The sound of falling water rouses me too soon from sleep. It's raining again, says the small part of my brain that's functional. Get up and close that window. Yet when I force my eyes open, I have to squint against the early morning sunlight that fills the room. How can it be raining when it's so bright outside? It takes me several seconds to identify the lavatory as the source of the downpour. Spock must be having a shower--
Spock.
Explicit memories and images surface immediately. But I've fantasized variations on this scene so many times--waking in my bed at home, with Spock beside me--that I half-wonder whether last night might have been a dream. I raise myself to a sitting position and discover that the empirical evidence suggests not. My body aches in any number of unaccustomed places. A faint but unmistakable scent clings to my skin. And my face is chafed from the stubble of Spock's beard, which means that I'll have to find the unopened first-aid kit in my luggage and hope that it contains a dermal regenerator ...
Spock. T'hy'la.
"Gods of Remus," I whisper, whether in thanksgiving or supplication I can't say. All my senses seem to be operating on overdrive. Everything around me looks hyperreal, other-dimensional--edges and surfaces too sharply defined, colors too heavily saturated. Even the air feels oddly charged, as it does before an electrical storm or in the aftermath of fever. I stare down at my hands, bronze-green against the white of my nightdress, as though I've never seen them before. If I look in the mirror, will I recognize my own features? Or will I see the serene and strangely luminous face that represents Spock's memory of me?
Get hold of yourself! I have no time for fanciful imaginings. I need to organize my mind, focus on the here and now, prepare for whatever lies ahead--
The sound of the shower stops, and a moment later Spock enters the bedroom.
At first he doesn't look towards me: his head is bent, and he's drying his hair with a towel. This gives me a few seconds in which to collect my thoughts and, not incidentally, admire the view. "Setri haleth," I murmur, unable to suppress a smile. "I must have said that a thousand times, but I never meant it literally until now."
He looks up, meets my eyes, and smiles back at me for the first time in a hundred years.
When my heart slows enough to let me draw breath, I open my arms to him. "Come here," I say softly.
"I regret that I woke you," he says. "You should try to sleep a little longer." But he's already stretching out beside me.
The familiar fragrance of my herbal soap is new and exotic on his damp skin. "You smell so good," I say, holding him close, breathing him in. Alive, beloved. Alive and whole and in my arms ...
"So do you." He kisses my throat, then opens my nightdress and buries his face between my breasts. After a while I draw away a little and say reluctantly: "I should have a shower too."
He lifts his head. "Not now."
"Mmm. Soon. If there's hot water."
"I attempted to conserve the water supply. I could have used sonics, but--middle age and habitual celibacy were bound to exact a price. The hot water eased the discomfort."
This makes me laugh out loud. "I know what you mean. But the price is small, don't you think? All things considered."
"Absurdly small." His fingers brush my lips, and the question in his mind is more than clear. But though I'd like nothing better than to spend the rest of the day--the rest of my life, the rest of time--in bed with him, I'm aware that the daystar is climbing in the eastern sky and that we don't have this house to ourselves. The oppressive memory of Picard's presence makes my heart sink, and Spock easily reads the feeling.
"Picard has complicated matters considerably," he agrees. His tone is neutral, but through the link I can sense the brief, hot spark of his anger. A fraction of a second later it's gone, controlled away as if it had never existed.
I want to ask him what it is about Picard that moves him to such an uncharacteristic emotional response. But he's shielding lightly now, so I don't press the question. Instead I say, with as much good humor as I can summon, "I suppose we won't hold hands when we walk into the kitchen." Or anywhere else.
Spock nods gravely. "If Picard, or anyone, should intuit the nature of our relationship, the knowledge may be used against us ..." His voice trails off, and I know the memory is as vivid for him as it is for me: Starfleet would view it as a gift of providence. And the Tal Shiar would probably view it as sufficient grounds for the summary execution of a treasonous Fleet officer.
"Picard is unusually observant for a human," I say. "But we've kept our secret for a century. We should be able to keep it a while longer." A silence falls between us, but unspoken questions echo in the link: How much longer? And after that? What then?
No answer is forthcoming.
* * *
Spock's sleeping-robe is a good deal the worse for wear, but it will preserve his modesty until he can reach his own bedroom. If he encounters Picard somewhere in the house, he can plausibly say that he was meditating in the sacrarium--not, strictly speaking, a lie. We agree to meet in the kitchen for breakfast within the half-hour. From that point on we will, as the humans put it, play things by ear.
But when we say goodbye at my door, our kiss is hard, hungry, desperate, as if this parting is not for minutes but for ever. When we finally break apart, only because we must in order to breathe, I hold Spock at arm's length and search his face, trying to read the future there.
"If we could just go away for a little while," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Even for a tenday or two. I could lease a villa on a neutral world--you'd be safe there. We could spend every day together, take walks, cook meals, make love every night. We'd have enough time to talk, enough time to plan, to think--"
"We will," he whispers hoarsely. "We will find a way, Aerlyn."
His choice of words is deliberate: after all, hadn't we found a way when I was on Earth? Weren't we on the very brink of emigrating to Kaferia when Nanclus had taken me back to Romulus? Only an accident of circumstance had separated us then; why shouldn't we be able to determine our own future now, when another accident of circumstance has reunited us?
Once again, no answer is forthcoming.
* * *
The face in the mirror, I'm relieved to discover, is undeniably my own. Even the keen-eyed Picard will never guess that I didn't sleep alone last night: all it took was a few seconds with the dermal regenerator, a careful maquillage, and a high-necked tunic. Now I just have to remember not to go about smiling and simpering like an imbecile for the rest of the day.
By the time I dry my hair and finish dressing, the minutes I've allotted myself are almost gone. Still, I manage to get to the kitchen before either Spock or Picard. I busy myself with place settings, cutlery, and water carafes, trying to keep my mind on my tasks and off Spock. But when Picard comes through the door, he finds me standing in the middle of the room with a mug of senf in one hand and a bouquet of spoons in the other, my thoughts a million parsecs, and two storeys, away.
"Ambassador?" he says, making the greeting a question.
"Captain Picard," I reply, as if he might not know his own name. "Good morning. I hope you slept well."
"Very well, thank you. This is certainly a welcome respite from my berth on the Kruge."
"I'm glad." He does look rested, but his artificial pigmentation is a little faded and his eartips are not quite aligned. Nonetheless, he's immaculate not only in his person but in his dress; obviously he's made good use of the valet servos. "Sit down, won't you, Captain?" I say politely. "You might like to try some porridge for breakfast, or perhaps fruitbread. They're reasonably like their Terran counterparts."
"Thank you, Ambassador. But I believe I'll just have tea, if that's all right." I can't tell whether he's truly not hungry or whether he's trying to exercise his version of good manners by waiting for Spock to arrive.
"As you wish." I turn away from him and begin to program the replicator. I can sense his curious, intelligent eyes on me, and I don't much like the feeling.
When I set the teacup down before him, he nods his thanks. As he's taking his first sip, I say: "After you left us last night, Ambassador Spock informed me of Sarek's death."
He looks up--surprised, perhaps, at the turn of the conversation. "Captain K'vada intercepted the message on a subspace channel. I thought Spock might prefer to hear the news from someone who was ... acquainted with Sarek."
Now that's an interesting understatement. Picard must surely be wondering how much I know of his connection with Sarek. Although Fleet intelligence learned early and easily of the extraordinary circumstances that allowed the ambassador to complete his negotiations with the Legarans, I judge it wise not to reveal too much. "I did hear that Sarek traveled to Legara Four aboard Enterprise," I say. "Did you come to know him well during that trip?"
"Well enough," says Picard, watching my face. "His illness was somewhat advanced even then."
"So I understand."
"I spoke with him again on Vulcan just before I came here."
"Oh?"
"I had hoped he could help me discover why his son would choose to defect to an enemy power."
"'Defect' hardly seems the right word, Captain. So far as I know, the Senate hasn't yet offered Spock honorary Romulan citizenship."
That actually earns me a frigid smile. "I asked Sarek whether there was anyone on Romulus whom Spock knew, or might choose to contact. He could think of no one other than Senator Pardek." Picard takes another sip of tea, then fixes me with his hawk's gaze. "Of course, Sarek was gravely ill at the time, and his memory was failing."
We regard each other in silence. Finally I say, "Sarek had no reason to think otherwise. He knew that Senator Pardek was Spock's only Romulan friend."
Thankfully, Picard settles on the topic of Pardek: "Everything we know about the senator suggests that he's a principled man. And still you believe that he intends to betray Spock."
"It's not a question of belief. I was shown firsthand evidence."
"Yet Spock refuses to credit it."
"If Commander Data is able to gain access to the Tal Shiar's databases, then Spock will accept the truth. He must."
Picard sighs. "I don't pretend to understand your role in all this, Ambassador. But Spock says that you can be trusted, and I must say I tend to agree with him."
I think of Data, somewhere above us in an enemy ship with my command codes stored in his positronic matrix, and shiver inwardly. "You honor me," I say, but only because courtesy requires it.
"And I hope to prove to you that I am worthy of your trust." Another sip of tea, another silence. Then: "Given the present circumstances, what would you like to see happen next? With respect to Spock and his peace initiative, I mean."
That question should be easy to answer. Why, then, does it take me so long to respond? Picard's scrutiny is unrelenting, and in due course those shrewd eyes draw forth a truth I hadn't intended to speak.
"I want him safe, Captain Picard. Safe. And he will never be safe on Romulus."
"Then we're in agreement."
"Only on that point. Understand this: Spock is not another Selok, no matter what you and Starfleet may think. He truly believes that both Romulus and Vulcan would prosper if reunited. Now, I might grant the theoretical, and I stress theoretical, advantages of an eventual military alliance between the Empire and the Federation. But any revolutionary movement--even one that professes nonviolence--aimed at subverting our entire cultural and historical infrastructure can only end in disaster. The mores of Romulus are in direct opposition to those of Vulcan. And neither world has ever been known for its pluralism, the myth of IDIC notwithstanding. As long as Spock remains here, someone will be waiting to bring him down on political or ideological grounds. With or without the help of the Tal Shiar, someone will eventually succeed. Spock's best hope for survival is to board that Klingon ship with you and Commander Data and break orbit at the earliest opportunity." I close my mouth abruptly; where that little speech came from I have no idea.
Neither, apparently, does Picard. His eyebrows disappear beneath the fringe of imitation hair; he stares at me for a moment, then shifts his gaze to the door behind me. "Ambassador," he says. I'm about to respond when I realize that he's not addressing me.
"Captain Picard," Spock says, nodding briefly at us both. "Ambassador Tayva."
The sound of his voice is enough to set my heart pounding. A glance reveals that he appears as poised and coolly confident as he always does. Determined to mimic his composure, I lower my eyes and will the heat of memory not to rise to my cheeks.
Spock takes a chair at the far end of the table. "I hope you did not delay your breakfast on my account," he says. "I took a few moments to speak with Senator Pardek."
Something in his tone makes me look straight at him. "I didn't hear the comm signal," I say quietly.
"I called him. He says the Senate has been in session all night, but will probably adjourn for a meal break within the hour. He wants me to meet him in the city as soon as possible on the chance that Proconsul Neral will agree to see me today."
The conversation that ensues is predictable. I'm careful to frame my protests in the language of logic rather than emotion. That isn't difficult: there are many rational arguments against Spock's traveling anywhere other than back to the Federation. Not surprisingly, however, those arguments go unheeded. Spock wants to do this and therefore he will do this. Picard, though plainly skeptical, isn't quite as vociferously opposed as I am to the meeting with Neral. He's curious to see whether the government will actually entertain the idea of a peace initiative, and he's not fully convinced that Pardek is the traitor I've made him out to be.
Spock must sense my distress, for he turns to me: "Ambassador," he says, "consider the facts. In full daylight, in the company of a senator, in a government office open to the public, how likely is it that the Tal Shiar will act against me? They've had better opportunities--the utility tunnels, the streets of the Krocton, the outer provinces."
This is old ground, and I know there's no point in traversing it further. Nevertheless, I make an attempt. "I told you before that they want you alive for some reason. That doesn't mean they'll allow you to come and go as you please forever. And when they've accomplished their goal, whatever it is, they won't need you at all!"
"Ambassador Tayva has a point," says Picard. "You can't be certain of the government's true objectives."
"Indeed," says Spock. His dark eyes, unreadable now, rest on my face. "Then I must discover exactly what those objectives are."
Even Picard can't miss the finality in Spock's tone. "Allow me to accompany you," he says. "At least to your meeting with Pardek."
"Agreed," Spock says immediately, to my astonishment and, evidently, to Picard's. "Perhaps you won't think this so foolish an undertaking once you've seen something of the people who support our goals."
* * *
To his credit, Spock doesn't try to persuade me to stay behind; even when I tuck the disruptor into my belt, he makes no overt objection, though he favors me with an eloquently raised eyebrow. After some discussion we decide to beam to the now familiar transit hub and walk the half-kilometer or so to Amal's--Pardek's preferred Krocton refectory and, coincidentally, the very place at which Picard was apprehended yesterday.
Just before I program the lowering and raising of the forcefields, I give Picard a brief lesson on his speech and comportment. "We can't risk your drawing attention as you did before," I say, studying him critically. "If we had time, I'd get you a new cloak; the one you're wearing marks you as a retired centurion, and frankly you don't look very military--by Romulan standards, that is. No offense intended, Captain, but Starfleet's sociologists didn't do a thorough job of research."
"I'll be sure to let them know," Picard says, not quite smiling.
We step onto the transporter pad in the wardroom and prepare to play our roles once again--a lady and her house-manager out for a morning of shopping, accompanied, inexplicably, by a grizzled Fleet veteran. "Energizing," I say in Standard. Then I take a deep breath and activate the beam.
* * *
No one would make a special trip to the Krocton to visit Amal's, but the place does have a reputation for the quality of its breakfasts--tasty, cheap, and plentiful. As an added enticement, the refectory's window-doors have been opened wide in honor of the springlike weather, so that the tables and servery seem a part of the busy street life. "We'll be able to get some decent porridge and senf here," I say to Spock and Picard. "I don't know about the two of you, but I'm famished." As soon as the words are out of my mouth I remember the principal reason for my hunger, and look pointedly away from Spock.
"Porridge," says Picard. "Yes, that sounds good. I haven't had a real bowl of porridge since the last time I visited London. When I was here with Data yesterday we tried to order soup, but when the meal arrived it wasn't what we--" He breaks off suddenly as the proprietor approaches, and turns toward the menu-board on the wall so that she won't see his face.
"Setri haleth, Lady," says the woman, ignoring Spock and Picard. "How may I serve you?"
"We want a good breakfast to see us through the day," I say. "Some porridge with bellfruit, I think, and a large carafe of senf." I lay a credit chit on the table, thereby indicating that the woman should keep whatever amount is left over when the bill is paid. She bows deeply and then hurries away.
"You certainly command a better quality of service than I did," Picard says mildly. "Perhaps it's the cut of your cloak."
It's clear that he intends the remark as a criticism of Romulan society. I answer with equal mildness: "We have a saying in the Empire: necessities by right, luxuries by merit. No Romulan citizen goes hungry, uneducated, or sick. We all have the same floor beneath our feet. Only the ceiling varies from person to person, according to one's brains and initiative."
"And the ceiling in the Krocton is rather low."
"Not so low as it is on Andor, where half the population works so that the other half can remain indolent. And on Tellar--"
"Perhaps," Spock interjects quietly, "this is not the place to debate socioeconomic conditions in our respective jurisdictions. Look there to your left, Ambassador. Is that--"
But I'm already following his gaze. Even at this early hour the street is crowded: shopkeepers and vendors are preparing to display their wares, workers are coming and going, apprentices are hurrying to arrive at their places before their masters. Against all the busyness and visual confusion, one slight, greying figure--clearly bound for Amal's refectory--emerges in the foreground.
"Oh, gods. It's Venn."
"Who is Venn?" Picard asks.
"The nephew of a former ambassador to the Federation," Spock says, "and, at present, a Tal Shiar operative. He has infiltrated one of our cells."
Picard and I both stare at him. "You know?" I manage finally.
"We've known for some time."
"He's coming this way," Picard says.
In the space of seconds I weigh alternatives and consequences. If I were here alone with Spock, Venn might think I was in the process of carrying out Stilpa's assignment and leave me in peace to complete it. But Picard's likeness, or a close approximation of it, has probably been circulated across the globe, and if Venn identifies him and summons the authorities I'll lose what little control I have over events. "Remain here," I order Spock and Picard without stopping to wonder whether they'll obey me. "I'll get rid of Venn and communicate with you if I can. If not, I'll meet you at the house. You'll have to make your own way back there somehow."
"I'll see to it," says Spock.
"Go safely," I say in a low voice, willing him to hear all the meaning beneath the words.
"And you."
Our eyes lock for an instant, no more. Then I gather my cloak around me and head quickly for the door.
* * *
"Aerlyn!" Venn's cry is one of alarm as well as recognition, for we nearly collide with each other when I step across the threshold and onto the pavement. "The very person I've been thinking about! What in the worlds are you doing here at this time of day?"
"Hello, Taris," I say with what I hope is a sincere smile. "I have a few errands to do, so I thought I should make a start. I'm surprised to find you up and about so early."
"I was supposed to meet someone for breakfast, but the appointment fell through. I see no reason to starve myself, though. I take it you've eaten already?" He nods towards Amal's.
"I was going to eat here, but I had a taste for an omelet, and they have no celam eggs today, only redbird."
"Oh. Well, we could try Esa's, I suppose. It's a bit of a walk--"
"Yes, I've heard of Esa's," I lie enthusiastically. "I'd love to go there. I'm starving too!"
Venn agrees without further discussion. For him, the prospect of a meal enjoyed in company is as enticing as the meal itself. We begin to walk away from Amal's towards the intersection. Giving in to unwise temptation, I turn and look behind me to see whether I can glimpse Spock through the wide-open doors of the refectory. But my view of him is blocked by a tall man who stands at his table, holding out a pink flower--an expensive, hothouse-grown pirum blossom. A gift from an acolyte? A message? A signal? I can't tell, and even if I could what would it matter? For the time being, at least, Spock is beyond my control and my protection.
I only pray he isn't beyond my help altogether.
* * *
Half an hour ago I could have eaten anything put before me with a hearty appetite. Now, with a knot of anxiety swelling to fill all the available space in my stomach, the chewing and swallowing of my omelet is a pure act of will. Fortunately, Venn takes no notice; he's preoccupied with his own meal, and with our mostly one-sided conversation.
"I've had some trouble getting in touch with Stilpa," he says between bites. "Have you heard from him?"
"Not since I last saw him in person."
"Not even a message? A request for a report?"
"No."
"That's odd."
"Yes, very." So odd, in fact, that I haven't allowed myself to think about what it might mean. "What has he said to you?"
"Not much."
"Gods, Taris," I say, genuinely exasperated. "I never thought I'd see the day when you and I would play this" --an evocative Standard phrase comes easily to mind-- "this cat-and-mouse game with each other."
"No, I mean it," he says. "I've heard nothing from Stilpa for the last three days, and precious little before that."
"What is he really up to, I wonder? Besides exposing the unificationists, that is."
"Isn't that enough?" Venn asks innocently.
I recognize that tone: it's an offer to bargain. He's a lawyer, after all. "Very well," I say. "Tell me what you know, and I'll do the same."
"Agreed," Venn says, grinning. "You go first."
"It's just as I told you that night in the Velvet Mantle. Stilpa said that he was going to give me a chance to serve the Empire and redress a personal grievance at the same time."
"Meaning the Enterprise incident. Nothing else?"
"Nothing very substantive. He told me to pay attention to their rhetoric, their favorite turns of phrase, that sort of thing. Then he began talking about all his accomplishments--how many subversives he'd executed."
"The usual, in other words. Well, he said much the same to me. He promised that I would be able to avenge Lidiya's death and do Romulus a great service in the bargain."
"I suppose he believes Spock is the common denominator. He conspired with Kirk in the theft of the cloaking device, and he's the son of one of Lidiya's betrayers."
"Yes," Venn says slowly. "Was that all?"
"He made me come to his office the following morning. I asked him why he needed me when he had other operatives ready to do his bidding. He didn't answer me directly. He only said that I might find myself undertaking an important diplomatic assignment. Those were his exact words. 'An assignment that one might safely call historic.' I tried to pry more information out of him, but he only smirked at me and said everything would come clear soon enough." A new thought occurs. "The shiar'rim may have usurped a good deal of power, but they don't dictate who does what and goes where in the diplomatic service. Do you think he's delusional?"
"Possibly. Possibly not." Venn lays his fork down next to his plate and signals the servitor to take the half-eaten breakfast away.
I can't remember his ever leaving a meal unfinished. "Are you feeling all right, Taris?"
He makes a silencing gesture as the servitor removes his plate--and, thankfully, mine. When we're alone again, he says: "Stilpa told me that in the future I wouldn't be squandering my talents on taxation prosecutions. He said I would soon find myself in charge of drafting interstellar laws and treaties that--that could safely be called historic."
We stare at each other.
"He is delusional," I say finally. "He must be planning a coup. He must intend to move openly against the Senate, against the Fleet--"
"It certainly looks that way."
"--and he thinks we'll join him if he entices us with promises of high office. But then why is he so obsessed with Spock and the unificationists? They have no connection with the power structure--quite the opposite. If Stilpa means to bring down the government, he has bigger things to worry about than a few pacifists."
"Don't try to ascribe logic to a madman."
"Stilpa may be venal and stupid, but he's not irrational. No part of this makes any sense."
"I tried to get in touch with him last night," Venn says. "The egregious Kalevi informed me that the chairman was offworld, and would be unavailable until further notice."
"Offworld? Now that does seem odd. Where is he?"
"Odder still," Venn says thoughtfully. "He's gone to Galorndon Core."
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.