by Peter David
“I do not intend to be ironic, but consider: The light of your raised consciousness is not, in fact, coming from you. You are no more carrying the light of goodness within you than a moon is a source of light. It is simply reflecting the sunlight. So perhaps you yourself remain evil . . . and are simply deluding yourself into thinking that you are reformed. Without a true inner light, you may very well slide down into the spiritual abyss that you keep telling yourself you have climbed out of.”
He was silent for a very long time, and when he spoke again there was clear anger in his voice. “Why are you saying these things to me? Why are you trying to wound me?”
“Wound you? I do not understan—”
“Oh, you understand perfectly,” said Rajari, standing now and placing distance between himself and Soleta. “I have dealt with you in total honesty, Soleta. I have told you of my rebirth, of my having found myself. And you are unwilling to accept it.”
“Why does my accepting it or not accepting it make any difference to you?”
“Because it does. I would like . . .” His voice caught and he visibly had to compose himself, “I would like one person to believe me. Just one. The Starfleet personnel who ran the camp, my fellow prisoners . . . everyone whom I would tell about my revelations would smile and look at me in a patronizing way. Not only was it clear that they did not believe me, but they obviously thought I believed them to be some sort of fools that I could easily deceive with a manufactured story about spiritual redemption. They thought it was a joke, or a charade. You want to know why I’ve seized on your companionship, Soleta? Because I thought that you might be that one hope, that one person who would believe me. I thought the gods had sent you to be the lone individual who would say, ‘I’m happy for you, Rajari,’ and actually mean it.”
“Considering that the first thing you tried to do upon encountering me was crush my throat, that was hardly the sort of welcome designed to engender charitable thought or credulous acceptance on my part,” she told him.
His anger had seemed to have been building, but now it began to disappear. Ire turned to that same, melancholic air of sadness that so often shrouded him. “That is a valid point,” he admitted. “Tell me, Soleta, do you think it possible that, someday, you will believe all that I have said?”
“You have said it yourself, Rajari. Anything is possible.” Suddenly feeling the need to turn the conversation in a different direction, she steered along the first path that occurred to her. “By the way, I am curious. That box is most attractive. What is in it?”
The box she was pointing to was an elaborately carved affair, a foot long and about eight inches wide. It had a series of symbols and patterns on it, none of which Soleta was capable of identifying for certain. But she was reasonably sure that at least some of them had to do with specific Romulan houses.
“In it?” he asked.
“Yes, in it. What are the contents?”
“Merely an heirloom,” said Rajari vaguely. “Nothing you need concern yourself about.”
“I am not concerned. I am merely . . .”
“It is none of your business, Soleta. I suggest you leave the matter at that.”
The sudden turnaround in his mood, the harshness of his tone, all caught Soleta off guard. She hesitated a moment, then asked him about something else in the apartment. He was immediately forthcoming. The box, however, was obviously a sore subject. She knew that if she had any respect for his wishes or privacy, she would forget about the beautifully carved box and never make any sort of inquiry as to its contents ever again.
Naturally she set about determining just when she would sneak a look in it.
“I sense our time together is drawing to a close, Soleta.”
It was several days later, and Soleta and Rajari were in the bar where she had first observed him. It seemed an appropriate place for Rajari to broach the subject that they both knew was inevitable.
It was evident to Soleta that Rajari was becoming weaker. Even in the few weeks that she had spent with him, the diminishment in his capabilities was getting evident. He was losing a few steps off his stride, and he seemed to be in pain more than he had been. He would try not to let on, but Soleta was trained as an observer. As a result, even when he thought she wasn’t noticing and allowed the strains upon his body to cause him open discomfort, she saw it anyway. And she suspected that he knew that she saw it.
Nevertheless, out of respect for her carefully cultivated obliviousness, she said, “Oh? And why do you think that is, Rajari?”
“Because you are a young and vital woman who must certainly have more interesting things to do than hang about in the presence of a dying man. Because our little chats have provided you very little of use aside from some passing thoughts and an oddity of a relationship. That is why.”
“Do we have a relationship?” she asked, eyebrow cocked in curiosity.
“I believe we do, yes. I confess that I am not entirely certain what it is, but it is a relationship nevertheless.” He was quiet for a time and then he turned to her. “I know why you came here. But why have you stayed?”
“I have considered—”
“No,” he silenced her with a raised index finger. “Do not waste your time and mine telling me that I am some sort of . . . scientific experiment. A research project. A study of evil nature versus the capacity for good. Perhaps you have managed to convince yourself of that, but you have not convinced me. Look into your heart, Soleta, or whatever array of circuitry and hardwire passes for a heart within an emotionless race, and tell me . . . tell me truly . . . why you have stayed here.”
She opened her mouth to respond in a brisk and straightforward manner, but nothing came out. Finally, she was forced to admit, “I do not know.”
He seemed oddly satisfied with the response. “That is good to hear. The first step on the road to knowing everything is admitting that you know nothing.”
“I had a philosophy teacher who said something much along the same lines,” said Soleta.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. I found her to be equally annoying.”
He laughed at that. “I suppose I should be flattered. Or should I?”
“I do not know that, either.”
“Excellent. Do you know, Soleta, what the most common element in the universe is?”
“Hydrogen.”
“No. Ignorance. Here is to ignorance, then, my scientist,” and he raised a glass, “for without ignorance, you would be out of a job.”
“That is very true,” she concurred, and tapped her glass against his.
“So where will you go upon leaving this less-than-pleasant place? Will you return to your father, Volak . . . ?”
“Perhaps. I—”
She froze.
His eyes glittered with quiet triumph. “I knew it,” he said.
Soleta felt like a complete fool. She had lowered her guard and suddenly she was paying for it. She had had no desire to let Rajari know of her blood relationship to T’Pas. She did not want to let him that . . . that close to her. “That is to say—” she tried to cover, even though she knew that the damage was done.
“I knew it,” he repeated. “You are his daughter. And hers. ‘Friend’ indeed. I was certain of it from the moment I saw you.”
“The moment you saw me, you tried to kill me,” she reminded him.
He nodded in acknowledgment of that unfortunate fact. “True. Very well, some moments after that, then. But why did you not tell me? No . . . no, you do not have to answer. It is obvious. You thought me on some sort of vendetta. You said as much yourself. You thought I posed a threat to your mother, and because of that, I might be a threat to you as well.” He shook his head. “That famed Vulcan logic. You have learned well.”
“Thank you.”
“But I am no threat. Do you believe that?”
She looked away from him. “I . . . would like to believe it. I would like to think that no one is beyond redemption. On the other hand, try as I
might—and I have tried, believe it or not—it is impossible for me simply to forget what you have done. To erase the image from my mind of you brutalizing my mother. I think of her, helpless, the look on her face . . .”
“I was there,” Rajari said harshly. He stared deep into his glass, and for a moment he reminded Soleta of the way he was when she had first spied him in the bar. “I run the moment in my mind, and I feel as if I am watching a total stranger. I am, in many ways, as repulsed as you. But I can never feel the sort of moral indignation that you must possess. She was your mother. She loved you . . . or at least what passes for love in the restricted environment that Vulcans allow. Perhaps it is best that you are taking your leave, Soleta. With the truth before us now, I would not blame you for not wanting to remain.” He finished his drink, signaled for the check, and paid it without saying anything further.
“Rajari—”
“No. No need, Soleta. Anything you say at this point would be colored by what is before us. But I will say this,” and he looked her in the eyes, “they say that if you desire to see what the daughter will be like, look to the mother. It follows that if one wishes to see the mother at a younger age, look to the daughter. If there is any element of your mother within you, any small flame or reflection of her katra, then I apologize to it now. I know that apologies oftentimes cannot be nearly enough . . . but in the end, it is all I have to give.”
He rose then, and she did so as well. “I will see myself back home,” he said.
“I will accompany you for the walk.”
“That is not necessary.”
“Actually,” Soleta corrected him, “I believe it is.”
He shrugged. “As you will.”
They headed in the direction of his apartment in silence. He was walking slowly, and Soleta noticed that he was developing a slight limp. She wondered how much longer he truly had. Soleta knew that if she were dying, she would be doing everything she could to attend to “unfinished business,” to put to rights anything that she had done wrong. What was it like, she wondered, for there to be things in one’s past that could never, ever be truly put right? Sins that could be atoned for, but never actually repaired.
They passed the alley where they had first really “encountered” one another. The shadows were stretching, much as they had that first time.
And hands reached from the darkness, grabbed both Soleta and Rajari, and hauled them into the alley.
SI CWAN
“THIS IS RIDICULOUS. It must not be the right block,” said Kalinda, and Si Cwan couldn’t blame her for voicing her mounting frustration.
They had been walking up and down the same general area for half an hour, and had still been unable to find Jereme’s school building, his training center. Even though the students to whom Si Cwan had spoken gave him an exact address, the actual building itself continued to elude them.
The journey to Pulva had not been a particularly comfortable one. The commercial transport had been crowded, and not especially plush. There was an elderly couple that had, astonishingly, never been in space before and they had panic attacks most of the way, and Si Cwan had also been subjected to a small child who insisted on kicking the back of his seat for the first few light-years of the journey. Cwan had silenced him by turning in his seat and giving him a look that would have intimidated a Klingon. “Little boy . . . if you continue to kick this seat . . . I am going to obtain eight-inch spikes, and I will nail your feet to the floor. And the blood. Will flow. Like milk,” and he caressed the last seven words with sadistic enjoyment. The child stared at him, goggle-eyed, and Si Cwan finished, “So stop it.” The child immediately ceased his activities and stayed absolutely paralyzed for the remainder of the voyage. The child’s mother scowled fiercely at Si Cwan, but Si Cwan had looked into the eyes of enough people who had genuinely been prepared to kill him that he found the glares of a miffed mother to be of little consequence.
Upon arriving on Pulva, they had made their way to the location that the students had provided, but were having some degree of difficulty in reaching their destination.
“Why would they give us the wrong address?” demanded Si Cwan. He frowned suspiciously. “Could they want to keep us away for a reason?”
“I don’t know,” said Kalinda in irritation. “I thought you’d been here before.”
“No. Never. And considering the difficulty in finding the place, I’m amazed that anyone can—”
“Ambassador Cwan.”
He and Kalinda turned. There was a young male standing behind them, a Mook. He was slightly stoop-shouldered, as were most of his race. His compound eyes studied them up and down, and his mandibles clicked when he spoke. He was dressed in loose black robes, the style of which Si Cwan knew all too well. Whenever he had lessons with Jereme, that had always been the uniform he’d been required to wear.
“I am Ookla,” said the Mook. “It is an honor to meet you. Jereme always speaks of y—” He stopped and had to correct himself with effort, the verbal hiccup of one who does not wish to deal with referring to someone in the past tense. “Always spoke of you most highly. He said your training and abilities were something that all of us should aspire to.”
“Thank you, Ookla. This,” and he indicated Kalinda, “is my sister, the princess Kalinda.”
“Princess,” said Ookla, and he bowed deeply.
“Did Jereme mention me as well?”
“Yes. Yes he did.”
“Ah.” She looked with a degree of satisfaction at Si Cwan. “And what did he say?”
“He said you were Ambassador Cwan’s sister.”
“And—?”
His mandibles clicked with faint apology. “There . . . is no ‘and.’ Does that present a problem?”
Had he been in anything other than the worst mood of his life, Si Cwan might actually have found the exchange, along with Kalinda’s subsequent crestfallen expression, to be somewhat comical. “Ookla, I’m relieved that you showed up. Apparently we were given incorrect directions. The school is—”
“Right there,” and he gestured directly across the street from where they were standing.
They turned and looked where he was pointing, and there was a small building front there that Si Cwan would absolutely have sworn, with his life on the line, had not been there before. He glanced at Kalinda and saw that she was equally slack-jawed, uncomprehending. “But . . . that wasn’t . . . where did—?”
Si Cwan laughed softly. Considering his state of mind, it was an odd sound to be coming from him, and Kalinda’s expression made clear that she realized any amusement on his part was unusual.
“Jereme designed it, didn’t he,” said Si Cwan. It was not a question.
“Of course.”
“Of course,” Si Cwan echoed. “Look at it, Kalinda. The building itself is a testament to the art of camouflage, of disappearing. The lines, the structure . . . if you’re not looking directly at it, your eye glides right off it. It’s brilliant.”
“It’s annoying,” Kalinda said.
“Brilliance oftentimes is. Lead the way, Ookla.”
Within minutes they were inside the school, meeting and greeting the other students. There were only a handful of them, of various races. According to Ookla, a number of them had already departed. With the death of Jereme, they reasoned that there was no purpose for remaining.
“Of course there is reason,” Si Cwan said impatiently. “Vengeance.”
“Jereme taught us that vengeance is a hollow pursuit,” said Ookla, and others of the students nodded.
“There were many things that I learned from Jereme. That I took to heart and sincerely believed,” said Si Cwan. “But that was never one of them.”
“Vengeance will not bring him back,” said one of the other students.
“Unless you feel that it will enable him to rest more peacefully?” suggested Ookla.
“He’s dead,” Si Cwan said flatly. “What we do in this sphere will have no impact on the next. I will
avenge him because honor will permit no other course of action. I will do it,” and his voice grew in intensity, but not volume, making it all the more frightening. “I will do it because the one whose eyes looked upon Jereme’s last moments has earned the privilege of also being able to look upon his own living heart being ripped from his chest and held up so that he can observe its final beats.”
There was silence for a long moment.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” said Kalinda. “There was a child kicking the back of his seat on the trip over.”
“Oh. Well . . . that’s always irritating,” said Ookla uncertainly, and there were brisk nods from the others.
SOLETA
IT ALL HAPPENED SO QUICKLY that she barely had time to process what was happening.
One moment she had been walking down the street with Rajari, each of them silent in their private musings. The next, Rajari was suddenly yanked away from her. She looked around in momentary confusion, but only momentary. For she was still Vulcan, and she was able to grasp what was occurring with alacrity.
Someone was attacking Rajari. His concerns about assassins were apparently not unfounded.
Before she could react, however, someone was behind her and shoving her into the darkness as well.
Her sight was going to do her no good, thanks to the gloom that surrounded her. She glimpsed several forms, four or five at least. They were hooded to prevent any identification. “We have Rajari,” she heard a rough voice say. “We don’t need her. Kill her.”
Keeping her eyes opened would force her to rely on them, so she closed her eyes in order to accomplish the opposite. Reacting completely on instinct, she twisted and managed to grab the arm of whoever was behind her. A quick bend, another twist, and the assailant from behind was sent flying.
She heard scuffling. She opened her eyes, her vision having adjusted slightly. She could see that Rajari was struggling as well. “Signal! Signal!” someone was shouting, and suddenly Rajari had torn free. One of them managed to trip him, though, and he fell against Soleta, his hands grabbing at her jacket.
