11
PROCESSING SEGMENT 3, STARDATE 57485.7
As the Reman transporter room resolved around Kirk, his first impression of this new world was a twinge in his lower back—the pull of high gravity.
Then he realized how dark the room was. Of course, he’d just come from the daylight-bright transporter bay of the Calypso, and his eyes had not yet adjusted.
He decided it would be wise not to step off the transporter pad until he could see where he was going, and could trust his legs to take him there.
“Welcome, James Tiberius Kirk.”
The voice was rough, the words half-whispered, the greeting the kind that children dread in nightmares.
A silhouette moved toward him, its presence defined by the glowing transporter equipment controls it eclipsed.
“Thank you,” Kirk said reflexively, feeling, sensing the silhouette halt before him, at the base of the transporter pad platform. Waiting.
Most probably Reman, Kirk reasoned, perhaps two and a half meters tall.
Kirk did not move.
“Are you in need of assistance?” the silhouette asked.
Kirk knew he should mention the dim lights and the heavy gravity to explain his hesitation. But decades of Starfleet training and experience made him give a different answer. There was no need to voluntarily reveal weakness to a potential foe.
“Not at all,” he said. He stepped forward, gritting his teeth as his legs almost buckled in their efforts to keep him balanced. Only his peripheral vision kept him from pitching off the steps at the edge of the platform. By looking to the side, he could just glimpse them like a low-magnitude star at the limits of perception.
He stood before the silhouette, close enough to make out the upward sweep of batlike ears, the gleam of small, deeply set eyes, even the glint of fangs.
The Reman held a fist to his chest, nodded his head in a graceful movement that was surprisingly deferential—and Romulan, Kirk noted.
“I am Facilitator.”
Kirk returned the salute, careful to nod his head to the same angle and for the same duration as his greeter. But he had no knowledge of what he was expected to say in return. The Calypso did not have a Starfleet databank filled with details of alien protocol. So he reverted to what would be expected on Earth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The Reman stiffened, angled his head as if trying to see Kirk from a new perspective. A moment later, recovering, he pointed to the side. “Please, your hosts await.”
Coinciding with the Reman’s gesture, a door slid open, and against one dark wall Kirk caught the glow of a corridor. The light was pale green.
Facilitator led the way and Kirk followed. The silence of the place was almost refreshing after the annoyingly loud environment of the Calypso. Although after the first few days, as always, even the constant noise of ship’s machinery had faded to the background for Kirk. Still, the Reman corridor was remarkably quiet, as hushed as a Bajoran temple.
The corridor curved a few hundred meters from the transporter room to a second door.
Facilitator paused, slipped a small object from the long leather cloak he wore, then placed it over his eyes. A moment later, the Reman gestured again, and the door opened.
Kirk looked into a dark antechamber. Something about its small size made him think of an airlock.
As Kirk and Facilitator left the corridor, the door behind them slid shut and a third door opened on the far side of the antechamber.
The light was blinding. Bright as a summer day in Iowa.
Kirk reflexively held a hand to his eyes, blinked as his challenged vision adjusted yet again. He turned to Facilitator to see how he was handling the onslaught of light, but the Reman was now wearing the object he had taken from his cloak. It was a light shield for his eyes.
Then Kirk was surrounded by a chorus of greetings, each slightly different, but all some variation on, “Welcome, James Kirk,” together with the words “Farr Jolan.”
Without a Starfleet combadge with its Universal Translator, Kirk had no way of comprehending the phrase’s meaning. The language the words belonged to, however, was not unfamiliar.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, they confirmed that his hosts were all members of the same species: Romulan, not Reman, as Kirk had anticipated.
The first to present himself to Kirk was one of the oldest. He began by placing his fist on his chest, as Facilitator had done. But then the Romulan awkwardly held his hand out to Kirk, as if he’d been told—but never seen—how humans greeted one another.
Kirk shook the proffered hand, and the Romulan identified himself as Virron, Primary Assessor of Processing Segment Three, and fourth cousin to the second removal of Teilani of Chal.
Teilani? Kirk stared at the man, realizing why this preliminary meeting was taking place. This was a family reunion. Teilani’s family.
Over the next few minutes, Virron made all the introductions while Facilitator remained silent, standing to one side.
Each Romulan present announced his or her name, position, and some variation of the phrase Farr Jolan.
The sheer number of new faces and names and complex associations began to bury Kirk. By the tenth introduction, he was struggling to keep up even with the memory tricks that Spock had taught him. By the twentieth introduction, he had resigned himself to the reality that he could not keep up, and so concentrated solely on those who claimed direct family ties to Teilani, and thus to Joseph.
Kirk had no illusions that Teilani’s child was the purpose of this meeting, and that he, Joseph’s human father, was merely being tolerated. The Romulans were flattering him with what was on the surface a grand reception so he would relax and allow Joseph to accompany him on his next trip here.
The truth of it came after the final introduction had been made. As if some telepathic signal had been given, the assembled Romulans began to leave the room. In less than a minute, Kirk was alone with Virron, two other Romulans, and Facilitator, the Reman.
“Please,” Virron said, indicating a cloth-covered chair in the elegantly furnished room, “sit down, Kirk. I know this world’s gravity can be tiring to offworlders.”
Kirk hoped the sweat on his brow didn’t give him away. The brightly lit room with polished wood panels and sparkling-green lightglows was hot enough to make Spock happy. “I hadn’t really noticed, but it does feel a little stronger than Earth’s.” The chair Virron offered was a welcome respite, and as Facilitator helped the other Romulans arrange other chairs around Kirk’s, as if creating an alien version of a Starfleet officer’s lounge, Kirk tried to keep the look of relief from his face.
The other two Romulans were also part of Teilani’s extended family, though after so much time had passed, their connection seemed tenuous at best, at least as far as Kirk’s understanding of Romulan methods of calculating relatedness.
Sen was an elderly female, whose short white hair had an odd green highlight from the lightglows. Nran was a young male, with a curious band of gold under his left eye. Kirk couldn’t decide if it was some sort of applied decoration, an enhancement implant, or even a metallic tattoo. Whatever it was, he had never seen a Romulan with facial ornamentation, so while noting it, he was not too obvious in his examination.
Sen and Nran both deferred to Virron, and he led the conversation.
“I trust you are not feeling too beleaguered, Kirk, meeting so many of us at one time.”
Feeling the weight of another agenda descend on this new, smaller gathering, Kirk reverted to his earlier cautious approach, and so ignored the question that was asked. He asked his own instead.
“ ‘Of us?’ All of those people were related to Teilani?”
Virron regarded Kirk calmly as if he knew exactly the tack Kirk was taking, and subtly acquiesced. “Not formally, as we are.” He gestured to include Sen and Nran. “But in spirit, yes.”
When in doubt, Kirk thought. “I don’t understand,” he said bluntly.
“Everyone
in this room—” Virron held out his hand to Facilitator, who remained a silent presence at the side. “—everyone,” he emphasized, “is part of a larger family.” Virron looked at Nran, as if giving him permission to continue.
“The Jolan Movement,” Nran said. Kirk heard the respect, almost the awe, with which the young Romulan spoke those words. Strictly by instinct, and by nothing rational, that tone of voice put Kirk on alert.
“Jolan,” Kirk repeated, and he was even more concerned by the reflexive way in which the three Romulans smiled at the word. “I heard many of the people here say that. Farr Jolan, I believe.”
“It is our way of greeting,” Sen said.
“A blessing, really,” Nran added.
“Though we don’t emphasize that nature of it,” Virron explained.
“Because…?” Kirk asked.
Nran and Sen looked to Virron, and he answered, choosing his words with care. “The Jolan Movement is from another age, Kirk. Indeed, it arose on Romulus at the same time Teilani’s parents were taken from Remus to become the first generation of the Chalchaj ’qmey. A time of impending war and uncertainty, as you know.”
Kirk moved directly to what he thought the conclusion would be. “A peace movement?”
“There is no need for war,” Nran said. The young male’s voice was fervent.
Kirk read the guarded expressions on each of his hosts. It was painfully obvious that they were holding back information from him. So he responded to the challenge by deciding to see how much he could draw from them. “A peace movement within a military society at a time of impending war…it can’t have been easy for the movement.”
“Dark times, indeed, Kirk,” Virron agreed. “On Romulus, the movement was a failure. Today, only an echo of it remains. Farr Jolan, said in greeting. Jolan True, said in parting. What once were meaningful blessings are now empty rituals, their true meanings forgotten. Which is the only reason the government tolerates their use.”
“What are their true meanings?” Kirk asked.
Virron shrugged, as if the answer were inconsequential—something Kirk did not believe. “Farr Jolan…‘peace awaits’…the truth is near…a greeting among those who believe a better time is to come. Jolan True…‘find peace’…may your day be filled with peace…. Each follower finds his own meaning, her own meaning. Surely on your world there are similar sentiments expressed, whose meanings have changed over time?”
Kirk was aware his probing was being deflected, but chose not to press the issue with his reticent hosts. Once he returned to the Calypso, he could get a coded message back to the Titan. That starship’s language databanks would shed more light on the Jolan Movement and its rituals.
“On every world, I would think,” Kirk said. Then he deflected the conversation himself. “So how is it the Jolan Movement came to survive on Remus?”
“I think what you mean to ask,” Virron said, “is how did the Movement come to survive among Romulans on Remus?”
Kirk gave him that one. “Fair enough.”
“It must come as no surprise to learn that we Romulans ‘assigned’ to Remus are outcasts from the homeworld.”
“I know very little of Remus,” Kirk said truthfully.
“Then you are like most Romulans.” Sen spoke without bothering to hide the bitterness she obviously felt.
“The Remans are a slave population,” Virron said gravely. “At the time of the Arrival, the First chose their own worlds for their own reasons. Romulus, as a world to build homes, plant crops, live a free life. Remus, as a source of riches. To fuel the creation of a new society.
“Those among the First who chose to come to Remus—the engineers and the miners—they did so believing they would give a portion of their time and their lives to the common dream of freedom, then share in the fruits of their labor on Romulus with the others.
“It was a difficult time—the first years of any colonization project always are. Transport ships between the two worlds were small, limited. Travel time could take weeks and life-support requirements, of course, diminished the amount of ore that could be returned. The First found they could not return to Romulus as frequently as they had hoped. Inevitably, as the years went on, families formed here. And the Divide began.”
Virron clasped his hands together, leaned forward in his chair as if imparting a critical secret. He even dropped his voice to a whisper. “On Romulus, Kirk, all the ancient records have long been purged. But in the oral tradition of the Remans, the tale is told that perhaps two or three generations after the Arrival, there was a war between the two worlds. The government on Romulus today would never permit this discussion to take place, but we were Vulcans then. Fierce, proud warriors. And unlike the world of our birth, we did not have the weapons that could eradicate ourselves, and thus there was no brake on the savagery we could unleash on one another.
“But those who would become Romulans controlled the spacelanes, the high ground. Those who would become Remans were starved. The war lasted little more than a year, from one planetary opposition to the next. And in the end, what had begun as a partnership had become, instead, the relationship between the conquerors and the conquered. We were Vulcans no longer. We were master and slave. Romulan and Reman.”
For all that Kirk distrusted Virron and his unstated purpose for this meeting, he heard the anguish in the old man’s voice as he related the secret, tragic history of his people.
Kirk did not hide his compassion. “Even on my world, this is not a unique story, Virron. I know that can bring no comfort, except, perhaps, the knowledge that other worlds and other species have faced similar horrific situations, and have, in time, risen above them.”
“It is rare to have such an honest conversation with an alien,” Virron said.
Kirk sought to capitalize on the moment of rapport. “You were telling me you were outcasts on this world.”
“The correct term here is ‘Assessor.’ ”
“And that, you said, was your function on Remus. Primary Assessor.”
The Romulan’s face tightened. “It’s a clinical term, Kirk. The one preferred by our masters on the homeworld. In any other language, it would mean what it is—slave driver. Overseer. Monster.”
Virron settled back in his chair, as if he had surprised himself with the anger Kirk had teased from him.
“You must forgive him, Kirk,” Sen said. “These are not easy times for us. Since Shinzon…”
Kirk suddenly saw a connection. “Were you involved in Shinzon’s coup?”
Nran’s words tumbled from him. “There was not supposed to be a coup! For generations, we have had no voice on the homeworld, and Shinzon was to speak for us.”
Kirk had been briefed on Shinzon’s rise and his coup—at least, he had been told as much as Starfleet knew, which admittedly was not complete.
“The day Shinzon set foot on Romulus,” Nran continued with undisguised pride, “as a guest officially invited to address the Senate…it was such a proud day for all Remans.”
“Yet, Shinzon was a human,” Kirk said.
“No,” Virron said. “Not matter what their species, those who are consigned to Remus are Reman. Whether like Facilitator, their family’s roots stretch back to the time of the Arrival. Or, like ours, are only a few generations removed from the homeworld. Or, like Shinzon, an alien brought here as a child. In truth, there are no aliens on Remus. The moment any being is sent here to work the rock, they are Reman.”
Kirk saw the threads of Virron’s story come together then. “Virron, I apologize if I’m straying into a subject you’d prefer not to discuss, but am I right in thinking that your family was exiled to Remus because of its involvement in the Jolan Movement?”
Virron squared his shoulders like a soldier. “To not believe in war was considered a crime. One night, they came for us. The Tal Shiar. We were rounded up. Some families simply ceased to exist. Some were torn apart, as was ours. Your wife’s parents were sent to Chal to be experimented upon. My
side of the family was banished to Remus. And generations later, here we remain.”
Kirk saw how closely the three Romulans watched him now, and he knew the final question he must ask. At the same time, he was afraid because he knew what the answer would be.
“Virron, I am learning a great deal from this discussion, but I feel the purpose of your invitation to me has not yet been mentioned. What is your interest in Joseph?”
All three Romulans sighed in relief, as if Kirk had finally opened the door to a subject they had been forbidden to mention first.
“He achieved the dream of our people,” Virron said.
“T’Kol T’Lan—your Joseph,” Sen added, “is of Remus, yet has a life beyond the rock.”
“The legends of the Old Ways speak of him,” murmured Nran. “From the time of the Clans, he has been called He Who Returns.”
Kirk felt the bristling of hairs on the back of his neck.
Sen’s expression was blissful. “The Reman who found freedom, and brings it as a gift to all.”
Kirk gripped the arms of his chair to keep his hands from trembling.
“Your son has come to end our suffering and unite the Clans,” Virron said with conviction. “He is our liberator, Kirk. Our savior.
“Your son is our new Shinzon.”
12
S.S. CALYPSO, STARDATE 57485.9
Had he been younger, Picard knew he would like nothing more than to put his fist through a bulkhead of his cramped cabin.
All of Starfleet’s careful plans, all of Admiral Janeway’s precise implementation…none of it meant anything now.
Kirk wanted out of the mission.
And the hell of it was that Picard couldn’t fault the man.
“They think Joseph is their savior,” Kirk raged. He was the sole person standing in Picard’s cabin. Doctor Crusher sat on the desk stool. Picard and La Forge sat on the bunk. “The Remans have legends about one of their own kind, born free, away from Remus, someday returning to end their suffering and unite their clans.”
Picard saw that Crusher and La Forge had nothing to say. They clearly understood Kirk’s dilemma and decision, and Picard suspected they felt they could no more offer a valid counterargument than he could.
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