Midnight in the abandoned hydroelectric corridor. How is it possible that this place can be any darker at night than it was during the day? And yet the shadowy corners and turnings now seem depthless black voids; the safety-lights that earlier gave off a subdued glow are burning a cold, harsh white. People's faces have lost all shading and nuance. Even Venn, who sits close by my side, is almost invisible in the blackness. Across the room I can barely make out the silhouetted figures of Spock and Picard surrounded by a noisy group that includes--unsurprisingly--Pardek and Hadrea.
This gathering, so called, has been going on for hours. In contrast to the dinner at the Velvet Mantle, which was marked by high-minded philosophical debates and readings from Surak's canon, tonight's assembly is fractious and adversarial. Tempers and opinions began to flare almost at once, and the presence of two large and rapidly emptying kegs of ale has done nothing to douse the flames. The cause of this turmoil is, of course, Neral's astonishing conversation with Spock.
"If they keep on like this," Venn says in a voice pitched only for my ears, "they'll self-destruct, and Stilpa's job will have been done for him."
"They've forgotten about pretending to be Vulcan," I say, trying not to stare too openly in Spock's direction. "They're just being their Romulan selves."
"Quite so. And speaking of Stilpa's job, were you able to obtain any information on that topic we discussed this morning?
No. I spent the afternoon in bed with Ambassador Spock, and I rather lost track of the time. "No. I've uploaded the search parameters, though, and my autoagent is working on it. I'll collect the results later tonight. Or this morning. Whenever this wretched affair ends."
"It will end when Spock and Picard leave, not before. I'd give something to know how they've organized their billeting. They're groundbound, that's certain. Even if Picard has a ship waiting somewhere in-system, he couldn't come and go as freely as he does without his transport being detected."
Is he testing me, or does he truly not know that Spock and Picard are under my protection--and, by extension, under the protection of military-grade shields and a private transporter? And is his omitting any mention of Data intentional, or is he unaware that the android accompanied Picard to Romulus? Who has told him what, and how much? His half-hidden face reveals, as expected, precisely nothing. Trusting that mine does the same, I reply: "According to Pardek, the movement has safe houses in a number of provinces."
"Ah. Well, he should know."
And here is another puzzle. Is Venn aware that Pardek is working for Stilpa? For that matter, does Pardek know that Venn is working for Stilpa? What about Neral? And Sela? Is it possible that any one or all of them are ignorant of the others' participation in Stilpa's scheme, whatever that may turn out to be? The thought makes me faintly dizzy. I've been away from the Empire so long that I've lost my taste for, not to mention my skill at decoding, the plots and conspiracies that flourish on Romulus. Including, dangerously, the very one in which I'm immersed ...
Across the room, the group surrounding Spock and Picard is growing larger, and voices are beginning to rise.
"But it's everything we could have hoped for!" cries a man standing at Hadrea's left.
"It is more than we could have hoped for." Spock's deep voice carries easily to my ears.
Pardek, placating and conciliatory as usual: "But if Neral is ready to publicly endorse reunification--"
Picard interrupts rudely: "It is hard to believe he could rise to the rank of Senate proconsul without the support of Romulan traditionalists."
"That may be true, but--"
"Then how can he turn his back on them so easily? How can he endorse reunification when it is considered subversive?"
"Because he's not afraid of them!" cries the first man, with a note of real anger in his voice. "Because he knows that we'll support him!"
Beside me Venn expels a snort of amusement.
"Captain Picard is correct," Spock says, overriding the rumble of protest. "It is not logical for the proconsul to support reunification at this time."
A young woman's voice, trembling with emotion: "Why would Neral lie?"
"Perhaps because he's hoping to use this to expose members of your movement," says Picard.
"No!" she cries. "This is our chance for acceptance! Finally to be heard!"
"I believe it is the Federation that fears an alliance between Romulus and Vulcan!" shouts the first man.
"That is not true!" Now Picard is angry, and showing it. Another moment and the crowd may turn genuinely ugly. Wishing in vain for better light and a clear line of sight, I reach beneath my belt and disable the safety-lock on the disruptor.
Then Spock's voice rings out: "I came here to determine the potential for reunification. In spite of what has occurred, I intend to continue with my efforts. I intend to meet with the proconsul as planned."
More uproar ensues, but at least it's in approval of Spock's statement and no longer directed at Picard. As if he's had enough of the whole discussion, Spock turns away from the crowd and proceeds up the stairs. If I move quickly, I might get a moment to speak with him--
"The flashpoint seems to have passed," Venn murmurs. "You may want to put that safety-lock back on."
"Was I that obvious?" I say, resetting the safety.
"Only to someone close to you."
So paranoid am I these days that I'm quite ready to read a double meaning into Venn's words. But what I can see of his face in the darkness tells me nothing. What I can see across the room tells me that I've missed my chance; Picard is following Spock out of the chamber, and Pardek is moving swiftly to block the people who would go after them and carry on the debate.
"Perhaps we'd better mingle," Venn says, standing up. "It can't hurt to let them get to know you a little better."
This is a matter of opinion. But I'm supposed to be playing the role assigned to me by Stilpa, so I follow Venn out of the darkness and into the pool of light that illuminates Hadrea, Pardek, a group of nameless unificationists, and the kegs of ale.
Tell them what they want to hear, Stilpa said. Tonight, though, they're more interested in talking than listening. One after another they spin out their visions of reunification: a life of contemplative serenity, of meditational states approaching transcendental ecstasy, of themselves and their Vulcan cousins--who, I'm assured, are every bit as impatient as they to achieve reunion--engaged in an uplifting dialectic while sipping fruit juice under the shade of a tarvil tree. I consider pointing out that by Vulcan standards their impatience is deeply illogical, and that a crystal of kherec, obtainable with much less fuss, would give them an acceptable version of transcendental ecstasy, but I manage to restrain myself. Even Hadrea seems energized, almost exhilarated, by the news of Spock's meeting with Neral: when she addresses me she is very close to civil. I can do no more than nod my surprised thanks when, of her own accord, she offers me a glass of ale. Only Pardek, who keeps casting glances up the stairway as if he can somehow recall Spock and Picard to the circle, appears tense.
Venn, of course, has already noticed this fact. "The ambassador and the captain seem ill at ease with each other," he says to Pardek.
"They do," Pardek agrees. "Picard wants Spock back in the Federation. Spock wants Picard off Romulus. Neither is likely to get what he wants, and so they are at an impasse."
"And yet they're talking."
"They're quite alike in some ways. Perhaps they feel they can attain a common ground if they keep the lines of communication open."
"Ah, now there's a fitting metaphor for reunification."
"Yes, indeed," says Pardek, looking distractedly at the stairway. At that moment, as if his wishing has summoned them, Spock and Picard reappear.
They are quickly intercepted as they descend to the main chamber, and my only open line of communication with Spock is the fleeting glance he sends in my direction over the heads of the others. I don't dare hold his eyes for more than an instant, and in any case I can't read his expression. How much longer can this go on? It's beginning to look as if we'll still be here at dawn--
"My friends," Pardek cries at the top of his lungs. "My friends! It's been a long night for everyone, and Ambassador Spock needs his rest. I suggest that we adjourn our gathering now, and convene again after Neral's statement to the Senate is drafted. You'll be notified of the time and place. Good night, my friends. Go safely, one and all."
Amazingly, everyone accedes to this abrupt dismissal. Arguments and discussions break off in mid-sentence, and people begin to collect and put away chairs, foodstuffs, and ale-kegs. In twos and threes they make ready to depart, and for a moment I'm at a loss: how to remain behind with Spock and Picard and not draw anyone's--especially Venn's and Hadrea's--attention? But before I can devise a solution, the problem miraculously solves itself.
"I'm going to escort Hadrea to her home," Venn says, fastening his cloak.
"I beg your pardon?"
"We can just make the last tram to her segment if we hurry. Will you get in touch with me tomorrow? I want to talk to you after you've had a chance to--evaluate your research."
"I--yes, of course I will."
"Good. And get some sleep if you can. You don't look much like yourself."
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, while I'm still puzzling over Venn and Hadrea's departure and what it might mean, Pardek approaches me. "I think you and Spock and Picard had better get home," he says. "Spock is exhausted, and you look like--well, you look tired too."
"How kind of you to notice," I say without much rancor. "You're not the first to tell me that. Are they ready now?"
"Yes." He nods toward the far end of the room, where a few stragglers are still engaged in animated conversation with Spock. They must be students; no one else could still be so full of energy at this hour. "I'll get rid of those people," Pardek says.
I follow him over to the little group. The students seem surprised when he tells them that Ambassador Spock needs to rest; I vaguely remember what it felt like to be that young, and how difficult it was to understand that everyone else was not. They apologize politely, gather up their cloaks, and leave.
"At last," says Pardek, rubbing his eyes. "Go now, my friends. I'll close up here. Spock, I'll talk to you after your meeting with Neral. Captain Picard, Ambassador Tayva, go safely."
I'm spared the hypocrisy of bidding him a courteous goodbye by Spock and Picard, who make the appropriate farewells. During the long, dusty trek to the surface, none of us says much; Picard seems lost in thought, and Spock just seems tired. I'm wracking my brain in an attempt to understand why Venn and Hadrea--who until now have shown no sign of a special friendship--are suddenly such intimates that he feels compelled to escort her to her residence. But my brain isn't cooperating. It's all I can do to get us situated properly on the transporter platform in the empty transit hub and pay the correct amount to the stationmaster, who looks as sleepy and disoriented as I feel.
The transport beam takes us and sets us down, as requested, just outside the house; the black sky shimmers briefly when I lower the forcefields. Once inside, I see immediately that the night isn't over yet: the hallway console is signaling that a coded communication awaits us in the wardroom. And when I've logged on and decrypted the message, I begin to wonder whether there'll be sleep for any of us tonight.
Data's recorded image shows no sign of fatigue, annoyance, or disappointment. He states the problem with equanimity: despite his access to my command codes, a starship's powerful computer, and his own prodigious ingenuity, he is unable to penetrate the Tal Shiar's database. He then delivers a long and mostly incomprehensible description of where, exactly, he believes the difficulty lies. Picard shakes his head; he's as lost as I am. But Spock is rapt. He replays the message twice; then, after asking me for a padd and stylus, he plays it a third time, pausing occasionally to make lengthy notes.
I can't take my eyes from his face. I've never before seen him engaged in anything that might reasonably be called his work; during my one visit to the bridge of Enterprise, I had no time, and less desire, to observe the first officer at his station. But Spock was a computer scientist before and after he was a Starfleet officer, and though he may now be a diplomat by profession he is still a scientist by calling. This is probably as close as he's come in years, maybe decades, to the kind of riddle that must once have challenged and stimulated him. If he weren't a Vulcan, I would say that he was loving every minute of it. Fascinating ...
As if he feels me watching him, which he probably does, Spock looks up from his notes and meets my eyes. "It occurs to me," he says, "that in view of today's events we should attempt to access not only the shiar'rim database but also Proconsul Neral's private files."
"Assuming they're not one and the same."
"Commander Data has already gone a long way into the system," says Picard. "It makes sense for him to gather as much information as possible while he's there." He peers over Spock's shoulder at Data's message: "If he can defeat the last of these safeguards, that is."
"I believe I can help him," Spock says.
Something about his intonation, about the way he holds my gaze even as he answers Picard-- "No!" I protest. "You can't come and go from a cloaked Klingon ship as casually as if you were taking an aerotram! It's too dangerous--"
Picard's gaze moves from Spock to me. He says nothing.
"It is our only means of discovering the truth," Spock says, and with those words defeats the last of my own safeguards.
* * *
Picard, of course, intends to accompany Spock to Kruge.
"I need to communicate with the Enterprise," he says, as though such a feat is nothing more than a routine chore in a Starfleet captain's busy day on Romulus.
"How do you propose to do that?" I inquire as civilly as I can. From what he's said, Enterprise is several sectors away from the Neutral Zone. Any subspace transmission to a Starfleet vessel is sure to be intercepted by Fleet intelligence before the signal reaches its destination, and Kruge's location will be revealed immediately.
"It is possible to propagate an unauthorized subspace signal through an authorized carrier wave," Spock says.
"Is that meant to reassure me?"
"Have faith," he says quietly.
"I haven't a choice," I say, and motion them both towards the transporter platform.
Using the protocols we've agreed upon, I open a shore-to-ship commlink to Kruge so that Picard can advise Data of his and Spock's imminent arrival. Then, with my heart pounding in my throat, I lower the shields around the house and watch as the two men vanish in twin vortices of light. After an instant that lasts an eternity, the console proclaims their safety: Transport complete. When I key in the codes that will raise the shields, I'm mildly surprised to find that my hands aren't shaking.
* * *
Though Spock and Picard are the quietest and least intrusive of houseguests, their departure leaves behind a sudden, silent emptiness that's almost palpable. I know I should go to bed; depriving myself of sleep benefits no one. Still, the worst of the fatigue seems to have passed. I've left too many things undone, and now is as good a time as any to remedy that neglect.
I instruct the wardroom console to reroute any incoming messages to the terminal in the house-manager's--now my--bedroom. I make a stop at the kitchen and replicate a tisane to help me stay awake and focused. Then I go to my room.
* * *
Easy to see that no Vulcan inhabits this chamber. My bed, unlike Spock's, is unmade. My clothes, unlike Spock's, are draped over chair-backs and stuffed into open kitbags. All the habits of tidiness that I've learned in a military lifetime seem to have disappeared overnight. I think of Lidiya Tilendi, who was not only my friend but my commander-general, and picture her likely reaction to the clutter; the thought makes me smile. Resolving to do better tomorrow, I take off my clothes and add them to the nearest heap.
I forgo the indulgence of a hot bath in favor of the speed of sonics. Then, working in the comfort of a nightdress and with the steaming tisane close at hand, I begin to attend to my duties.
Item 1: a priority dispatch, via encrypted diplomatic satchel, to Ferenginar, instructing my erstwhile delegation to report immediately on the progress of their negotiations for the miala genome. I append a note to my file copy: Let D'Mel know how the talks are going. I haven't forgotten his sister who farms on Remus.
Item 2: a note of apology to my friend Commander Toreth and her husband, who were expecting me to lodge with them, as I sometimes do on my rare visits home. I make a vague reference to family obligations, and promise to communicate with Toreth in a day or two. Whether I'll be able to keep that promise I have no idea.
Item 3: a query to my autoagent, inviting it to show me all that it has harvested. As if it's been hoping to be asked, it complies at once.
* * *
By the time the sky begins to brighten, I've assembled the autoagent's output in a fashion that makes a degree of sense. That is, the individual pieces of information make sense: I can say with certainty that a given event happened at a given time and place. But their collective significance escapes me. My head is spinning, partly with weariness and partly with the effort to think as Stilpa would; for I have no doubt that all the recent occurrences at Galorndon Core--and, earlier, at Qualor II--are entirely his handiwork. And while I can't search the Tal Shiar's databases and confirm every detail, enough information is circulating in various other places that I can make--though Spock would deplore the phrase--an educated guess.
According to the daybooks kept on Qualor II, Enterprise, under the temporary command of William Riker, has very recently destroyed a smuggler's ship. That datum was easy to obtain; once the planet was named in the Romulan Fleet's incident log in juxtaposition with an entry for Galorndon Core, my autoagent had no difficulty in making the obvious connection and retrieving the daybook files from the "impenetrable" Zakdorn computer system. My guess is that Stilpa chartered the ship, with its characteristic overbuilt shields and redundant armament, from an Orion free trader, then manned it with a Ferengi crew. He bribed someone, probably an official in the Zakdorn surplus depot, to beam materiel from decommissioned vessels--for what reason I haven't been able to discover--to the ship while it lurked in the berth where a Federation cargo carrier should have been. The necessary alterations to the depot's computer records would have been child's play. The smuggler's destruction was Stilpa's own imbecilic fault: if he hadn't used a vessel built by the Orions, for whom sensors and similar "nonessential" systems always took second place to weaponry, Enterprise might have been detected in its hiding-place before it could fire.
In any case, Enterprise annihilated the smuggler, and with it everything it had stolen from Qualor II: sensors, navcomps, deflectors, armament. What isn't obvious, however, is the use to which those assorted components were meant to be put. Unless someone was trying to build a starship from parts, no single element was of much value, and even in combination they weren't worth the risk that was taken to obtain them. Nevertheless, they'd been bound for a Barolian freighter near Galorndon Core; the Fleet's own classified transit logs showed that the smuggler had been scheduled to arrive there at approximately the same time as Stilpa's scoutship; in fact, a transmission from Romulus itself had confirmed the smuggler's ETA.
The Zakdorn daybook entry concerning a decommissioned Vulcan ship named T'Pau is more puzzling still. The entry states that this vessel too has disappeared from its berth; more, it seems to suggest that the disappearance is somehow linked to the recently destroyed smuggler. I can understand, barely, why someone might want to purloin materiel; but who would want a nearly obsolete Vulcan vessel? My autoagent displays yet another datum, one that was first uncovered by the Federation during an intelligence sweep: the existence of a collection of disassembled components, of Vulcan origin, retrieved from the debris field of a downed Ferengi vessel. The Enterprise crew, working with the Vulcans, has identified the components as belonging to T'Pau. But they are inoperable, damaged beyond repair. The ship itself is unaccounted for.
Sighing, I send the autoagent on another round of errands, and log off. If I go to bed now, I can probably get an hour or two of sleep before Spock has to beam back from Kruge to keep his morning appointment with Neral.
I lie down on the unmade bed and close my eyes. From the swirl of hypnagogic images that precedes sleep, from the muddle of navcomps and deflectors and stolen ships, a thought emerges with all the clarity of revealed truth:
Spock is the key. Don't allow yourself to be distracted. Spock is the key.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.