Webs within webs.
The Tal Shiar were named, rather imaginatively, for the kind of light, pervasive rain that covers a limited area thoroughly and well. Although their conduct these days more closely resembles a tornado or a hurricane than a temperate spring shower, the name still suits them in one respect: they tend to sink into the deep soil of Romulus and stay there. Their mandate is domestic surveillance; interstellar espionage is, or is supposed to be, the province of Fleet Intelligence. And though the shiar'rim would like nothing better than to encroach on the Fleet's power base, they seem to find enough internal threats to security, real or imagined, to keep them mostly at home. It isn't unheard of for the chairman to travel offworld, but it's unusual enough to warrant notice. That Stilpa has chosen to go to Galorndon Core now, of all places and all times, is inexplicable.
Galorndon Core lies--just barely--on the Federation side of the Neutral Zone. That is its principal but not its sole virtue. Classified as a planet only by the strictest technical definition, it has served the Empire's interests even more than the Federation's over the last two centuries. Conveniently, Starfleet has interdicted most ship traffic in the immediate neighborhood for reasons of safety. The electromagnetic sludge that blankets the world causes rapid synaptic deterioration in most humanoid lifeforms. It also plays predictable havoc with sensors, communication, and transport, thereby making it relatively easy for our own vessels to move undetected across the Line. So long as proper precautions are taken, all manner of clandestine activities can be carried out in orbit and even on the surface. When Ranen Devor flew Adjuvant, the Fleet's first warp-capable cloaked ship, deep into Federation space to retrieve the stolen cloaking device from Al-Diraj, Galorndon Core provided the ideal staging area for the mission: Federation sensor buoys were easily defeated with the help of the storms. More recently, when my colleague Commander Tomalak was investigating the feasibility of establishing a permanent base on the world, he was only temporarily hindered by an unexpected encounter with Jean-Luc Picard's Enterprise.
Combine the attributes of Galorndon Core with those of Major-General Stilpa of the Tal Shiar, and the result is what Picard would probably call a witches' brew. One thing is certain: more is at stake than the mere suppression of Spock's underground peace movement. The risks associated with missions to Galorndon Core are at least equal to the benefits, and a coward like Stilpa wouldn't put himself in harm's way for anything less than the promise of an immoderate amount of glory--glory of the kind that accompanies a dramatic feat of selfless heroism, say, or an honorable victory over a mighty enemy. But Stilpa is incapable of attaining either of those things. Therefore, his plan--whatever it is--must be grounded in stealth and duplicity. And while all Romulans have an inborn affinity for those modes of operation, any intrigue devised by Stilpa is certain to be fatally tainted with the poison of dishonor.
But for the life of me--which might turn out literally to be the case--I can't imagine what role three such disparate personalities as Pardek, Neral, and Sela are intended to play in his scheme. Pardek, the well-meaning but powerless advocate of the common people, now turned traitor to a close friend. Neral, the brilliant, ambitious young politician, outspoken supporter of reform and openness in government, conspiring with the repressive and brutal shiar'rim. And the enigmatic Sela, whose bizarre biography varies, like her facial features and hair color, with the hour and the season. Sela, who has managed to turn certain victory into ignominious defeat so often that anyone else in her position would have been exiled if not executed. Sela, who cherishes a longstanding and personal hatred for Starfleet and the Federation, and who, in the wake of recent events in the Klingon Empire, now reserves a special portion of her venom for Picard and the android Data--
Spock is the key, says an insistent voice. Don't allow yourself to be distracted with irrelevancies. Spock is the key. But exactly what door his presence on Romulus is meant to unlock remains a mystery to me.
* * *
"So we're agreed, then," says Venn, looking satisfied.
I'm only vaguely aware that he's been droning on for some time. "Forgive me, Taris. I didn't hear what you said. My mind wandered for a moment."
He frowns at me reproachfully. "What's wrong with you? Didn't you get any sleep last night?"
"I--no, not much."
"Very well, I'll recapitulate. Stilpa's jaunt to Galorndon Core puts a whole new light on things. He wouldn't cross the street if he thought there was a chance in a billion he'd be struck by a groundcar, so he must have a very compelling reason to dive into an electromagnetic maelstrom on the wrong side of the Line."
"We agree that he's a coward. So?"
"So let us use our powers of deduction in a way that the sainted Surak would approve of. Assume that Stilpa doesn't give a toss whether you and I avenge the personal wrongs Spock's done to us. Assume that he only said what was necessary to secure our cooperation without overt coercion. Now, why would he be interested in us in particular? A soldier-diplomat and a lawyer?"
"Honorable citizens co-opted into his revolt? Who knows? He only said that my reputation would make it easy for me to infiltrate the underground."
"And so it would. So it has." Another frown. "What usually goes on at Galorndon Core?"
"It's a place to hide people and things. You could conceal an entire legion or a flight of Warbirds without much effort."
"I doubt that even Stilpa could assemble a legion or a flight of Warbirds undetected." Venn regards me for a long moment. "Are you still at the Water Garden?"
Someone was bound to ask that question sooner or later. "No, I'm staying at the house in the country. I need to run some maintenance routines on the place, and I wanted to be alone for a while. I haven't attended to the family sacrarium in more than a decade." That last is a stroke of inspiration: even so old and close a friend as Venn wouldn't dream of intruding on that particular privacy.
"I understand," he says. He leans over and touches my hand. "Do you have access to the Fleet command net from there?"
"Yes," I say warily. "Why?"
"I'm going to make some inquiries myself," he says. "I have a few trustworthy sources. But things may move faster if you can find out exactly what and who--besides our friend Stilpa--has been coming and going from Galorndon Core lately."
"That shouldn't be difficult." Not as difficult as breaking into the Tal Shiar's databases, at any rate.
"Good," says Venn. "That's our first step, then. I was willing to assist Stilpa in bringing Spock to justice and avenging Lidiya's death. I'm not willing to assist him in treason and insurrection. The thought of the Empire in the hands of the shiar'rim is enough to take my appetite away."
"I'm impressed by the depth of your passion, Taris."
"Mock me if you will, but we've got to move quickly. The Federation has sent Jean-Luc Picard to bring Spock back to face charges there. Stilpa and Picard will be in a race to the finish. We must see to it that neither of them wins."
* * *
We. How did Venn and I become we in this intrigue? Friends since childhood, we've never before been on opposite sides of any cause, ideological or personal. But his right to claim blood-vengeance for the death of Lidiya Tilendi--whom we both loved and honored--has, unknown to him and through no fault of his own, broken our friendship forever. If necessary, I will defend Spock with my life. If necessary, Venn will give his own life to obtain justice. Stilpa's machinations aside, this affair is sure to end badly for one or both of us.
All of this goes unsaid by me and unperceived by Venn. When we part, we embrace as we always do and make arrangements to communicate as soon as we obtain some useful information. I decline with thanks his offer of transport back to the country, pleading the desire to finish my errands. I wait to see where he's headed, then turn and set a course back to the neighborhood of Amal's. There's a chance that Spock and Picard may be right where I left them.
But when I approach the refectory I see that their table is occupied by new customers. "Lady," says the proprietor as soon as she sees me. "Your friends left in the company of Senator Pardek. They didn't even finish their breakfast."
"Yes, I know." I give her a reassuring smile, as if abandoning half-eaten meals is a normal occurrence for members of my household. "Thank you, madam. Perhaps we'll return later for a refreshment."
I stroll away as if I have nothing more pressing to concern me than a morning of shopping. I gaze unseeing at the shopkeepers' displays while my mind races with speculations and fears. If Pardek really has managed to arrange a meeting with Neral, Spock may be in the Senate office-building at this moment, engaged in a philosophical debate about reunification--or fitted with a mind-probe that will extract every military and political secret he possesses in the few minutes before his heart explodes. Stop it! I order myself, forcing down the rising dread. Stilpa wants him alive. He's still alive. He must be alive.
If we were truly bound as a man and a woman are meant to be, the thin unbreakable thread of the mindlink might allow me to discern from a distance Spock's mental state, his emotions, his life-force, perhaps even his whereabouts. But we weren't together on Earth long enough to permit the bond to form naturally, as it would have over time, or to allow an adept to create a true marriage-bond between us. Thus I never sensed Spock's death at Mutara or his refusion at Seleya; he never sensed the shuttle crash or the death of his daughter on Hellguard. And I can't sense his psychic presence now.
For obvious reasons, I dare not try to call him on his private commlink. A similar call to Pardek might produce information, but it might equally produce lies. How, then, to find out where Spock is and what's happening to him?
The solution is as simple as it is unappealing. I stop dead in the middle of the pavement, get my bearings, and head for the transit hub that marks the terminus of the eastern branch line.
* * *
Now that I know how to enter the underground tunnels, I find it almost beyond belief that such easy access to Spock's followers has escaped the notice of both the civil authorities and the Tal Shiar. In fact, it is beyond belief, and only proves that Stilpa isn't genuinely interested in wiping out the unificationists. If he were, it would be done by now.
I make my way undetected through the dusty hydroelectric corridors until I come upon a familiar turning. I can hear the low murmur of voices from beyond the passage. I pause to make sure that the small disruptor hidden under the belt of my tunic is charged and ready. Then I enter the chamber.
The shuffle of my boots on the dusty cement causes several heads to turn at once. As before, I recognize a few people--the scholarly-looking young man from the Velvet Mantle, the tall man who brought the pirum flower to Amal's refectory. Two children, a boy and a girl, peer in the dim light at an old book, turning the brittle pages gingerly. And a stout man, upon seeing me, breaks off his conversation with a dark, intense woman and a retired centurion.
"Senator Pardek," I say by way of greeting. "Lady Hadrea, Captain Picard." I descend the short flight of stairs slowly, hands held loosely at my sides, to show that--for the moment, at least--I mean no one any harm.
"Ambassador Tayva!" Hadrea cries. I can hear in those two words all the fear and resentment she's never troubled to hide, and I feel a reluctant and illogical twinge of sympathy for her.
"Ambassador," Pardek says, looking worried. "What is it? Why have you come here?"
I look from one face to the other, in no hurry to answer. "I'm glad to see that Captain Picard is in safe hands," I say finally. "I was forced to leave him and Ambassador Spock rather suddenly this morning. I guessed that you might have brought the captain here."
In truth, I guessed no such thing; I haven't spared a minute's thought for Picard. But my explanation must sound plausible, for Pardek looks unaccountably relieved. "Oh, I see," he says. "Yes, Captain Picard agreed to wait here with us until Spock and Neral have finished their discussion. It wouldn't do for him to be found in the vicinity of the Senate offices."
"When do you expect to hear from Spock?" I say evenly.
"Soon, I hope. Meril will escort him back here, and then I'll arrange for both Spock and Captain Picard to return to" --Pardek glances quickly at Hadrea-- "the safe house. He can rest there until he addresses our gathering tonight."
"What gathering?"
"Why, it's our regular gathering-night. We're expecting a larger than usual attendance. Everyone will be eager to hear Spock's report."
I'm preparing to give him my opinion of his gathering-night and the dangers it poses to Spock when Picard interrupts with uncharacteristic diffidence: "Senator Pardek, I wonder ... you see, I didn't get to finish my breakfast this morning. Would you--might I have some tea, perhaps? If it isn't too much trouble."
Pardek looks scandalized at his own breach of courtesy. Even Hadrea mutters an apology and beckons one of the children over. "D'Tan," she says to the boy, "go and prepare some tea for our guest. And some soup and bread."
"The ambassador was deprived of her breakfast as well," Picard adds. I stare at him in puzzlement, but no one seems to notice.
"Enough for two, D'Tan," says Pardek, and the child scampers away. "My deepest apologies to you both. We intended no offense."
"And I assure you none was taken," Picard says smoothly. "We all have a great deal on our minds."
"Ambassador Tayva knows the way to our little dining-hall," Pardek says. "Please make yourselves comfortable there for as long as you like."
* * *
"I think they were glad to see us go," says Picard, brushing the topmost layer of dust from the seat of his chair. "They have things to discuss, and you and I are obviously an impediment to their candor."
"Candor? You'll find that commodity in short supply on Romulus."
"Yes, I've observed that your people can be rather byzantine in their dealings."
"'Byzantine.'" I consider the meaning of the Standard word. "I'll accept that characterization, Captain. Complications and strategies do make life more interesting, don't you think? For example, you just pleaded hunger because you guessed that Spock's followers wanted to be left alone to talk, and perhaps because you wanted to talk to me. You could have simply excused yourself and asked me to join you. But you've learned something about Romulan rules of courtesy, and you were able to use that knowledge in a gratuitously devious way. Definitely a strategy worthy of a Romulan."
Picard applies himself to his meal. I can't see his face very well; the overhead light hasn't yet been replaced. After a moment he says, "That's quite the opposite of the Vulcans, isn't it? They pride themselves on their forthrightness."
"Yes. You'd never imagine we once swam in the same genetic pool, would you?"
"One does wonder how the two peoples would get on together after so many centuries of separation. If Spock's dream of reunification is realized, that is."
I'm determined to keep the conversation superficial; something tells me that Picard, given half a chance, might easily perceive my anxiety and its cause--if he hasn't done so already. "Well," I say lightly, "Vulcans have no sense of humor, they'd wear hair shirts if they could be sure that the hair was a vegetable byproduct, they'd faint at the sight of a bloody hreinn steak, and they'd sooner die of thirst in the desert than take a drink of good strong ale. And if they ever laughed or wept, their faces would probably shatter into a million pieces. Now, that doesn't sound much like what you've seen of my people, does it?"
"No," Picard says, giving me a smile that actually has a degree of warmth in it. "But then I know a number of Vulcans who don't fit your description. It's my understanding that they possess the same deep emotions as any other humanoid species. They simply never allow them to rule their conduct. My people would do well to learn that lesson from them."
It's my understanding, indeed. His mindmeld with Sarek probably showed him the true depth of Vulcan emotion. And the gods know I've had firsthand experience in that respect with Spock. But neither of us is about to volunteer any information on the topic. "Nevertheless," I say, "I can't quite envision the two species living in harmony, can you? It's like one of those jokes the Klingons tell: 'A Vulcan and a Romulan went into a bar.' The joke always ends in unpleasantness and humiliation for one or the other. Usually both."
"And yet these people" --Picard gestures towards the chamber beyond the dining-alcove-- "sincerely believe that the future of your world depends upon reunification with Vulcan. Spock believes it too."
"They think of Spock as a Vulcan. He thinks of himself as a Vulcan, for that matter, and he professes to follow the Vulcan way. But if a full-blooded Vulcan were here proselytizing in his place, those people wouldn't have the slightest interest in reunification. They're not drawn to Surak's logic, Captain Picard. They're drawn to Spock. They recognize aspects of themselves in him. After all, Terrans and Romulans are far more alike than Vulcans and Romulans." I take a sip of my tea. "You'd think someone would have noticed that by now."
* * *
In the way of things, that which you desire most tends to arrive--if it deigns to arrive at all--unannounced, and usually at the moment you least expect it. Which means that you have no time to prepare for it, no time in which to practice and refine your reaction. A few days ago I had that unnerving experience in the museum, when Spock appeared out of nowhere. Now, while Picard and I are still engrossed in our amiable conversation about the unlikelihood of reunification, Spock enters the dining-alcove and greets us both with matter-of-fact courtesy. The only thing that stops me from crying out my joy and relief and flying straight into his arms is the reflexive discipline I've used for a century to hide every dangerous emotion: Feel nothing. Reveal nothing. I only hope it also serves to keep my face as impassive as his.
There's no chance, of course, that we might be left alone. Pardek and Hadrea are on his heels, the others not far behind, and Picard isn't going anywhere. Everyone is full of questions about Spock's meeting with Neral. No one seems willing to be bought off with his promise that he'll speak about everything in detail at the gathering tonight. And when I finally do get to exchange a word with him, I'm afraid to say very much. "I didn't hear you come into the tunnel downstairs," I murmur.
"You were deep in conversation," he says.
I try to imagine the way we look at this moment to anyone who might be paying attention. My face upturned to Spock's. Spock's head inclined a little as he bends to catch my words. A distance of centimeters, lightyears, between us. Our bodies straight and still, not yearning, not leaning towards each other like hungry plants to sunlight. Our hands not touching, not clasping, not opening a psychic conduit for thought and desire and sensation. Not strangers but certainly not friends, for no one but Senator Pardek can claim true friendship with the estimable and Vulcanly aloof Ambassador Spock, least of all Ambassador Tayva, a soldier and loyal servant of the imperium, the reason for whose presence here can only be guessed at and debated and worried about--
Pardek announces that Spock must leave now, so that he may rest before the gathering. Spock and Picard and I move as a phalanx past the small group, allowing Pardek to make the appropriate farewells. I catch Hadrea's eye briefly; I know that if she could find a means of keeping me and everyone else away from Spock, she would. But neither Pardek nor Spock has confided in her, and now Captain Picard is part of what she must surely see as an exclusionary conspiracy. I make a mental note to warn Spock that her emotional state may eventually create a problem for him, and then put her out of my mind.
Pardek's last-minute farewells and instructions seem to take forever. I can't wait to escape this underground dungeon, and I can't repress an audible sigh of frustration.
Spock, who is standing beside me, moves a little closer. His arm brushes mine, and with a subtle movement that's hidden--I hope--by the folds of both our cloaks, he takes my hand in his. At the instant of contact a thought flashes across the link, suffused with tenderness and amusement and layer upon layer of meaning: Patience, t'hy'la. We'll be home soon.
* * *
The transit hub is nearly deserted. This is a piece of luck, for the midday sunshine reveals every defect in Captain Picard's prosthetics and pigmentation. Senator Pardek, who took a moment to examine the captain's disguise for flaking and slippage just as we left the tunnel, now makes a jovial fuss over the weather, the price of transport, and the state of the stationmaster's health, thereby diverting attention from the rest of us. We position ourselves on the platform, and in a moment the shabby terminus fades away in a glittering mist.
I'm sure I'm not the only one who experiences a feeling of relief when we materialize near the main entrance to the house. Over the last few days this place has come to symbolize literal and figurative sanctuary. Even Spock looks as if his burden of tension has been lightened.
The others wait in silence while I lower the forcefields. We file through the hall into the atrium. When cloaks and shoes are removed and stored, we move without discussion--as Picard would say, du même avis--to the library.
* * *
In my childhood this room was a magnet for everyone who entered our house--relatives, friends, my father's students, my mother's Fleet colleagues, even the domestic pets. It still seems to possess a peculiar drawing-power that isn't entirely due to its stores of reading material and artwork.
All three of my guests look as if they're at home here. They've settled comfortably into chairs and sofas. Not one of them can stop himself from picking up something--a book, a family album, a printed libretto from a long-ago opera performance on Acthariet--and riffling through it absent-mindedly. For no good reason this pleases me; even Pardek's presence isn't quite as much of an irritant as usual. In fact, I'm actually moved to issue him an invitation to stay to lunch, which of course he accepts without hesitation.
By common consent the meal is served in the library, on trays. There's no need for any greater degree of formality, for the replicated bread, salad, and fruit is hardly the main event. Two hours' worth of debate and discussion ensues, all of which centers on Spock's newly opened dialogue with Neral.
Everyone assumes a predictable stance. Picard represents skepticism and negativity; Spock represents skepticism tempered with cautious hope; Pardek represents total credulity and optimism. I keep my opinions to myself. I'm growing bored with all the talk, and I have a strong sense that events are going to move forward faster than anyone guesses. If I could only determine the precise nature of those events, I'd stand a chance of taking some action of my own.
Halfway through the discussion I excuse myself and carry the lunch dishes to the cycler. After I've completed that chore, I detour to the wardroom and my Fleet-linked terminal.
I'm still vaguely uncomfortable about carrying a disruptor in my parents' house. Telling myself that the shields are protection enough, I lay it away in a drawer, and log on to the terminal. My autoagent--that helpful and hideously expensive little bot who discreetly roams and gleans the myriad information networks of the Alpha and Beta quadrants--has stored up a fair number of documents which it thinks might be of interest to me. I glance briefly at the files and note that the author of a good third of them sits at this moment in the library upstairs. I resolve to modify the search parameters and keywords as soon as I have the time. Then I settle down to write a brief, precisely phrased series of commands and inquiries connected with the planetoid called Galorndon Core, and hope that the results arrive before it's too late.
* * *
When I return to the library, no one questions my prolonged absence. In fact, I wonder whether we all haven't fallen into some kind of time-loop, for my guests' positions, both physical and philosophical, haven't changed since I left. The three men look up briefly and nod a vague greeting in my direction, but their discussion doesn't terminate until Pardek finally gets to his feet and begins to make sounds and gestures of departure.
"I regret keeping you from your duties, Senator," Spock says, standing up. "When I was in Neral's office, his assistant announced that the Senate had been recalled. I'm afraid you've missed most of the session."
"Recalled? No, the session was adjourned this morning. We won't be recalled again until sometime tomorrow, or perhaps even later. That's normal practice after an all-night sitting." He looks thoughtful. "I've used that excuse myself when I wanted to get rid of an unwanted petitioner. But I can't imagine Neral hurrying you out of his office."
"Perhaps he had someone else waiting for him," Picard says.
"Perhaps he did," says Pardek.
* * *
Spock, Picard, and I accompany Pardek to the door.
"Don't be late for the gathering tonight," Pardek says. "We'll have an enormous attendance. Everyone will want to hear about your meeting with Neral. Perhaps I should order an extra cask of ale from D'Mel. And you must all try to get some rest, for we're likely to be there far into the night. What are your plans for this afternoon?"
"I should like to try to communicate with Data," Picard says, "if Ambassador Tayva thinks it's a good idea."
I think it's a bad and dangerous idea, but what choice do I have? "We'll discuss it," I say as agreeably as I can.
"Farewell, my friends," Pardek says with a smile. He makes the valediction sound heartfelt, even though he knows, as do the rest of us, that every one of those three words is a lie.
* * *
Data's progress with the Tal Shiar files is now on Picard's mind, so there's no help for it: I must find a way to put our earlier theorizing into practice and get a message up to Kruge undetected. I have adequate experience in covert communications, and am able to establish without much difficulty a link to the Klingon ship--a link that's prone to signal breakup, but secure.
Picard, who also knows a thing or two about hiding his tracks, is the model of brevity and concision. He summons an air of belligerent authority that persuades Kruge's communications officer to bypass Captain K'vada in defiance of protocol and locate Commander Data at once. In a remarkably short time he extracts from Data all the relevant information the android possesses: thus far he's succeeded in penetrating most but not all of the guardian ciphers, which means that he's getting approximately nowhere. Spock and Data confer briefly and incomprehensibly--what they're engaged in now is far beyond my limited understanding of computer science--and Data signs off with a promise to put Spock's suggestions to the test and report back as soon as possible. Picard seems satisfied with this arrangement.
"If you two will excuse me," he says after the link is closed, "I'd like to retire to my room for a while and do some reading." He holds up a sheaf of folios he's borrowed from the library. I only hope his language implant is up to the challenge.
I make the appropriate householder's noises: Should you require. Feel free to. Please don't hesitate. Picard acknowledges the ritual gracefully. Does he understand that I want to be alone with Spock, or is he truly in need of a rest period? His face and voice can be as unrevealing as a Vulcan's. We exchange a few more courteous words and then he's gone, up the staircase to the bedroom across from Spock's.
* * *
When Spock and I were on Earth, we were never allowed any real privacy. True, we were able to share some time together. As Spock pointed out on more than one occasion, the Terrans would never imagine that a Vulcan might be my lover: they simply couldn't overcome their strongly held conceptions of who and what Vulcans were. They would assume that Spock was spending hours--even entire nights--in my apartment solely in the hope of converting me to his Vulcan philosophy. Strange as that sounded, it turned out to be the case: no one suspected our true relationship.
Nonetheless, someone--Tilendi, Elydex, Kirk, McCoy, Venn--was always on the other end of the commline or knocking at the door, and Federation security guards were always there to let the visitors in. Other, more threatening, presences hovered over us unseen: the Federation Council, the Romulan Senate, Sarek, Ra-ghoratrei. Spock and I both knew that we could be separated without warning. The underlying tension and anxiety had given our relationship a secret, desperate quality that was at once exhilarating and disheartening.
Now it appears that even under my own roof on Romulus privacy still eludes us. Last night we took a risk by sleeping in the same bed while Picard was in the house; and though there's nothing to stop us at this moment from following our immediate instincts and going to my temporary bedroom on the lower floor, we hesitate--partly because of Picard, partly because once again another need supersedes the physical.
"We need to talk," I say to Spock. "Really talk. About Neral and Sela. About Pardek--"
"Agreed," he says softly. But when he takes both my hands in his and raises them to his lips I perceive, without much surprise, the very first thing he wants to talk about. The one door I've tried to keep closed will soon be opened.
"Let's go outside," I say. "We can walk down to the river. At least we'll be alone there for a little while."
* * *
The sky is the color of a shim'ha pearl. The air is so warm that the pale blue buds on the trees are opening almost visibly. Even the birdsong has increased in volume and pitch since yesterday. Spring has moved suddenly and forcefully into the hemisphere, and no stubborn winter rain will dislodge it now.
Spock and I walk hand in hand through the garden and across the meadow. The river glitters in the sun, and its clean scent drifts up to us like perfume. Behind us the house is a looming but friendly presence; its only lingering strangeness consists in its emptiness. In my childhood, there was never a time when the place wasn't full of people.
We sit down on the newly sprung grass, as near the edge of the riverbank as we can get without muddying ourselves. For a while we gaze in silence at the misty shore opposite. When I rest my head against Spock's shoulder, he moves his fingers gently through my hair until he finds and loosens the pins that bind it. T'hy'la, he whispers, coloring the word with overtones of mutual trust and obligation. He makes no overt demand. He doesn't have to: he's entitled to this, and he knows it. Still, he would spare me if he could. He can't.
And I can't find the words he needs. He takes me by the shoulders, turning me until we sit face to face, a little apart now but touching, always touching. He enters my mind with such care, such vast tenderness and compassion, that I want to turn away and weep.
Saavik remembered you, he says. For years she could not speak of Hellguard. She was able to find her memories only after she was well into adulthood. He opens his mind to me then, and I see him seeing me in her thoughts, feel his long-ago shock at the sight of my face. She didn't know who you were, but she remembered you. Tell me why.
I don't know if I can--
Tell me, beloved. Tell me why.
I will, I say, wondering how I'll be able to keep this promise when I've broken so many others. I'll try.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.