by Peter David
“So I have been told,” she said.
And with that said, Sharky clambered out of the hidden cargo bay, leaving Soleta to her musings.
ROMULUS
NOT A SINGLE ROMULAN in the streets was giving her a second look, which suited Soleta just fine.
She was dressed rather unassumingly, sporting the typical garb of a Romulan street merchant. In addition to the loose-fitting grays she wore, she also had the traditional bandanna wrapped around her head. On a practical basis, it helped keep her long hair from dropping in her eyebrows. Even more usefully, with the bandanna pulled down low it obscured her less-than-Romulan brow, although she kept it tucked under her ears so that the distinctive points would show. That way she was able to pass for Romulan from any casual glance, and hopefully no one would be inclined to afford her anything more than that.
There was brisk activity going on all around her, and she moved through it quietly and efficiently. Even as she went about her business, Sharky was attending to his. She had made her way from the spaceport where Sharky’s vessel had landed. (And from which, naturally, Sharky wasn’t budging. Sharky’s contact or contacts were coming to him, and that was perfectly fine with Soleta. This errand was something she wanted to attend to entirely on her own.)
It was her first time on Romulus, and it was all that she could do not to come across exactly like someone who was a newcomer. She wanted to take in every aspect of the city, stare at everything, and ask a thousand questions. She had always been ashamed, even mortified over her Romulan heritage. It was her great shame, and her great secret. Indeed, in some respects she couldn’t believe that she had confessed her background to Shelby. She had been trying to prove something to Shelby, and using herself as a guinea pig had been a foolishly rash and impetuous thing to do. She could only hope that she would not live to regret the decision.
In any event, this was the first time that she ever felt some measure of pride in her less-desirable ancestry. The buildings, the architecture, were dazzling and impressive, with much hand-carved statuary that indicated an eye for art, for detail. The statues depicted great Romulans of the past, and they were either carved directly into the buildings themselves as reliefs, or were freestanding in places ranging from squares to street corners.
There was one sight that struck her in particular, catching her attention so thoroughly that she stopped in her tracks and just observed it for several minutes. It was the sight of several Romulan children, laughing and playing, clambering up the base of one particularly impressive statue of some Romulan hero or another. He was pointing toward the sky in a very heroic fashion, the face carved with such intricacy that she felt convinced that the eyes were going to turn from their resolute gaze upward and instead fix on her. In contrast to the regal air of the statue itself, the children’s laughter and activities were the height of innocence. There were three of them, two boys and a girl, none of them over the age of eight. They carried on for some minutes, garnering amused glances or comments from passersby, until their mother (or at least the mother of one of them) showed up to rein them in and hustle them off.
For some reason, it was not how she had envisioned the Romulans. She was accustomed to thinking of them as a race filled purely with deceit and treachery. Skulking about the galaxy in their cloaked ships, seeking to cause destruction and sabotage wherever and whenever they could. That was not what she was seeing here, however. She saw people, no more and no less, going about their business or living ordinary, unremarkable lives. She had gotten used to thinking purely as a Starfleet officer, for to such an individual, the Romulans were simply an enemy race who deserved exactly the amount of attention that was required to keep them at bay. Beyond that, they weren’t worth much thought. At least, that was how she was accustomed to feeling. Now she had no idea what to think.
“Are you lost?”
She turned and saw the mother who had just collected the children from the statue. She was holding one with either hand, and the third—the girl—had wrapped herself around the woman’s leg. The Romulan woman stared at Soleta inquisitively, but not in any sort of threatening manner. She was simply trying to be polite. A polite Romulan! Up until that moment, Soleta’s definition of a polite Romulan was one who, before he reached into your mouth to rip your tongue out, would wash his hands first.
“I am . . . looking for the Rikolet,” she said.
“What’s that, Mother?” inquired the little girl from her position on the leg.
She glanced down at her child and said, “The City of the Dead.” Then she looked back to Soleta. “Mourning one who has gone on?”
“Paying respects,” Soleta said judiciously.
“As you wish. It is,” and she pointed, “three blocks in that direction, and then to the left. It is impossible to miss.”
“My thanks,” said Soleta. She bowed slightly to show her appreciation and then headed off in the direction the woman had indicated. Within minutes, thanks to her brisk stride, she was passing through the gated entrance of the Rikolet.
The Rikolet was not actually a city per se. It was simply called that. It was a sort of city within the city, surrounded by high walls and filled with crypts as far as the eye could see. Soleta let out a very, very low whistle of amazement as she saw the paved streets of the Rikolet extending practically to the horizon line. She had never seen anything quite like it.
The Rikolet was reserved for the rich families, for the nobility, for the senators and praetors. In short, for those people who could both afford it and were worth it from a societal standpoint. Even from where she was standing, Soleta could see that the stone and masonry work throughout the Rikolet put the rest of the already formidable city to shame.
There was a holo guide at the front of the Rikolet, and she consulted it. The tomb for the House of Melkor was down and to the left. Soleta started on her way. As she walked, she passed others walking around, either individually or in groups. The place was not simply filled with mourners. Most of the people there were taking in the scenery, openly admiring the effort that had been expended in creating this amazing place. Soleta couldn’t blame them. It was indeed quite an accomplishment. Even though she had come there with a special purpose and she had her own deadlines to attend to, Soleta took her time.
At one point she stopped to take in a particularly striking piece of scenery. Far beyond the boundaries of the walls, some distance to the north, several very impressive towers stretched toward the sky, seemingly only falling short by a small margin. The domes gleamed gold in the sunlight, and great winged creatures of prey were poised atop them, looking ready to leap from their posts at a moment’s notice and charge into battle against all enemies of the empire. She knew immediately that it was the Noble House: a popular and ancient gathering place for some of the richest and most powerful in the Romulan Empire. Some said that the Noble House was an even more important place in Romulus than the Senate . . . although, for that reason alone, senators did not even like to admit that the Noble House existed. It was seen as something of a challenge to the power of the Senate. But no one wished to make a move against it, and so the enmity had simply smoldered for many years.
Still, it was a most impressive structure, and once again she felt a stirring of pride.
And once more, for the first time in a while, her inner voice spoke to her. Do not become carried away with this. You are Vulcan. You were raised as Vulcan, your mother is Vulcan, and the only man whom you have ever truly called Father is Vulcan. That is where your roots are, not here. Not here. You are simply over-compensating for these years of uncertainty and self-disgust.
She knew, in her heart, that that was true to some degree. Nevertheless, it brought her some measure of comfort. The years when she felt that she had lost herself were still a very stinging reality to her. Anything that she could do to regain some of that was fine with her.
Some minutes later, she had located the crypt belonging to the House of Melkor. What she found interesting were the
plaques on either side of the entrance. On the left was a list of those members of the Melkor house who were “in residence,” as it were, their bodies lying entombed within. On the other side, however, was a plaque with far more names. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the latter contained all the names of those who had been born into the august House of Melkor. Furthermore, each name was mounted on a tab that was removable. Immediately she understood why; upon their demise and entombment, each of their names could be switched from one side to the other. It was a symbolic way of noting their passing from this sphere to the next.
She did not see Rajari’s name there.
This puzzled her somewhat, and she felt a brief moment of suspicion. She glanced over at the side of the dead, just to see if someone had already moved his name over there. It was certainly possible, since he had in fact died. The fact that he was forever forbidden from returning to Romulus would preclude the need for waiting for his body. Such banishment, Soleta knew, stretched even unto death. But his name was not on the side of the deceased either.
Then she noticed that, on the living side, one of the tabs was blank. Curious, she reached for it and slid it out of its small receptacle. She turned it around, and sure enough, there was Rajari’s name on it. There was no telling how long it had been that way, but whoever had made the gesture had sent an unmistakable message. The irony was that they had done so even though it had been reasonably assumed that he would never know of it.
It reminded her of just how spiteful and vicious the Romulans could be. A pity, considering she was just starting to develop the smallest iota of respect for them.
She turned the tab around and put it in its proper place. She wondered how soon it would take someone to notice it, and if they would then return it to its position of dishonor. Well, there was only so much she could do about any situation at any particular moment.
Slowly she entered the crypt, descending the gleaming stairs one tentative step at a time. Unlike the relatively warm stone surfaces of the City of the Dead above her, the actual crypt area was gleaming and modern. The walls were shining metal, although a thin film of dust dulled the reflection that Soleta saw against them. There were slots in the wall, “drawers,” where the dead lay, each sealed out of respect. That, and because Romulans still told their children of the day that would eventually come, the Mra’he’nod, when the skies would blacken forever and the dead would rise and rampage through the cities, taking all that lived with them into the abyss for the rest of eternity. It was reasoned that, if the dead were sealed in, they could not emerge. This made no particular sense to Soleta, who could only assume that if all sanity and reason were tossed out and all the dead were able to arise, certainly they’d be able to get around something as mundane as sealant. She, however, had not created the legends, nor did she set much store by them, so she didn’t dwell on it.
She withdrew the amulet, which had been sitting in her small shoulder pack. The walls around her were utterly smooth. She had no idea where or how she was supposed to leave the thing. She could simply deposit it on the floor and walk away, but that seemed so . . . pedestrian somehow. Plus she suspected that the amulet had some degree of intrinsic value or worth. This crypt, like most others, was not sealed. Romulans were always invited, at all times, to visit with and commune with any dead at any time (presumably to try and stay on their good side in the event that Mra’he’nod should actually occur).
For long minutes, nothing seemed to suggest itself as a proper resting place, and she was almost resolved to place it on the floor and be done with it, when something caught her eye. At the far end of the crypt, positioned in a corner just above the gleaming floor, was what could only be described as a receptacle. There was a hollowed-out section that matched, exactly, the curves of the amulet in her hand. No wonder Rajari had not been concerned about her figuring out where the amulet should go; it was impossible that it could go anywhere else.
She held the amulet up to it, tilting it experimentally, marveling at the perfect way in which it fit. He must have taken it out of there as some sort of a souvenir, a memento, and the guilt for absconding with it had been too much. In returning it now, she was going to be able to undo that unfortunate act and fulfill her promise at the same time.
“This is for you, Rajari. Rest in peace,” she said, and she inserted the amulet carefully into its place.
At the very last second, she suddenly realized that the reason she had noticed the place to insert the amulet was because it was clean. There was no dust there at all. And there were infinitesimally small metal shavings, as if someone had just carved the receptacle into the wall very recently.
Except Rajari had not been on Romulus for some time.
Which meant that someone else had carved it there into the wall.
Recently.
Which meant it hadn’t been stolen, but rather created for specifically that purpose.
Faced with a sudden unknown, Soleta tried to pull the amulet out. But the instant that she had put it into its place, it had clicked in there with a terrifying finality that seemed to reverberate throughout the tomb.
She heard a whining, like energy starting to build up, heading toward some sort of detonation.
Soleta pulled at the amulet, not comprehending what was happening, but certain that if she could just pull the damned thing out again, it would halt whatever process had been set into motion. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked. The amulet resisted all the effort she put into it.
The amulet started to turn. That was impossible, she thought, and then she realized that the amulet was actually set into a disk in the wall, about eighteen inches in diameter. She could see the lines of it now that it was turning, the seams showing, and she cursed herself for not having spotted it earlier. She had been so pleased, so relieved, to have come this far to accomplish this idiotic quest, and so busy questioning herself, that she had neglected to question or challenge the circumstances of the situation.
She shoved against it, trying with all her strength to push it counterclockwise to the way it was turning. It didn’t help, didn’t slow it in the least. The disk was turning slowly but inexorably, and it suddenly occurred to her that if the crypt was about to blow up—as now seemed likely—it would be an extremely good idea to be anywhere else but there.
She spun and bolted for the exit. She was certain she could feel gears and levers shifting under her, preparing to push a door into place that would slam shut and seal her in, guaranteeing that she would pay the ultimate price for her foolishness. The distance to the door was not that far, but it seemed to spiral off into infinity. Twenty paces, then ten, and Soleta leaped, arms extended. She tumbled through the door, hit the stairs, banged her elbows and knees and pushed away the pain for another day. She scrambled to her feet, stumbling up the stairs, leaving the rumbling behind her but determined that she had to put as much distance between herself and the family crypt as possible.
She had no idea what sort of deranged sense of vengeance would prompt Rajari to destroy the crypt of his family, but she was in no position to second-guess the efforts of a dying (and now dead) man. Her legs pistoned beneath her as she sprinted away from the crypt. She had gotten all of thirty feet when suddenly the rumbling in the crypt behind her ceased.
She slowed, stopped, and turned, looking behind her in a very puzzled fashion . . .
. . . and that was when the explosion hit.
Soleta hit the ground reflexively, hoping to dodge any debris that might go flying over her head, trying to present as minimal a target as possible. But even as she dropped, she realized that she was in no danger. The crypt had not detonated at all. Instead the explosion had come from some distance away.
And then debris began to rain down around her. She covered her head as small, flaming bits of rock hit the ground, bouncing away, and the air was filled with smoke and distant screams. And something else struck the ground nearby her. It was small and leathery and she realized belatedly that it was a foo
t shod in what had once been fine leather, but was now little more than a smoking husk.
She risked a glance toward the north.
The golden spires of the Noble House were gone. In their place were plumes of black smoke, reaching all the way to the sky that the towers had only tried to touch.
McHENRY
McHenry was lightly dozing, but when he woke up he came to the realization that the platform on which he was perched had stopped sinking. That was the good news. On the other hand, the bad news came quickly thereafter, namely that the platform was now getting smaller.
He had completely lost track of time while he’d been stuck up there. The sun had gone down and come up again. The platform remained stable and he stuck a tentative foot off the edge. The fall yawned beneath him.
At least, he thought it did. Then again, he thought that the sun had set and risen, but he was not the least bit hungry, nor had he developed any beard stubble. It made him wonder how much of time was an illusion. Then again, pondering that question was nothing new for him. However, in this instance it went beyond a simple matter of time. There was all of reality itself, or at least the reality as it was being presented to him. It was not a reality that he was terribly satisfied with, and he wondered if there might be some tweaking of it possible.
He knew that there was one way to find out, but it certainly would have its own share of hazards.
“Oh well. No one lives forever,” he said, and then added as an afterthought, “except for immortals.”
McHenry promptly started to think about something else. There was no great trick to that; in point of fact, it’s what he was rather good at. Indeed, it was a trait that any number of his superior officers had found to be extremely disconcerting. McHenry was renowned for sitting at his station and looking for all the world as if he were dozing. But in truth, he was simply devoting as much of his brainpower as was required to handle the situation at hand. Which was what he was intending to do now.
