"I jettisoned everything." Steady, good, my voice is steady. "I beamed down every bag of nutrient solution from the medbay, every stasis pack from the food stores, all our insulated blankets, all the water the antigrav pods could handle. We lived on air and a liter of water a day until we got home. My crew thought themselves lucky to have it after what they saw."
"We found the empty containers," Spock says. "We thought--" He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to; he's shielding, but not well.
"That we knew they were there? That we were doling out just enough supplies to keep them alive for the sheer sadistic pleasure of it?"
"We--after we examined them, it became clear that our supposition was wrong. They did not survive for three years on stasis packs and clean water."
Since we both know what they did survive on for three years, there is no point in pursuing that line of conversation.
"I could have beamed them up to my scoutship. I should have. But I was afraid that if I took them back to Romulus--" Another sentence that doesn't require completion.
"You saved their lives," he says. I only wish his voice held more conviction.
"The quakes and eruptions were meant to kill them all--the children, the scientists, everyone. The whole thing was made to look like a natural disaster."
"By whom?"
"Who knows? The Senate always ignored the praetor's excesses, but clearly someone was aware of what was going on. Someone who had the resources to stage a cataclysm like that. Today we'd say it had the mark of the Tal Shiar, but they didn't exist then."
"It would have taken something on the scale of plasma mortars, beamed beneath the surface plates. The technology of the time."
"Perhaps. All the military personnel were sent offworld before the explosions, so it might have been someone in the Fleet. No one ever did a forensic investigation. Does it even matter now?"
"Only because it shows the lengths that fear will drive us to."
"Fear? What was there to fear from those people?"
"The truth," he says softly. "What did you tell your superiors when you returned?"
"The truth. Most of them said we should go back and--I suppose 'end their suffering' is the appropriate euphemism. Others said we should do nothing and let nature take its course. They were afraid the story would get out, and they knew the government wouldn't survive a second scandal connected with Hellguard. I was--well, I wasn't the most disinterested observer. Because I'd allowed myself to become emotionally attached--oh, Spock, I could only think of Saavik! I didn't know whether she was--if she was one of the survivors."
"The ship's sensors--"
"It was impossible to identify individuals. We had no baseline scans for comparison. But by the time I got home I'd convinced myself that she might still be alive, so I argued longer and louder than the others. I told them that getting the survivors to Vulcan was the best thing to do. High Command hated the proposal at first. They thought the Vulcans would make an interstellar case out of it. No one was sure where the Vulcan DNA had come from, only that it hadn't been donated voluntarily. But I told them your people would want to keep Hellguard's secret just as much as we did. And I knew that Sarek--well, regardless of what happened later, he must have at least listened to Lidiya Tilendi's reasoning during their talks. I hoped he would have some compassion for the children."
"Like all Vulcans, Sarek had a profound respect for life." Still shielding.
"I was counting on that. At any rate, Tal and Devor backed me--they liked the idea of handing the problem to the Vulcans and watching them squirm. So High Command agreed to let one Vulcan scoutship across the Line and back again." I look down at our clasped hands. "I never thought--I would rather you had not gone with them. Your name was anathema in the Empire--"
"Sarek never told us who sent that message," Spock says. "If he had--if I'd known you lived then--" The shields slip a little more, and I glimpse his anguished longing for what the last hundred years might have been.
"Kaiidth," I murmur, and that makes him meet my gaze. "Now you know all that I know about Hellguard. You said you saw nothing in my heart that repelled you. Do you still say so?"
His only answer is a sigh. Then, after a moment: "Did you ever wonder why McCoy and M'Benga's paper was never published?"
"You thought their methodology was flawed."
"It was, at first. But they rectified the problems. Nevertheless, the paper was rejected without reasons by every journal that considered it. A think-tank on Corinthos finally did accept it, but the editors insisted that the tests be rerun under their supervision. McCoy and M'Benga agreed at once. When they instructed Starfleet Medical to release the blood and tissue samples taken from you and your crewmen, the material could not be found."
"It was stolen?"
"And very likely destroyed. Fear of the truth, Aerlyn. Do you follow me?"
"Vulcans?"
"So McCoy alleged. I could not refute his logic."
"But no one died because of their actions, Spock. No one suffered--"
"No one died," he agrees.
Silence falls between us, though nothing around us is silent: the warm air carries on it the rush of the river, the rustle of boughs, the chatter of birds. "And Saavik flourished," I say at last, trying not to make it a question.
"She did." Spock touches my cheek briefly. Then he gets to his feet and holds out his hands to pull me up from the grass. "Come with me," he says, "and see."
* * *
We return to the house hand in hand. During the walk Spock's mind is mostly closed to me, though I sense through the link the familiar undercurrent of his reassurance. All will be well ...
When we reach the hallway that leads to Spock's bedroom, the muted sound of snoring reaches us from behind Picard's closed door.
"Go quietly," I whisper. "I don't want to wake him until dinner-time." For any number of reasons.
It's as well that custom requires us to be unshod indoors: our steps are soundless on the tile floor. Spock opens the door to his room, motions me inside, and shuts the door gently behind us.
It seems impossible that anyone could occupy a living-space without leaving some trace of his presence, but Spock has accomplished that feat. Except for his kitbags, stacked on the chair by the window, and the casement that's been opened wide, this room might still be under the stasis seal that's guarded it for years. I stand waiting near the door, feeling suddenly unsure of myself.
"Please," he says, with an offhand gesture towards the neatly made bed. He unseals one of the kitbags; from it he withdraws a small transparent cylinder.
"What's that?" I ask, eyeing the object curiously.
"A fluid-crystal holoviewer. The very latest technology, or so I'm told. Look." He sits down beside me on the bed, holds the viewer between us, and touches its metal base. Nothing happens. Spock frowns at the thing as he would at a promising but lazy student, more in disappointment than in anger. Then he moves his finger a little to the left, and a tableau appears in midair.
It's obvious that the image was captured on Vulcan. A garden--more accurately, an expanse of raked sand and an arrangement of rocks and boulders--is the setting for what is clearly a family portrait. But this family was formed by choice as well as blood.
Four adults stand in a more or less orderly row. In front of them is seated a group of people of varying ages. My eyes go first to Spock, who stands tall and gravely dignified at one end of the row. But his role as paterfamilias is shared, if not usurped, by his neighbor, a stooped and elderly Terran: Leonard McCoy, whose wrinkled face is split in a wide grin. Beside McCoy, her arm linked in his, stands a laughing grey-haired woman--McCoy's daughter Joanna, from the look of her eyes. And next to her is Saavik, smiling the smile I remember, her head tilted a little, as if she's about to ask a question.
I've seen quite a few pictures of Saavik over the years. A senior officer in the Federation's Starfleet can expect to have her likeness disseminated in many places, including the Romulan Empire. I've followed her career just as I've followed Spock's; but with the exception of Spock's wedding, every event reported in the Empire has concerned official military or political business. In those surveillance tapes, her face is always the same--closed, unreadable, Vulcan. To see her like this, then, in the company of those she loves-- "She's beautiful," I say, scarcely aware that I'm speaking aloud.
Spock puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes gently. "I wanted you to see this," he says. "So you would know--so that you would know."
"Spock--does she know where you are?"
"She does." There's a note in his voice I can't quite identify; through the link I can sense that he's shielding a thought. "Saavik has always had something of a closed mind on the topic of Romulus."
"She's entitled to her anger." I study the holoimage for a moment. "But she looks so happy here. They all do. This is Joanna, yes? Who are the others?"
"Joanna's son David and his wife Stephany," Spock says, pointing with his free hand to the Terran couple. "Their daughter, her husband, their child." He moves his hand to indicate the young Vulcan couple: "And this is Saavik's son Taran and his bondmate T'Mela."
"Saavik's son--" I can't begin to assimilate the idea.
"Saavik was bound to Semir, a Starfleet propulsion engineer."
"Where is he?" I say, peering at the image as if he might materialize.
Spock's hand tightens on my shoulder. "He died at Tomed, aboard Excelsior."
Why, in view of everything, should it be this news that finally undoes me? Spock pulls me into his arms, as much to muffle my sobs against his body as to console me. I'm trying to get control of myself--Picard mustn't hear us--but I can't stop crying. Spock makes a shushing sound, that universal vocalization meant to soothe and quieten. He holds me until the worst of the storm passes.
"I'm sorry," I say, drawing away from him. I can hear the ragged edge in my voice. "I've cried more in the last three days than I have in the last three decades--"
Spock tilts my chin upward. "Never apologize for what you feel, beloved. We have a century of losses to mourn." He moves his hand to my temple then and shows me the face of his own pain. His mother, Amanda, grown sick and weak, dying of old age while Sarek, so many years her senior, remained strong and well in his vigorous prime. Sybok, his brother, whose reunion with Spock was ended tragically by madness and an early and terrible death. James Kirk, his best and dearest friend, swept into the cold vacuum of space--dying alone, just as he'd known he would, without Spock by his side to help him cheat death one or a hundred more times. The living face of Leonard McCoy, blue eyes still blazing with the fire of every human emotion--the face Spock will never see again in life, for they're separated now not only by distance but by elusive time, slipping fast from McCoy's grasp. Other faces, too, Spock's friends and colleagues of shorter-lived species than his own, leaving, always leaving, while he stayed behind. And the loneliness, the eternal presence of absence, which sometimes wore the face of solitude but more often the face of isolation.
Was there no one for you? No one who remained when the others were gone? My heart aches with the thought.
Yes, beloved. There was one. And here is one face, one simple, open, amiable face, older than Spock but not by much, aging not ahead of him but in tandem over the course of nearly eighty years' acquaintance. One giver and receiver of stories, opinions, confidences, consolation--every touchstone of friendship.
Pardek. Oh, Spock--
"No matter what happens," Spock says aloud, "remember that he was a true friend to me. As I was, I hope, to him."
"I will," I promise. "I'll try."
As if sealing a pledge, he bends toward me and kisses my mouth.
What is it about humans--meaning, as McCoy likes to say, sapient sentient corporeal beings--that makes us all so willing and ready to embrace life in the face of death, hope in the face of grief? The tears are still wet on my cheeks, yet Spock's undemanding kiss sends a shockwave of pure desire through me--and, at the speed of thought, through him.
Astonishing, this sweet urgency, this sudden aching need, as strong now as it was a lifetime ago on frozen Terra, when betrayal first turned to trust, when despair gave way to joy. Alive, beloved. Alive and whole and in my arms--
Spock has my tunic open and my trousers undone almost before I can find the closure on his belt. By the time my impatient hands slip beneath layers of clothing to free his straining flesh, he's already braced above me, moving his mouth hard on mine, curbing the cries that might wake the sleeper across the hall. He pins me half-naked to the bed then, arms outstretched, wrists held; through the link I can feel the faceted stones of my lifebond cutting into his palm. But that small pain is only a fleeting distraction. I'm writhing beneath him, unable to stop, unable to wait, every shallow gasping breath a plea for oneness, a plea for redemption. He tightens his grip on my wrists to hold me still, then parts my thighs with his knee and unites us, body and soul, with a single thrust. His rhythm is hard and fast, matched to the pounding of our hearts, to our very breath of life: this act of love is an act of faith, a binding-spell against all death and darkness.
Aerlyn, he groans, t'hy'la, I cannot wait--
Then be with me now, I whisper, evoking memory. I free my hand and move my fingers between us once, twice. A surge of sensation begins and spreads and engulfs us whole, until all we see at last is light, and our faces reflected in each other's eyes.
* * *
"Pardek informed me," Spock says some time later, "that Romulans are a passionate people."
"Oh? And in what context, exactly, did that topic arise?" I turn in his arms and raise myself on an elbow so that I can see his smile.
"I expressed surprise at the unificationists' response to my arrival on Romulus. Pardek said that Vulcans would learn to appreciate that quality in your people."
"Unless my history tutor misled me, that quality was what got us thrown off Vulcan by Surak's extremists."
"Thrown off? Unless my history tutor misled me, your ancestors' departure from Vulcan was entirely voluntary. Financed, in fact, by the planetary treasury."
"At least you're admitting that you know who we are now," I say, fitting myself back into his embrace. "Your people used to act as if they'd never even heard of mine."
"That may have been an unwise course to take," he says, suddenly serious. "If Vulcan had not attempted to evade the question of Romulan origins when the Treaty of Alpha Trianguli was signed, the events of the last two centuries might have unfolded differently."
"Or they might not have. In any case, you're not a typical Vulcan. The qualities you appreciate aren't likely to appeal to everyone. Any more than Vulcan qualities are going to appeal to the majority of Romulans. Remember when you taught me your meditation practice?"
He runs a finger down my bare arm, sending a tiny shiver along the skin. "I remember. We agreed that Romulans were not natural contemplatives."
"Were not and are not. And that's only the beginning. The differences between us--"
"Are many and superficial," he says, "while our similarities are few and profound."
"That has a ring to it, I grant you. But you can't overcome thousands of years of divergence--"
"Cultural divergence," he says. "Not genetic. For the vulcanoid races, the distinction matters. Touch telepathy--"
"You have to want to communicate, Spock. You have to want to change."
"Perhaps we only have to want to change back to what we were."
"I don't know what that means."
"Vulcan lost its heart when your ancestors departed," he says quietly. "Romulus lost its soul when it turned its back on Vulcan. Two halves of a broken vessel, lying useless for our purpose until mended."
"Your followers may believe that. I may even disbelieve it a little less than I did a tenday ago. But we're too different. Vulcan can never be home to us--"
"Sit up," he says, and does so himself.
"Must I?" Reluctantly I follow his example.
"Look out the window," he says, pointing to the open casement, "and tell me what you see."
"Um. Well, part of the garden. The trees in bud. Birds getting their dinner--etahri larvae, I suppose. Something furry trying to catch the last sun over on the far wall. Maybe a lannit? I can't tell from here. The sky, the clouds. It's a bit dark in the north, so we might have rain this evening." I turn to him. "Why? Isn't that what you see?"
"You made these two planets your own," he says. "And from a handful of sublight generation ships you built a domain that spans half a quadrant. But nothing native to your worlds--not an insect, not a bird, not an animal--shares so much as an atom of DNA with you. The plants couldn't heal your diseases or the rivers slake your thirst until your scientists bent them to their will. Billions of years of evolution equipped you to live in a different gravity, a different climate, a different ecosystem, under a star of a different color. You are not of this place, Aerlyn. Do your people never feel the pull of home?"
"No, not in the way you mean. There's the biological pull, of course, at the time of--well, at intervals. But ever since Planetfall we've dealt with that by medication ..." I let my voice trail off. I'm curious, and have been for years; but the memory of our long-ago discussion of the pon farr, and the acute distress it triggered in Spock, is painfully vivid. I can't think of a tactful way to ask what I want to know.
Spock, however, doesn't need telepathy to discern my thoughts. "In that matter," he says, "the logic of Romulus has proved superior to the logic of Vulcan. McCoy was able to search the Rigelian medical databases, just as you suggested. Except during the years of my marriage, he provided me with an analogue to the Romulan palliative. I have heard, though I cannot swear to it, that it is now prescribed by Vulcan healers upon request."
"I'm glad. That would go far towards convincing Romulans that Vulcans are not beyond all hope." I soften the words with a smile, but it's clear that the subject still makes him uncomfortable. Therefore I decide to change it entirely. "Tell me about your meeting with Proconsul Neral. What did he say to you?"
A long pause. Then: "He said that our two worlds need each other." Spock acknowledges my look of surprise with a nod and adds, "He also said that he was prepared to give his public support to a peace initiative, and that together we would redraw the face of the quadrant."
"A meaningless statement if I ever heard one. Your quadrant or mine? Or does he think the distinction immaterial?"
"Despite his apparent candor, it's difficult to know precisely what he thinks. He wants to meet with me again to discuss the wording of the formal overture to Vulcan."
"Impossible. The Senate can't move that fast. For something like this the consent of the provincial Praetorate is required. That means a full bicameral debate. The delegates from the outer colonies can't get here in under five days, and the debate could go on forever. Didn't Neral explain that to you?"
"Our meeting lasted only a few minutes."
"Oh, yes. The recalled Senate that wasn't recalled." I lay my hand on his. "I wish--"
But he knows what I'm wishing for, just as I know the futility of the wish. "I must meet with him," he says. "And you must have faith."
"Faith in what, Spock? Neral's truthfulness? Pardek's good intentions? The mercy of the shiar'rim?"
"In the ability of your people to choose what is best for them. If this movement succeeds, it will be because all the citizens of Romulus embrace the cause of peace."
"Peace with the Federation? Well, I suppose stranger things have happened. We used to be allied with the Klingons, after all, and things don't get much stranger than that. But there isn't the slightest possibility that Vulcan and Romulus will ever be reunited."
"Untrue," Spock says. "There are always possibilities." He lies back on the pillow and draws me down into his arms. Then, taking my hand in his, he proceeds to demonstrate the truth of his words.
"And people say Romulans are insatiable," I murmur appreciatively. Spock repays the compliment with, among other things, a smile.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.