much, much more. I'm profoundly grateful for Spock's steady hands next to mine. "Energize," I say, and touch the glowing faders.
Data disappears in a helix of light; before I can release the breath I'm holding, a message flashes rapidly across the screen: Transport complete. Transport complete. Transport complete. Beside me Spock enters a familiar code, and re-establishes the security shields around the house and grounds.
For an endless moment no one speaks, no one moves--and nothing happens. "Congratulations, Ambassador," says Picard, smiling. "He's safe. And so are we, apparently."
I can't even reply; I've just begun to grasp the implications of what I've done. To transport an alien fugitive equipped with Fleet access codes to an orbiting enemy warship--if I were in charge of my own interrogation, I would turn a mind-probe on myself for a good long time to learn exactly how I had accomplished such a seemingly impossible feat.
"Gods of Remus," I breathe.
"Indeed," Spock affirms.
* * *
My offer of a glass of brandy all around is well received. By common consent we return to the library, which at the moment seems the most welcoming and secure place in the house.
My nerves begin to steady a little after the first sips of brandy. Picard, who empties his glass in a few swallows, soon pleads fatigue and, after congratulating me once again, excuses himself. Spock, who has barely touched his drink, watches him go.
"He does look exhausted," I say. "Have you ever been on a Klingon ship, Spock? Unless it's what they call a pleasure craft, and believe me their idea of pleasure isn't remotely like anyone else's, they make no concessions to their passengers' comfort. Poor Captain Picard has probably had to sleep on a metal ledge instead of a bed for ten days." I realize that I'm very close to babbling pure nonsense; but a kind of delayed reaction to the astonishing success of Data's transport is beginning to set in, and I'm feeling both euphoric and belatedly terrified.
"It is fortunate that Lieutenant-Commander Data does not require sleep," Spock remarks in Romulan. He sets his glass down and gets to his feet. "I believe you said the night was favorable for stargazing."
"Yes," I say, relieved to speak again in my own language. "You could take the path that leads to the gardens, or the one that leads through the meadow to the river. When we were children we used to go down by the water at night and search the foliage for shangril bugs. We'd catch them in a beaker and wait for them all to light up at the same time." Remembering just who I'm talking to, I add truthfully, "We always released them afterwards."
"Will you accompany me?"
The request is so surprising that at first I literally don't understand what he's asking. "You want me to go with you?"
"If you are not too tired."
"No, I'm fine." And even if I wasn't, I would be. This may be my only chance to find out what happened between him and Picard--and to discover what's troubling him. "Give me a moment to find my sandals, and I'll meet you at the front door."
* * *
I've forgotten what it's like to see the house lit up at night, to look through open windows into safe, familiar rooms, to smell the clean scent of water drifting up from beyond the meadow. It's as if a half-remembered dream, or an image from someone else's family album, has suddenly become real. As Spock and I set out on our walk, I have to glance back over my shoulder once or twice, so pleasing is the picture.
The night is unseasonably warm, and the sky is clear; the Milky Way stretches above us from horizon to horizon. I'm aware at the back of my mind that worse than I've faced today is still to come, but at this moment I don't care. "I can't remember the last time I saw these stars from the ground," I say to the silent man beside me. "Look, there's Pernos the Harper. There are his hands, and the strings of his harp, and there's the hem of his robe. He calms the elements and charms the gods with his music. And that constellation to the south is Kaliya. She weaves the seam that knits the sky and the world together. See? That cluster of stars is meant to be her loom."
Spock's eyes follow my pointing finger. "Pernos and Kaliya," he says. "Those are Vulcan myth-figures, but no constellations in the Vulcan sky symbolize their stories."
"I suppose the first Romulans had to spend a good deal of time mapping the galactic neighborhood. Stellar taxonomy is very boring--perhaps they were just amusing themselves."
"Perhaps," says Spock, "they were homesick."
I look up at him, surprised. "Yes, they probably were. It took them who knows how many decades in those generation ships to find these two planets. They must have wanted to give a familiar name to everything in sight, to make it their own. These worlds are so different from Vulcan. The forests, the oceans, the moons--"
"'Golden land,'" Spock quotes softly. "'Chosen land.'"
"Yes. Yes, it is that to us, and more."
We have to stop occasionally to push aside the foliage and vines that overgrow the path. When we come to the point where the walkway widens and divides, I lead Spock through the remnants of the formal gardens. "These gardens were beautiful once," I say, seeing them again in memory. "My father and uncles used to compete with one another to see who could fashion the most elaborate plantings. Here, we can sit down on this." I try to brush away the dust and dry leaves from a stone bench, but soon give it up as a hopeless job. "Sorry. You're going to be covered with debris, I'm afraid."
"No matter." Spock sits, and so do I. Close but not too close ... "Is that the river you spoke of?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, hearing the faint rush of wind over water. "We could walk down there, if you like."
"Perhaps another time."
I spend a moment contemplating the possibility that there might, indeed, be another time. Then, because I can't wait any longer: "Spock, has Picard threatened you or compromised you somehow? More than just by his presence here, I mean."
"No. Why would you think so?"
"When we were in that hydro tunnel this morning--" I stop, uncertain how to go on without making the kind of personal observation that Vulcans find so offensive. "When you came back with him, you were--I don't know, really. I--I sensed that he'd done something to upset you."
Spock half-turns towards me. "Could you not hear our conversation in the tunnel?"
"No."
"Picard informed me that Sarek has died."
"Oh, Spock--" Formal words of condolence spring into my mind, but I can't make myself say them in any language. I grieve with thee-- but how can I grieve for the man who repudiated Lidiya Tilendi and denied his own role in her tragedy? I share your sorrow-- but what I truly share is Spock's memory of a cold, stubborn, judgmental man capable of refusing for nearly two decades to see or speak to the adult son who had dared assert his moral independence. Such a sad loss-- but on the scale of sadness, perhaps not quite equal to, say, the loss of McCoy's beloved Natira, whose death at the hands of the Cardassians might have been avoided had Sarek not turned a blind eye to the annexation of Bajor so many years earlier. In the end, I speak the only words my conscience will allow: "I wish I could help you."
Spock nods once in acknowledgment. "Sarek's death was not unexpected," he says. "He had been ill for some time."
"Will you travel home with Data and Picard?" It seems that in death Sarek has accomplished what all my pleading and arguing could not. That ought to make me feel more kindly disposed towards the man's memory, but somehow it doesn't.
"Home?" says Spock. "To Vulcan, you mean?"
"Yes, of course."
"No."
"But aren't there ritual arrangements to be made? You're Sarek's only living child--"
"Lady Perrin will have seen to everything." Oh, cold, that voice, and disapproving. At last, a sign of some feeling.
"Who is Perrin?"
"Sarek's wife."
Not his bondmate? I have a hundred questions I'd like to ask, but I restrain myself; his father has just died, after all. "Spock, if there's anything I can do to make this easier for you--if you want me to bring Hadrea here--"
"Hadrea? Why should she come here?"
To comfort you and hold you, as I would do in her place. As I would do this moment if I could. "I thought you might like to be with her."
"Hadrea did not know Sarek."
"No, of course not, but--" Suddenly I don't want to pursue the subject. "Well, if you need to communicate with anyone on Vulcan, let me know. I can probably manage to get a secure message routed through the diplomatic office."
"Thank you, but that will not be necessary."
A sudden cool breeze blows through the garden; the stars are disappearing behind clouds, and a heaviness in the air promises rain. Spock must see or sense my involuntary shiver, for he says, "Perhaps we should go back now."
"Perhaps," I agree. I can't think of anything else to do for him, and he seems to have nothing more to say to me. We retrace our steps in silence, and when we part in the atrium to go to our bedrooms, Spock bids me goodnight as coolly and courteously as he would any stranger.
* * *
Helpless, defenseless, caught in freefall, tumbling planetward, weightless and yet heavy as rock. Cries and alarms, fire and smoke, terror and relief, it's over, over at last--
I wake up shaking, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. The nightmare always ends at just this point: the instant before impact. One night it will end the instant after, and I won't wake again. My heart is pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears and feel it in my throat. I stumble into the lavatory and switch the shower controls to cold water, letting the freezing needles pound at my face and body until the dream-images begin to recede. With my teeth chattering and my hair dripping, I struggle into a clean nightdress and get back into bed, huddling under the covers until the worst of the shivering stops.
I can't do this any more. I won't do this any more. A moment later I force myself back out of bed. This has to stop now.
* * *
This time I don't bother carrying the disruptor. I managed to get Data offworld without attracting the attention of either High Command or the Tal Shiar, so I should be able to feel safe within my own house. And I'm not worried about encountering an unexpected visitor: Picard hasn't even seen the sacrarium, and to judge from Spock's reaction to Sarek's death he won't be tempted to light a votive in his father's memory. I can carry out my duty of conscience in privacy. A duty I ought to have attended to long ago ...
Across the atrium, down the hall, past the music room, past the library. As before, the soft glow of the still-burning arc lights shines from beneath the door. As before, the door is slightly ajar. And as before--unbelievably--Spock is there.
Barefoot, dressed only in his sleeping-robe, he is seated in one of the armchairs, obviously deep in meditation: his hands are steepled, his eyes are closed, and he seems scarcely to be breathing. But the moment he hears the slight creak of the door and my cry of shocked surprise, his eyes open.
Unsure whether to rebuke or apologize, I do both. "Gods of Remus, you frightened me! I'm sorry to intrude. I'll leave you--"
"No," he says, rising. "I only wanted--as you said, this room is conducive to reflection. I regret that I violated your privacy."
"You haven't. Sit down, Spock." I recite the Romulan householder's ritual declaration to her guests: "It would please me if you would treat this house as yours."
He remains standing.
"Do you want to talk?" I say quietly. Exactly the wrong thing to ask a Vulcan, I know, but I'm past caring. "About Sarek, I mean."
"There is little to talk about. He was my father. He is dead."
"He ... he must have been pleased that you followed his path in the end." Everything I say sounds trite, if not ridiculous, but I can't think how to reach him. "That you became a diplomat, I mean."
"I do not consider that I have followed his path. It was never my intention to join the Federation's diplomatic corps. But after Khitomer ... one thing seemed to lead to another."
"I know the feeling. Do you ever regret your choice?"
"No. I have no--" He stops mid-sentence, then begins again. "The work has been rewarding," he says. "Do you not find your own diplomatic work worthwhile?"
"Oh, yes. When I was on Ferenginar, I was able to--" I break off, horrified, and all thoughts of Sarek disappear. "I never sent the message to my delegation!" I look distractedly around the room, as if I'm going to find a commlink in the sacrarium. "I must be losing my mind. I've got to find out whether they've completed the deal. If we don't get that miala genome, the Remish farmers are in for another bad season."
"Is your delegation competent?"
"Of course! They're the best of the best. Why would you even ask?"
"You seem to question their ability."
"I do not question their ability! It's just--I like to be sure that I've looked after everything myself."
"Indeed," says Spock. "I know the feeling."
"But I do have to call them."
"They will undoubtedly be eager to report."
"Then I should probably compose that message now. Goodnight, Spock--"
"It's I who should leave," he says. "This is the second time I've intruded upon your privacy in this room. Please excuse me--"
If not now, says the voice of memory, when? But how much can Spock bear so soon after learning of Sarek's death? Now, insists the voice. Now, or not at all.
"Spock, please don't go. I want to talk to you. Will you sit for a moment?" I indicate one of the small couches positioned against the back wall. I'm more concerned for my own comfort than his: suddenly my knees are shaking so badly that I'm genuinely afraid they might give way. Without waiting for his answer, I sit down.
He hesitates briefly, then sits at the far end of the couch. He turns towards me, waiting, hands clasped loosely between his knees.
Always and only the truth ... "Are you aware that after I left Earth my starship command was taken from me by order of the Romulan Senate?"
"I was not aware of it at the time." His face is shadowed in the dim light; I can't begin to guess what he may be thinking.
"I didn't lose my rank, though. That business with Al-Diraj--the senators were impressed by that. So they decided to punish me just enough to make me repent my sins, but not enough to dishonor me or my family. They sent me as far away from Romulus as they could, to the Hellguard colony." I take a deep breath. "Bear with me," I say, looking not at him but at the votives arrayed on the wall. "I owe you this, at least."
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.