Eight hours and counting since I delivered Spock into Neral's hands.
I force myself to swallow another mouthful of tea, a few more crumbs of fruitbread. Rereading the decrypted text message has given me no new insight. Spock's intentions were clear: he was to meet with Neral for some unspecified amount of time and then proceed to the hydro tunnels to report to the unificationists. I would hear from him when he was ready to beam back to Kruge to continue his work with Data.
I should have heard from him.
Eight hours ago the logistics made sense, of a sort. But Picard's unexpected message to me--and his insistence on being transported directly to the tunnel--suggests that he and Data may have uncovered some of the same information I have; more, that they may have succeeded where I've failed, and somehow perceived the significance of it all. By now they must have imparted the news, whatever it is, to Spock.
I should have heard from him.
A diplomat must accommodate, must bend to the needs and wants of others, must bide her time if she is to achieve her ultimate end. A soldier, by contrast, can never allow herself the luxury of compromise. If she lacks the courage of her convictions and the will to act opportunely upon them, she endangers herself and those whom she protects. For decades I've schooled myself in the lessons of diplomacy: concession, negotiation, and above all patience. But Spock's conflict with the shiar'rim is susceptible of no diplomatic resolution: they will make him serve their purpose, and then they will kill him. No cloaked Klingon warship or Starfleet captain can protect him on Romulus.
Only I can.
* * *
In Fleet uniform, with my hair tightly bound and an unconcealed disruptor holstered at my waist, I'm beginning to feel more like myself.
"Computer," I say, checking the settings on the disruptor, "transfer current house security settings and all coded communications protocols to data chip." This will allow me, if worse comes to worst, to lower the forcefields remotely and use the wardroom console to initiate a site-to-site transport to a safe location. That I have no idea where to find such a location is, at the moment, unimportant. "Forward all incoming messages to personal commlink."
"Working," says the computer.
While I wait for it to finish its task, I go over my plan. And since there is only one step to that plan--find Spock and get him to safety, without stopping to listen to his arguments, logical or otherwise--I have extra seconds in which to review my preparations.
Disruptor, fully charged. Commlink, activated. More than enough credit chits to buy or bribe something or someone, as the case may be. Tricorder, calibrated to identify the lifesigns of a Terran hominid, for if one thing is certain it's that Picard won't abandon Spock, or vice versa.
Unless one of them is dead.
"Have faith," I order myself aloud. But trust your instincts, adds a warning voice.
"Ready," the computer says, and almost before the word is out of its transducer I'm disconnecting the data chip and porting it to the tricorder. Now all that's left is to set the transporter coordinates for the Krocton, and program an automatic raising and lowering of the forcefields that protect this house.
I take a deep breath. Then I activate the transporter. The wardroom vanishes, shimmering, before my eyes.
* * *
The stationmaster has the beginnings of a polite smile for me when I materialize; he remembers my face. But at the sight of my uniform the smile becomes a frown. A senior Fleet officer in the Krocton? Not, perhaps, as threatening as one of the shiar'rim, but still a presence that signifies nothing good in a district filled with illegal immigrants and kherec addicts. It's hard to say which of us is more eager for me to leave the transit hub.
Spring seems to have lightened the mood of the Krocton. The street is busy, filled with people straggling back from late lunches and devising errands that will take them outside. I can hear snatches of laughter and conversation from shop entrances as I make my way to the rear of the transit hub and the rusty metal door that leads to the hydro tunnel.
On the other side of the door, everything is dark and quiet. I'm less well prepared for this task than I thought: I'm not carrying a palm-beam. I could probably go up to the street and purchase one, but I don't know how much time I have to do whatever it is I'll have to do ... Relying only on the ancient safety-lights scattered here and there, I negotiate the twists and turns that will, if memory serves me as I expect it to, bring me to the unificationists' meeting-place.
The walk seems to take forever; the dust irritates my eyes, and one branching passageway looks much like another. But a final turn brings me to a set of stairs and the open area where Spock addressed the gathering last night.
No one is here.
Lights are burning. An old-fashioned computer terminal is awake and blinking, awaiting someone's command. On a table a book lies open, as if its reader--like Spock and Picard in my father's library--has simply stepped away for a moment.
I ease the disruptor from its holster and disable the safety. This room is silent as a grave, but I can feel the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.
Someone is watching me.
Instinct, experience, and a seventh sense all tell me that the watcher is to my left, likely crouching behind the stacks of folded chairs that rest against the far wall. Taking care to adjust the disruptor setting--I don't want to bring the walls down on my head--I turn on my heel, aim the weapon at a rack of industrial shelving on the wall above the chairs, and fire.
The shelving crashes into the metal chairs, producing a din that's easily loud enough to frighten my observer out of hiding. I feel a moment's guilt when I see that he's only a young boy, barely an adolescent, and that his face--probably to his embarrassment--is streaked with tears.
"Come here," I say, but not in my command voice. I make a show of holstering the disruptor.
The boy obeys, raising his hands to assure me that he's unarmed, just in case I was wondering. Something about him is familiar--
"Your name is D'Tan, isn't it?" I say in a conversational tone. "You served Captain Picard and me our soup and bread yesterday."
"You weren't--you weren't a soldier then."
"You're right. I wasn't wearing this uniform. Listen, D'Tan. Ambassador Spock said that he was going to meet you and your friends here today--that he was going to tell you all about his meeting with Proconsul Neral. Where is he? Where is everyone else?"
"They're gone," he says. His voice trembles.
"Where have they gone?"
D'Tan's expressive face reflects every thought in his head; I wonder briefly how the unificationists imagine they'll make an impassive Vulcan out of him. He's young enough to want an adult to take charge of a situation he doesn't know how to deal with, yet old enough to be wary of someone who appears to change her identity from day to day. Can he trust me? Should he?
I wait patiently, though my heart is pounding.
D'Tan makes a decision. "I saw Spock on the street, and I--I wanted to show him something. Then Caphar came and said Spock's friends from the Federation were here. Everyone wanted to hear what they had to say. But Senator Pardek met us all near the entrance to the tunnel. He told us the plans had changed suddenly, and that he needed to talk to Spock and Captain Picard in private. He said we should all meet later tonight, at the Velvet Mantle. So everyone left."
"But you stayed," I say quietly.
His cheeks flush a bright green, but he doesn't look away. "I followed them in and hid behind the chairs. I thought they were going to talk about making the Federation listen to us, so that we wouldn't have to hide any more. That's why Captain Picard came here, isn't it? To help us reunite with Vulcan?"
"Partly," I say, regretting the lie. "What happened then?"
"They didn't talk about the Federation, or about Vulcan. Captain Picard told Spock about a message he'd intercepted. Spock said the message proved that the proconsul was trying to deceive him. Commander Data asked how he knew that, and Spock said because it was part of a greater plan, like the stolen Vulcan ship. I don't know what that means."
"Did Picard say what was in the message?" An icy worm of real fear coils itself around my stomach.
"'One,' 'four,' 'zero,' and 'zero.' Spock said that was the time when he and the proconsul were supposed to make their peace announcement."
The worm burrows deeper. "And then what?"
"Then they came and took Spock and Captain Picard and Commander Data away."
"Who, D'Tan? Who came?"
"Some soldiers and some others who looked like soldiers, only different. The one who talked to Spock was dressed like you. She had yellow hair. And a disruptor."
"What did she say? Tell me exactly what she said!" I know I'm scaring him, but my own fear is nearly out of control now.
"She said--she said welcome to Romulus. Then she said she respected the android. Then Pardek said how could they have known where to find us, and Spock said because Pardek told them. Because Pardek made Spock come to Romulus, and because Pardek knew Picard and Data were back on the planet. Then she--with the yellow hair--said thank you to Pardek, and that his service was appreciated. Then she told Spock not to worry that his dream of unification was dead. It was just going to be different."
"Different? Different how? What did she say exactly?"
"She said, 'The Romulan conquest of Vulcan.'"
* * *
Enlightenment, Surak said, consists not in revelation but in understanding. Clarity of thought could come only through ratiocination; you couldn't expect to have it handed to you as if it were a gift. And yet my particular enlightenment has arrived just that way: for all my hard work in trying to fathom Stilpa's plan, it has taken the gift of D'Tan's lucid account to bring true comprehension.
Two thousand Tal Shiar troops, mobilized not for a coup but for an invasion. A stolen Vulcan ship--and probably more than just one--in which to move those troops safely across the Line, posing as a vanguard of peace and unification. And not far behind the invasion force a delegation of Romulan administrators--including myself and Venn--ready to occupy a member world of the United Federation of Planets. Suppose those ships actually reach their destination? Starfleet will immediately move to defend Vulcan, of course, and then what choice will Romulus have? Admit that the shiar'rim are really in charge of the Empire, and go to war with the Federation over the occupation of Vulcan? Acknowledge that a force of renegade lunatics has been able to subvert Senate, Praetorate, and Fleet, thereby bringing down the government and leaving the way open for civil war and colonial rebellion? Either scenario will plunge the Empire into chaos.
This is madness, right enough, but it's a madness that goes far beyond even Stilpa's delusional imaginings. It bears the hallmark of true dementia, and of a chillingly familiar kind. How could I ever have wondered at Sela's role in all this? The madwoman who failed to overthrow the sovereign government of Qo'noS is now poised to try again with a new enemy.
"D'Tan," I say, as if by repeating his name I can calm him and myself, "how long ago did this happen?"
"I don't know. Not very long. I was afraid to go outside--to tell anyone. I thought the soldiers would kill me if they knew I heard."
"Will you do something for me, D'Tan? Something that will help Spock?"
"Yes!"
"I want you to find Hadrea and let her know what's happened. Tell her that she and the others must stay away from here, that they must find another place to meet. Can you do that?"
"No," he says, crestfallen.
"Why not?"
"I don't know where she is."
"You don't know where she lives?"
"No. Where she is. My mother said she's gone."
"Gone--" But I don't have time to speculate on Hadrea's whereabouts. "Then go to your mother and tell her what you've told me. She'll know what to do." I hope.
"Can't you help Spock?" D'Tan is on the verge of tears again. "You're a soldier!"
"I'm going to try. Are you all right?"
"Yes." Bravely, but none too convincingly.
"Good. Then do as I say and find your mother." I sit down at the old-fashioned terminal and enter a commcode. Answer, my friend. Please, please answer--
A familiar face appears on the screen. "Toreth here."
"Ardra, thank the gods you're there."
"Aerlyn! Of course I'm here! We're all home for Planetfall--what is it? What's wrong?"
"Is Khazara spaceworthy? Are the propulsion upgrades finished?"
"Yes and yes." This is Toreth's nature in a moment of crisis: no questions, no discussion, just readiness to assimilate information and take action. I bless the fates that made her my friend.
"Good. I'm about to send an emergency message to High Command, but you and I need to talk first." In fact, I do most of the talking. Toreth listens, stopping me twice to ask for clarification and once to mutter an oath. By the time I'm finished I see my own feelings mirrored in her face: incredulity, anger, determination. The only thing I don't see is fear.
"Get that message off to High Command," she says. "Tell them I'm on my way to Galorndon Core, and if they want to countermand my decision and court-martial me they'll just have to wait till I can fit them into my schedule."
"They'll commend you for doing what had to be done. Go safely, Ardra."
"Go safely, Aerlyn. And--thank you." She's not thanking me for the valediction, I know. She's acknowledging the opportunity I've given her to exact honorable vengeance for what the shiar'rim did to her father, and to defend the interests of the Empire at the same time. She'll be lauded for having defused a potential interstellar war by stopping Sela's invasion--and wiping out half the Tal Shiar into the bargain. Now it's time for me to do my part.
Composing my face as best I can, I enter a new commcode and prepare to make the case for Toreth's unofficial mission to Galorndon Core.
* * *
After their initial spasms and sputters of disbelief and amazement, and after making me waste precious time repeating the story first to one person and then another and another, my superiors at High Command decide that they'll be pleased to issue a retroactive order authorizing Commander Toreth to exterminate the forces of rebellion and anarchy at once and by any means necessary. They don't really seem to care that she's taken a Warbird to the wrong side of the Neutral Zone on a search-and-destroy mission without waiting for orders or even tacit permission. Like her, they know that a prize has fallen into their hands. This is the kind of opportunity generals dream of: the chance to neutralize their opponents--the Tal Shiar in general and the hated Sela in particular--while consolidating their own power. If they garner the favor of the citizens of Romulus with one dramatic and politically irreproachable action, so much the better. Best of all, everything must happen quickly; there's no time to seek the blessing of the elders of Senate and Praetorate, who in their current spineless condition might be tempted to vacillate. I have no doubt that Toreth will be welcomed home with a state dinner and probably a raise in pay.
What lies in store for me is more problematic.
Think. Think. There has to be a way to fix this. If Spock and the others were taken not long ago, as D'Tan said, then they can't be aboard one of the Vulcan ships that Toreth is about to destroy. But you should have thought of that before you called her, says the reproachful inner voice. I ignore it. It's likely that they're being held at Tal Shiar headquarters, in a windowless room that can be entered and exited only by transporter. Even though I'm supposed to be part of Stilpa's plan, I stand no chance of getting into the building uninvited: every platform is surrounded by layers of deadly forcefields, not to mention armed guards. And the only person likely to invite me in is Stilpa, who if the gods of Remus are just and merciful is about to be blown to atoms at Galorndon Core.
Stilpa has to have recognized that Spock and Picard and Data are most valuable alive, to be used as either hostages or shields. If the former, they'll be kept on Romulus, which means that I may be able to get to them somehow. If the latter, they'll be sent back to the Federation after the first wave of invaders--possibly on whatever ship Stilpa has reserved for me and Venn and the rest of those people named on the list.
Venn-- But even if I dared confide in him, I've no time to seek his counsel. Think. Think. Put yourself in Stilpa's place, in Sela's place--
Sela.
According to D'Tan, Sela came in person to the tunnel. Why? She could easily have sent her armed thugs to apprehend Spock and the others and ordered them brought to her office. Perhaps she wanted to prove something to Picard and Data, who were instrumental in the defeat of her conspiracy with the Duras sisters on Qo'noS. If so, this means that her quarrel with them is personal--one more reason she's never been even a half-decent soldier: when one allows disputes to become personal, one makes dangerous, often fatal, mistakes.
Think. On the one hand, Spock and Data are in possession of my command codes, and thus have potential access to the Fleet communications net and everything it connects to. Even if Sela is holding them at Tal Shiar headquarters, that may work to their advantage. On the other hand, Sela may have overheard Spock and Picard discussing the intercepted message; if so, she must be aware that they have access to the codes, and she'll see to it that they're kept far from any computers. But on the third hand, I know that Sela is convinced of her own infallibility, and her arrogance may well be her undoing--
"Commander?" D'Tan is standing so close to me that the sound of his voice makes me jump.
"D'Tan, why are you still here? Go home!"
"I want to help you!"
"I wish you could," I say, meaning it.
"I know where they're going to hide when they escape."
"What?"
"Spock says you always have to have a Plan B." D'Tan speaks the last two words in Standard. "His captain taught him that when he was in Starfleet. You know what Plan B means?"
He has my full attention now. "Yes, I do."
The boy nods approvingly. "Well, I know what Spock's Plan B is. I heard him tell my parents and some of the others at a meeting. They didn't know I was there."
Why am I not surprised? "Was Pardek among those others?"
"No. He wasn't invited. Hardly anyone was."
I let out the breath I've been holding. "Good. Now tell me what Spock said."
"He said the time would come when we would have to protect ourselves, and that if we wanted to make sure no lives were lost we'd have to have a Plan B. So they found a place to go that only a few of them knew about. Spock said that if he was ever captured we should wait for him there until he came back and said it was safe. My father said how could he be sure he'd come back at all if the shiar'rim ever got hold of him, because it's impossible to escape from them, and Spock said he should remember that there are always possibilities."
Indeed. "Have you told anyone else about--about Plan B?"
"No. I'd be in trouble if my parents found out I was hiding."
"And this place where everyone is supposed to meet--where is it?"
"The wilderness park by the university. Those caves with the drawings that no one knows who made them? Where you're not supposed to trespass." He looks at me consideringly. "I could take you there if you want."
At this point I'm unsure what I want, other than to storm the Tal Shiar bunker with a legion or ten behind me. But if Spock really does have a contingency plan, then the wisest thing I can do is consult with someone who has more information about it than I do.
"Are your parents at home, or are they at their work?"
"Home today. They're getting ready for Planetfall."
"Call them." I hand D'Tan my commlink. "Tell them to meet you at the cave. But be very careful about the way you say it. Do you understand me?"
"Yes. Everyone knows what to say on open comms. And I heard them decide what the code would be."
"Good. Go ahead."
D'Tan makes the call. When a woman's voice answers, his lower lip trembles a little; but he delivers the message with a cool composure that I envy. "Mother," he says, "I'm going to the park. I'm going to meet a friend there." A pause. "Is that all right?" That last clearly isn't part of the code.
A long moment of silence follows, during which I visualize D'Tan's mother doing her sums--a secret code known only to an inner circle; her child speaking that code; her child's propensity for being where he isn't supposed to be at any given time. But when she's added everything up, her answer comes with conviction.
"Yes," she says. "Greet your friend for us. And, D'Tan? I--I'll see you soon."
* * *
The prospect of transporting as far as the main entrance to the wilderness park--for those are the closest coordinates I can obtain from the computer--both tantalizes and dismays D'Tan.
"I've never beamed anywhere," he says, looking at my tricorder as if doubtful of its ability to dematerialize so much as a molecule. "I thought you needed a platform and a big console."
"This will do the job. I'll explain how it works some other time." I'm not about to terrify him with an explanation of site-to-site transport. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," he says, nodding hard.
"And you're sure you'll be able to find your way to the caves once we're inside the park?" I know that what I'm hoping for is the remotest of all remote possibilities. Have faith ...
"Yes." Nodding harder.
"All right, then." So very young, and trying so hard not to be. "Hold my hand, D'Tan."
He takes my hand and squeezes it.
"Energize," I say to the tricorder, and it obliges with a gaudy show of dancing lights. Unfortunately, D'Tan misses the brief display; his eyes are shut tight.
"You can look now," I inform him a second or two later.
He does so, but without letting go of my hand. "We made it," he says, sounding surprised.
"We did. Now where do we go?"
D'Tan is on familiar ground here. He leads me through the treed preserve, sometimes keeping to the wood-chip paths, sometimes not, taking pains to avoid the beds of rare flowers and plants whose names and provenance are identified with embossed placards. In ten minutes we're so deep into the forest that I'll probably have to use the tricorder to find my way out.
"It's not far now," says D'Tan, looking back to make sure I'm keeping up. "Just at the base of that ridge."
And it is. Signs warn perfunctorily of penalties and fines for unauthorized entry into the cave, which is designated a historical site. But Romulans--at least those of us who aren't curious, impulsive children--are respectful of the law, and the cultural council hasn't bothered to erect forcefields around the entrance.
"In here," says D'Tan. "Watch your step."
Now more than ever I wish I'd thought to bring a palm-beam; but D'Tan, surefooted and confident, is almost as good as one.
"It's slippery," he informs me unnecessarily. "And steep." In fact, the entrance to the cave is almost like a set of stairs, descending quickly into a narrow, high-walled fissure that opens into a wider passageway.
My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness, which is relieved here and there by large patches of phosphorescence on the cave walls. In other circumstances I'd be tempted to stop and examine the faint wall-drawings and the strange bas-relief figures worked into the living rock; they weren't made by Romulans, and no other trace of an earlier civilization has ever been found on the planet. But D'Tan is moving ahead at speed, and I daren't risk losing sight of him.
"We're here," he announces.
The darkness and silence of the cave has distorted my sense of time. It may have taken us five minutes or half an hour to reach this large chamber, whose roof is a cascade of forming stalactites and whose floor and walls are smooth flowstone. Someone has been here before us: portable worklamps are stored on makeshift shelves, along with several large containers of water and nutrient bars. The place is even equipped with collapsible metal chairs of the kind I made use of in the hydro corridor.
"Are you thirsty?" D'Tan, a courteous host, points to the water-bottles.
"Thank you, no," I answer gravely.
"We'll probably have to wait a little while for my parents. They don't have a transporter like yours. They'll take the tram to the entrance, and then walk in."
He activates one of the worklamps, and the chamber brightens. He sets up two of the chairs; when everything is arranged to his satisfaction, we sit down to wait. But D'Tan can't remain still very long. "Have you ever seen anything like these?" he says, withdrawing a fistful of objects from his pocket. "My parents gave them to me when I was little."
Ivory-colored pyramidal solids. Each face engraved with a character that looks like a cross between a mathematical symbol and a musical note. An early Vulcan syllabary, says Spock's voice in memory. Given to me by T'Pau. These are bigger and newer than the long-gone treasures Spock gave me, but they're enough to bring memories flooding back. "Yes, D'Tan, I have. Spock showed me something very similar once, when I was on Earth."
D'Tan's eyes widen; the syllabary is already forgotten. "You've been to Earth?"
"I have."
"What's it like? Is it cold? Is the sky really the color of ale, or do people just say that?"
I'm in the middle of answering endless questions about snow, and what it's like to live under one sun, and the exact color of the Terran sky when the tricorder's beeping makes us both start: multiple life signs, all Romulan. A moment later, audible footsteps. Several sets, or many, heading down the passageway towards us.
I get to my feet and activate the disruptor.
"It's my parents, probably," says D'Tan, his eyes on the weapon.
"Move behind me, D'Tan, and remain quiet." Thankfully, he does as he's told.
I can only imagine and regret what D'Tan's parents must think when they come upon an armed Fleet officer blocking their access to their son. But I can't take any chances; I have to know that they're who they claim to be. When D'Tan says, "Mother!" I lower the disruptor and move away from the child.
Close behind D'Tan's parents are ten or twelve other people, the rest of Spock's innermost circle of followers. D'Tan wriggles free from his mother's embrace. He can't wait to tell everyone his story, the scope of which has now expanded to include me--and my communication to Commander Toreth, which of course he overheard. The adults listen in grim silence as he recounts with animation the afternoon's events.
"Ambassador," says D'Tan's father, whom I now recognize from one of the other gatherings, "it's true that according to our plan Spock will come here if he can. But what if he can't? Surely you must have a way of finding out what's happened--"
"Sela has almost certainly taken Spock to shiar'rim headquarters," I say. "Not even the Commander-General of the Romulan Fleet can penetrate that fortress without substantial force. And even if the Fleet were to rescue him--" How to say this? "At best he would be sent straight back to the Federation. He's here illegally, and he is a fugitive."
"Then what are we to do?" says another man. "How can we help him?"
"We can only wait," says a woman. "And hope that--" But her hope is never expressed, for the tricorder has begun its beeping again.
"They're here!" D'Tan cries.
"A Terran hominid," I say evenly, scanning the tricorder's readout. "Coming this way. And two other lifeforms. One of them is Vulcan."
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.