The butterfly effect. I can't help turning the phrase over and over in my mind. How many times have I reconstructed this causal chain that brought me so close to lifelong happiness, so close to death by execution?
Cheated of the one, I had longed for the oblivion that the other would bring. No life worth living on any world ... The pain of separation from Spock had been like nothing I'd known before, like nothing I could have imagined. No wound sustained in battle had ever made me want to scream with the agony of it, to claw at my flesh to redirect sensation long enough for me to draw breath against the next wrenching, violent assault of memory. I'd tried desperately to find some safe way to let him know what had happened, to explain that I would never willingly have left him ... But even if I had been able to escape surveillance and find a means of reaching him, any attempt to communicate with a Federation citizen, much less a Starfleet officer, would have been seen as proof of collusion in treason; and I would not have been the only one to pay the price for that. Grief and despair had cut like knife-blades at my soul; the unconsciousness of drugged sleep had been my only refuge. I'd promised myself that if the universe was merciful, I would soon attain that state permanently--if not at the Senate's hands, then by my own ...
Eventually, of course, I learned that neither life nor death is so easily ordered, and that mind and body are--when the stakes are high enough--capable of bearing the unbearable. It seemed that I had underestimated a number of things, including the power of a series of events to reach a crisis point that magnified the impact of all that came before and all that followed--
A knock at my cabin door startles me. "Your pardon, Ambassador," says the young centurion. "My commander sends his compliments, and wishes to inform you that we will dock at Principia Base within the hour. Major Kalevi will come aboard there, and he will escort you to the headquarters of the Tal Shiar." Her voice fades slightly as she speaks the last syllables, but I'm willing to overlook it. I know exactly how she feels.
"Thank you, Centurion." She's a pretty child, or would be if she wasn't disfigured by the exaggerated brow ridge that is the only politically acceptable cosmetic alteration for either men or women these days. An empire full of people who look like Pardek's relatives. What a prospect. Is it any wonder that I've stayed away so long?
To her credit, the centurion keeps her gaze fixed on the port window behind me; courtesy dictates that she not stare openly at my smooth forehead or my long hair. I have no doubt, however, that I've been the subject of much conversation and speculation in the officers' mess during our flight.
"Do you require anything, Ambassador?" she asks politely.
For a moment I'm tempted to answer her as I might have answered Elydex so many decades ago: Where should I begin? Aloud I say only, "No, thank you, Centurion. I have everything I need."
* * *
At one time, the phrase tal shiar conjured a pacific, almost a poetic, image. Rainstorm is the closest literal rendering in Standard, but in our own language the words evoke not a deluge but a light, warm, steady rain of the kind that falls near the end of winter, preparing fields and meadows for the new life of spring. When the first Romulan civilian intelligence agency was founded in the aftermath of the Tomed incident, someone suggested the phrase as a code name, perhaps to imply an unobtrusive but thorough coverage of territory. Since that time, however, the agency has rewritten its own mandate. Created to fight domestic terrorism, subversion, and treason, the Tal Shiar has itself become terrorist, subversive, and traitorous to all that the Romulan Empire once stood for. Today the name connotes threat, ruthlessness, and vicious suppression of anyone and anything that does not fit within the agency's concept of right thinking. To say such a thing in public is of course to invite swift and brutal retribution--retribution that comes down not only on the speaker's head but on the heads of his family and associates. Even the elected and appointed members of the Romulan Senate and Praetorate, who gave life to the Tal Shiar, are reluctant to antagonize it now. Only the military establishment's High Command offers any real resistance, though even high-ranking officers aren't completely immune to persecution: I know at least one senior Fleet commander whose father, a harmless, doddering old dreamer, has fallen victim to a Tal Shiar purge.
Major Kalevi keeps me waiting in the scoutship's transporter room--a neat psychological ploy on his part; it's always a good idea to hold one's opponent at a disadvantage. Reflexively, I reach into the pocket of my uniform, searching for the Vulcan syllabary that so often has brought me comfort and control. The habit is deeply ingrained; but those little ivory pyramids are long gone, some relinquished to a child's curious fingers, some lost or simply mislaid over the course of half a lifetime's worth of star travel. Perhaps they'll surface in some alien antique market five millennia from now, just at the time they're most needed ...
The transporter technician frowns suddenly as the comm signal on her board sounds. She mutters something under her breath, then turns her attention to the console. In another moment Major Kalevi-- corpulent, silver-haired, and grandly attired in what is obviously custom-made livery--appears on the platform. He steps down and heads towards me without offering the traditional word of thanks to the technician. "Ambassador Tayva," he says, as if he has the right to call me by name. "I hope you're ready to depart. Major-General Stilpa is pressed for time. This meeting is only one of several he must attend today. Where is your baggage? I will have it sent to your quarters."
"My quarters? I don't understand. I'd planned to stay with--"
He doesn't even wait for me to finish. "You will find your accommodations satisfactory, I assure you. Now may we go? Time is short."
I exchange a brief glance with the transporter operator, who shrugs and then grimaces as if she smells something objectionable: What else can you expect from such a one?
"Then by all means, Major," I say, "let us proceed. We mustn't keep Stilpa waiting."
* * *
I'd hoped to catch a glimpse of the elegant spires and domes of Nedali City from Major-General Stilpa's window, but that hope is dashed as soon as we materialize. His office is a windowless, doorless bunker. One must enter and exit by transporter or not at all.
Stilpa, who despite his expensive costume and self-bestowed decorations still resembles a half-starved Arcturan water-rat, at least has the courtesy to stand when he greets me. "Ambassador Tayva!" he cries, giving a passable imitation of someone who is glad to see his visitor. "You honor us with your presence. May I express my gratitude for your speedy response to my invitation? Someone of your reputation and standing must have many claims upon her time. Here, do sit down and make yourself comfortable."
"You haven't changed, Stilpa." I don't bother to smile when I say it. But my unsubtle insult is wasted on him, as usual.
"Why, thank you, Ambassador," he says, preening. "I always say it's work that keeps me young. And these days we've all got our work cut out for us. You'll forgive me if I get down to business? Just turn your chair towards that wall, if you please." He touches a control on his desk, and the room darkens.
The holographic images have been formatted to appear life-size and in proper perspective: for a moment it seems as though we've suddenly been transported to one of the dark, dismal service tunnels, largely unused, that run under and through the oldest and poorest parts of the city. Rusted water pipes and power conduits hang in snakelike coils overhead, and plumes of steam erupt sporadically from one of the decrepit heating and cooling ducts that still service the old artisans' workshops in the Krocton and Ullas segments.
A ragtag group of about fifty people sit on benches and blankets in a rough circle, talking to one another. What they might be saying is anyone's guess; if sound was recorded, Stilpa has decided against my hearing it. But whoever captured the images has done a first-rate job: the imaging camera is mounted in such a way as to give the observer a panoramic view of the group and the murky-looking entrance to the cavelike wing of the tunnel. "Who are they?" I ask.
"Subversives," Kalevi hisses in my ear, making me jump: I didn't hear him pull his chair close to mine. "And there are tens, maybe hundreds, of cadres just like this one scattered throughout the homeworlds."
"What is their cause?" All are poorly clothed and many look underfed; more than one-third of them are children and adolescents. It's hard to see how people like these can pose any threat to the Romulan Empire.
"Wait and see," says Stilpa's voice from somewhere behind me.
I don't have to wait long. Suddenly the people stop talking; those who have been standing take their seats, as if an invisible moderator has called the group to order. Instinctively my gaze goes to the cave's entrance.
To the other onlookers, Spock's face probably shows nothing but a kind of impassive sternness. But I am not just another onlooker. My first thought is that he is exhausted to the point of pain; my second thought is that he is in mortal danger. How is it possible that he has attracted the direct attention of the Tal Shiar? Now I know the answer to that question. Gods of Remus! I have to find him, warn him somehow, get him off this world--
"Freeze image," says Stilpa. "Half lights." The room brightens a little. "Spock of Vulcan," he continues, as if he were narrating an educational vid. "Ambassador Extraordinary to the benighted domains that have the misfortune not to live under the thrall of the Federation."
"What does he want with those people?" I ask.
"He wants their loyalty, unquestioning and total. His goal is co-option, sedition, and revolution. Like any revolutionary, he begins his infiltration with the ignorant and the easily led."
"Stilpa," I say evenly, "why would the Federation send Ambassador Spock on a mission to the dregs of Romulan society? Why waste the talents of a senior diplomat on people like that? To what end?"
"You've been away in the hinterlands too long, Ambassador. The Federation won't admit it publicly, but our sources report that they're after Spock too. He crossed the Neutral Zone without authorization, and they believe that he has defected to the Empire."
"Spock? A defector?" The utter absurdity of the notion almost makes me laugh. "Nothing would make him defect!"
"It's his misfortune that he didn't do so," Kalevi says. "We would have made good use of him if he'd come to us directly and requested asylum. The propaganda value would have been immense. Now, of course, he must be silenced."
"I still don't understand. What is his mission here?"
"Haven't you guessed? Obviously you haven't been keeping up with his writings. His mission is the reunification of Romulus with Vulcan! And he preaches like a hierophant to the masses, who revere him as their leader and their liberator!" Stilpa's voice rises in outrage at the thought. "Your mission, Ambassador Tayva, is to help us stop him--and we will stop him, I promise you that."
"I don't see how I can be of use to you," I say faintly. Reunification--the very word triggers a flood of horrifying memories.
"Come, Ambassador, don't be modest. You are uniquely placed to carry out such a sensitive assignment. I assure you that you will be of great use to us." He taps my shoulder; I force myself to look away from the heartbreaking image of Spock's tired, haggard face. "I want you to read this briefing," he says, handing me a data bar. "You may take it with you to your quarters. We will discuss it over dinner. I shall be most interested in hearing your opinion. And, of course, in catching up with events. It must be nearly a century since we've met in person. I'm curious to know what you've been doing all this time. Apart from your impressive record of public service, of course. I know all about that."
I stare at the bar in my hands. "It's a long story, Stilpa." And I will be damned to the abyss of fire before I speak one word of it to you.
He stands up, effectively dismissing me. "I look forward to hearing it, then. Welcome back to Romulus, Ambassador Tayva. Welcome home."
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