After Ravent’s death, Kamemor had fallen into solitude. She elected not to pursue a return to her position as territorial governor of Alva’t’kresh, not merely because it would have proven problematic after so much time away, but also because interacting with others pained her. Instead, she spent long days and sleepless nights attempting to make sense of the senseless. She shunned family and friends, sequestering herself away in a fog of loss.
One day, she recalled, she had picked up a stylus and written about what she felt. Kamemor intended her words for no one—not even for herself, really, since she did not expect ever to read them. She simply needed the act of writing as an outlet for her deep emotions and fevered remembrances.
To her surprise, that had led Kamemor to composing poetry. She initially did it without consciously choosing to do so. It seemed that, more than just trying to organize itself, her mind sought to create something—to create anything—out of her pain. In time, it succeeded enough for her days to return to a semblance of normality, and for her to allow the people who cared about her back into her life.
Although she had decided to remain essentially retired from government work, she’d still wanted to contribute to society. She took on various projects suited to her abilities, such as overseeing the modernization of a solar power plant in the Ar’hael Desert, and leading a soil reclamation project in Venat’atrix Territory. Perhaps because of such activities, when her great-grandfather, Gorelt, passed away, the Ortikant called upon her to assume the mantle of clan elder. When Praetor Tal’Aura reconstituted the Imperial Senate after the madman Shinzon had assassinated most of its members, Kamemor presided over the gathering that selected Xarian Dor as the family’s representative in the re-formed legislative body. The dreaded disease Velderix Riehn’va then felled Dor, however, and the clan turned to Kamemor as his replacement. So too had the Senate itself looked to her when Tal’Aura had died of the same disease.
For the last decade, she realized, the path of my life has been defined almost entirely by death. Maybe a desire to break from that pattern drove her to take her current course of action. Well beyond her own personal life, the Romulan people in recent times had faced great hardship: the war against the Dominion; the assassination of Hiren and the mass murder of the Senate; the death of Shinzon; the division of the Empire, which had led to shortages of food and medicine among the population; the battle against the Borg; the suicide of Empress Donatra; and the demise of Praetor Tal’Aura.
“I’ve had enough of death,” she said aloud. Ventel looked at her, but she could not make out his face within the hood of his robe. She chose to say nothing more.
Past Orventis Arena, Kamemor followed her security detail around the back of the building. A row of hedges, embedded with both a metal fence and a force field, protected the rear of the facility. As her guards fanned out to secure the area, three of their number led the praetor through a narrow gate, and then through a doorway into the arena itself.
Inside, Kamemor found herself in the low lighting of a backstage area. Layers of soaring curtains hung off to one side, and the praetor’s gaze climbed upward with them, to the complex maze of cabling, pulleys, and counterweights that crowded the theater’s fly loft. She heard a rush of sound, like rain striking the ground, which she immediately identified as applause.
Clustered in a rough semicircle about the door through which she had just entered the arena, Kamemor saw members of the advance team that had helped secure her visit. One of them broke from the shadows and approached her, obviously identifying her by her robe. Though of no particular physical distinction, Ranos Malikan carried himself with an air of imposing authority, befitting the man charged with protecting the leader of the Romulan Star Empire.
“Right this way, Praetor,” Malikan said, pointing toward the near corner. Kamemor peered in that direction and saw a short-range lighting panel illuminating a descending staircase. She allowed Malikan to escort her and Ventel down one flight, where they entered a long, narrow corridor bounded by numerous closed doors. Her security director accompanied her and the proconsul to the first door, already guarded by a pair of sentries. Malikan entered a code into a keypad in the wall, and a single panel slid open to reveal a small sitting room.
Kamemor and Ventel stepped inside behind Malikan, who watched to ensure that the door closed and locked behind them. The praetor pulled back the hood of her robe to uncover her head, as did Ventel beside her. Malikan scanned the room quickly, despite the presence of security guards outside the door and a quartet of transport inhibitors, one in each corner. The arena itself obstructed the use of transporters as a matter of course, but Kamemor knew that her security director trusted nothing, always preferring to employ his own equipment in the discharging of his duties.
Cupboards lined one side wall of the room, topped by a counter filled with various light foods and beverages. In the center of the room, a sofa and several easy chairs surrounded a square table, which featured a large, artistically arranged tray of assorted fruits. Opposite the cupboards, two large and half a dozen smaller viewscreens bedecked the other side wall.
“We’ve set up our own surveillance teams to feed into these monitors,” Malikan said, indicating the six smaller screens. “We’re also observing from our own secure location.” He didn’t need to point out the content of the two larger monitors, which clearly showed views of the arena’s stage. There, a young woman spoke at a podium, though no sound attended the movement of her lips. “If you wish, the volume can be adjusted,” said Malikan, who walked over and indicated controls on the bottom right-hand corners of the monitors. He then made a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the entire room. “All of the food and drink here have been delivered from the Hall of State, and are therefore safe for you to ingest.” He paused and surveyed the room once more, as though checking everything he saw against an internal inventory. “Is there anything else you require, Praetor?”
“No, Director,” Kamemor said. “Only to complete the task I set myself in coming here.”
“Very well, Praetor,” Malikan said. “When would you like your meeting to commence?”
“As soon as is feasible.”
“I will see to it at once,” Malikan said. He quickly moved to the door, punched in a sequence on an interior keypad, and exited.
Once the door had closed again, Ventel turned to face Kamemor. “This probably won’t seem the appropriate time to ask, but I may not have another opportunity,” he said. “Are you certain that you’re doing the right thing?”
“Am I certain?” the praetor said, walking over to the counter. She found a pitcher of citrus juice and poured herself a glass of the yellow liquid. She offered it to Ventel by holding it out toward him, but he declined with a shake of his head. Kamemor took a sip, then settled herself on the sofa. “No, I’m not certain,” she said. “I suspect that not all of our allies will support the action I propose, and some are likely to object vehemently. But given the precarious political situation, we must do something to restore balance in the region.”
The startling news of Andor’s secession from the United Federation of Planets would have troubled Kamemor no matter the circumstances, but the role of the Tholians in the destabilizing event redoubled her concerns. Not only had Andor been a significant part of the UFP for more than two centuries, it had been one of its five founding members. Its loss no doubt had sent shockwaves through the Federation, weakening it at a time when it continued to rebuild from the Borg assault.
“The Tholian Assembly may consider your actions as intended to undermine what they have accomplished,” Ventel noted.
“Perhaps,” Kamemor said, “but they did not deign to inform the Romulan Empire of their own intentions to hobble the Federation until they stood on the brink of doing so. Considering the relative importance of Romulus and Tholia to the Typhon Pact, I am less concerned about the possibility of the Assembly’s disapproval of my actions than I am about the repercussions of theirs.”
“We’ve already seen some of the consequences,” Ventel said, moving to sit in a chair beside the sofa. “With the Ferengi Alliance and the Cardassian Union joining the Khitomer Accords, tensions continue to ratchet upward. I’m just concerned that what you want to do, rather than calming those political tensions, will end up igniting them into armed conflict.”
“And what would you propose?” Kamemor asked. “The Romulan Empire seceding from the Typhon Pact?”
“That is an option,” argued Ventel. “Without the Empire, the remaining powers would likely lack the firepower necessary to succeed in an attack on the Federation and its allies, and would thereby preserve the peace.”
“If I thought seceding from the Pact would preserve the peace, I’d take it to the Imperial Senate at once,” Kamemor said. “But just because a weakened Pact wouldn’t attack the Khitomer Accords nations, that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t attack the Empire.”
Ventel nodded. “I’m not sure we could prevail in such a war.”
“Even if we could,” Kamemor said, “the price of victory would prove steep in blood and treasure.” She thought about all the actions and counteractions that had so recently taken place. The Breen—and to her chagrin, the Romulans—stealing the plans for the quantum slipstream drive. The Federation sending two Starfleet operatives into the Breen Confederacy to corrupt those plans and destroy a prototype vessel. The Tzenkethi harrying relocated Federation settlements. The Tholians fomenting Andorian secession. The Ferengi and the Cardassians joining the Federation and the Klingons in the Khitomer Accords. At every stage, reaction followed action, one alliance attempting to gain a tactical advantage over the other.
And why? Kamemor wondered. To what purpose? If diminishing the Federation and its allies would have raised the chances of a lasting interstellar peace, she would have supported doing so. But it seemed clear to her that the Tholians, as well as the Tzenkethi and perhaps others, sought to damage the Federation not to guarantee amity, but to permit conquest—or worse, to permit eradication.
Fear, she thought. It’s all about fear. The Breen and Praetor Tal’Aura feared that Starfleet would utilize its technologically superior slipstream drive to open a first strike on the Typhon Pact nations. The Tholians feared the overall strength of the Federation and its allies. The Tzenkethi feared UFP encroachment on their territories. And the Federation feared the rise of a coalition comprising many of their historical adversaries.
“Fear cripples everything,” she told Ventel. “It provokes violence between neighbors, distrust among friends, the sowing of blame against aliens. It allows cynicism and ignorance and brutality to triumph over art and intellect and romance.”
Before Ventel could respond, a tone sounded in the room, obviously signaling a request for entry. Kamemor glanced at the wall of monitors, and saw on one screen the closed door that led to the room in which she and Ventel sat. Between the two security guards stood Director Malikan and the man whom the praetor had come to the Orventis Arena to see.
Kamemor stood, and Ventel followed suit. “Please come in,” she called.
A moment later, the single panel slid into the wall, exposing Malikan and his charge. “Praetor, may I present Ambassador Spock.”
Upon seeing Kamemor, one of Spock’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. Per her instructions, he had not been told with which governmental official he would be meeting.
“Mister Spock,” the praetor said, recalling that he preferred not to be addressed with the honorific of his former position. “Please join us.”
The leader of the Reunification Movement entered the room alone, while Malikan remained outside in the corridor. The door glided shut, offering Kamemor the privacy she sought. She could have summoned Spock to the Hall of State or to her residence, but once she had made her decision, she’d wanted to meet with the former Federation ambassador as quickly as possible, and in a manner that instantly conveyed her seriousness of purpose, her resolve, and her respect for Spock. She hoped that by going to him, she could accomplish all of that.
Very deliberately, Kamemor raised one hand and offered the traditional Vulcan salute. “Welcome, and thank you for coming,” she said.
“It was unclear to me whether or not I had a choice in so doing,” Spock said.
Ventel looked to the praetor, an expression of anxiety dressing his face. Kamemor lowered her hand. “You did have a choice,” she said, “and you do have a choice. If you wish, you may depart right now, with no consequences to yourself or to your cause. But I urge you to stay, to at least listen to what I have come here to discuss with you. I can assure you that it is an important subject, worthy of your attention.”
“Indeed,” Spock said, and he took a step forward. “I am … intrigued.”
“Please have a seat, then,” Kamemor said. Spock seemed to consider this for a moment, and then he sat in a chair on the other side of the table from her. “You remember Proconsul Anlikar Ventel, I trust.”
Spock nodded in Ventel’s direction. “Proconsul.”
“Mister Spock,” Ventel acknowledged.
Kamemor and Ventel took their seats, and after Spock declined the praetor’s offer of refreshments, she launched into the reason she had come to see the Vulcan. “Mister Spock, I wanted to speak with you because the Alpha and Beta Quadrants have become nothing less than seething cauldrons of fear and paranoia. If something isn’t done to curb the escalating tensions and the continuing attempts to overcome the balance of power, I’m concerned that the situation could boil over and lead to open hostilities.”
“You refer, I take it, to the Tholians’ role in Andor’s secession from the Federation,” Spock said.
“Among other things, yes,” Kamemor said. “But I contend that all sides are culpable to one degree or another. The Federation’s development of a superior engine technology has fueled fears among the Typhon Pact nations of a first strike against them.”
“And I would submit that since Starfleet has to this point elected not to launch such an attack,” Spock said, “the benignity of their motives is clear.”
“Their motives notwithstanding,” Kamemor said, “the very existence of their advanced starship drive has unsettled the political situation. As has their relocation of several colonies to the Tzenkethi frontier.”
Spock seemed to consider this. After a moment, he said, “Praetor, with all due respect, I am in no position to offer an informed defense of the Federation. As you know, I have spent the majority of the past decade and a half here on Romulus. My knowledge of interstellar affairs in general, and of Federation policies in particular, is therefore limited.”
“I do not seek justifications for recent Federation actions,” Kamemor said.
“Then may I ask what it is that you do seek?”
“Your trust,” Kamemor told him. “I need you to trust me, and I need to trust you.”
“I … do not understand,” Spock said.
Kamemor peered over at Ventel, looking, she realized, for his support. He nodded once, and she looked back over at Spock. “I need you to deliver a message for me,” she said. “For the Romulan Empire, and really, for all the people of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants.”
This time, both of Spock’s eyebrows danced upward.
Kamemor steeled herself as she set out to alter the path of the Romulan people. “I need you to deliver a message to President Bacco.”
October 2382
10
Having completed her inspection of Defiant, Captain Ro Laren paced through the vessel’s main starboard corridor, headed for the airlock at the bow. Around her, the ship had stilled, its powerful warp drive shut down, its impulse engines likewise laid low. The reduced lighting of Defiant’s standby mode brought shadows and silence descending around her.
In such moments, alone on the ship after an extended mission, Defiant simultaneously soothed Ro and scared her. Freed from the rush of impossible velocities, from the pulsing rhythms of the almost tameless energy that drove it, Defian
t at rest reminded Ro of the promise of simpler times, of the peace of mind that repose could afford. At the same time, the inactivity felt like a decline of defenses, felt like an invitation to peril.
Especially now, Ro thought, unsettled. Although she had commanded Deep Space 9 for three and a half years, it had been just two months earlier that she’d received her promotion to captain. Somehow, the simple advancement in rank seemed to weigh her down. Virtually none of her duties changed, and yet much of what she had learned over time to do as a matter of course suddenly burdened her. For one thing, she took a good deal longer to discharge many responsibilities that she previously completed with ease. Such as inspecting the Defiant.
Technically, regulations did not require Ro to tour the ship immediately upon its return to the station unless it had sustained damage while in the field. She had picked up the habit from Captain Vaughn, whom she’d seen doing it when he commanded DS9 and she served as his executive officer. Once he transferred to U.S.S. James T. Kirk to better pursue his aspirations to explore the universe, Ro took up the practice herself. Since becoming Captain Ro, though, she spent twice as much time doing so—though less that night, after having consulted with the station’s counselor about the change in behavior. Lieutenant Commander Matthias had explained the psychological underpinnings of Ro’s lengthier, more onerous approach to many of her tasks, and that understanding had already allowed Ro to begin adjusting her outlook and returning to a healthier way of conducting herself in her duties.
As the captain neared the airlock, she heard the tread of somebody approaching from the opposite direction. Up ahead, Lieutenant Prynn Tenmei emerged from a connecting corridor. She saw Ro and stopped, obviously waiting for the captain to reach her.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact 06: Plagues of Night Page 15
