by Andy Mangels
Much had changed for T’Pol since then, at least concerning her understanding of Vulcan philosophies. Although she had always steadfastly refused to believe in the existence of the katra,the experiences that Captain Archer shared—with what he felt was the living spirit of Surak dwelling inside him—were difficult to dismiss. Something had led Archer to the Kir’Shara,and had given him the knowledge required to activate it, thereby revealing the true, undiluted teachings of Surak. Whether that was actually Surak’s katrawas something she still debated even now, but even if it was solely some kind of trace memory engram of a man thousands of years gone, it was proof that Surak had lived on past his death, at least in some limited fashion.
And if he had—or if his katrahad—then it was not hard to imagine the katras of others surviving somehow still, beyond the physical bounds of living flesh.
Meditating here, in front of the sepulchers that contained the remains of her mother and of her own daughter, T’Pol felt herself clinging to the hope that neither of them was truly gone. That perhaps their katras didexist, perhaps embedded in the very stone, sand, and soil of this hallowed place.
Of course, she also had to admit to herself that her hope was undeniably born of emotion. Her mother had often admonished her for having so little control over her emotions, and while she didn’t agree with that assessment, in the nearly one-year period since she had conquered her addiction to trellium—the substance that allowed her to free herself from the grip of logic and emotional constraint—she had known that her ability to control her emotions was now clearly, perhaps irrevocably, damaged.
There were times when she blamed this damage for her continued feelings for Charles Tucker, and yet she knew that even that explanation was disingenuous. Love, while commonly thought of as an emotion, was certainly possible for even the most logical and restrained of Vulcans. Partners loved each other, family members loved each other…it wasn’t the love itself that was the issue, it was the emotions that accompanied it. Joy, sadness, ambivalence, anger, fear, comfort—all of these had come to her, and had sometimes threatened to overwhelm her, during the times she’d shared with Trip.
Even now, as she looked over to him, kneeling on the stone floor, his head bowed in prayer, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks, T’Pol felt herself torn. She wanted to go to him. She wanted to comfort him and seek his comfort in turn, but she also wanted to reject him, to gird herself against weakness and vulnerability.
She knew that their love was undeniable. Just as she knew it was untenable.
Unbidden, she felt a sharp laugh escape her throat from deep within her. It was a laugh born not of mirth, but rather spawned by something very akin to despair. It seemed to echo inside the chamber for an uncomfortable eternity, though she supposed it had probably remained in the air only long enough to cause Trip to open his eyes and look at her.
In that moment, she was lost. T’Pol squeezed her eyes tightly, willing away the tears that welled up in them. She clenched her teeth as her lips trembled. She felt the IDIC symbol that hung from the chain around her neck—the centuries-old symbol, delivered to her by her ex-husband, but given to her by her mother. The metal and stone in the symbol were cold in her hand. Cold and dead. As was her mother. And her child.
No. Theirchild was dead.
In the short time she had known Elizabeth, she was astonished at the instinctual bond she’d shared with the tiny creature. The girl had laughed and cooed several times, but mostly she had just stared at T’Pol and Trip with those dark, round eyes, a sense of nearly complete serenity radiating from the core of her being. Even while in the throes of her terminal fever and sickness, if T’Pol and Trip were both present, Elizabeth had barely cried. It was as if she suppressed only the negativeemotions, allowing only the positive ones to come through.
Was that happiness and calm related to the synthesis of her parents’ Vulcan and human DNA, or had it been a function of her individual personality? The answer to that question would never be known.
T’Pol felt herself trembling, could hear a keening sound she knew was coming from within her. The waves of loss rolled through her mind, washing over every emotional barrier she possessed.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and opened her eyes. Through the blur of unshed tears, she saw Trip in front of her, tears streaming down his own face. This was a recently familiar sight; he had cried in her quarters last week, and then again several times during the Coridanite ship’s flight from Earth to Vulcan. But this time, she was crying with him.
Every part of her wanted him to enfold her in his arms, wanted him to protect her from her own feelings. But he was more emotional than she was. She knew that the more she was with him, the more she would lose control of herself, of the carefully constructed mental barriers she had erected, of the intense passions they kept at bay.
She was broken inside, and she knew that both now and in the future, Trip would only keep the fractures open.
Their child was dead.
And she knew that their feelings for each other must, by necessity, by logic,die as well.
And yet, through her tears, she saw her own arms reaching out for him, saw him moving toward her, felt the comfort of his embrace, the strength within him.
For a long time, they held each other and cried, for all the losses of their past, their present, and, perhaps, of their future.
Four
Day Eleven, Month of Tasmeen
Dartha City, Romulus
THE HEAVY TIMBER DOOR suddenly banged open to admit a pair of hulking, ill-tempered Reman soldiers into the dank gloom of the cell. Valdore i’Kaleh tr’Irrhaimehn felt his stomach rumble in anticipation of yet another of the imperial dungeon’s meager and infrequent meals—until he noticed that the guards were carrying neither food nor drink.
“Thank Erebus,” Valdore said, seated on the edge of the rude stone cot where he had slept for the past several weeks. “Waiting down here for my appointment with the executioner had begun to grow tedious.”
Neither of the spectral white faces confronting Valdore betrayed any sign of amusement. Of course, Remans weren’t known for their keen sense of humor. “Come with us,” the guard on the right growled as his silent counterpart bared his fangs, manhandled Valdore to his feet, and affixed a set of stout manacles upon his wrists. Valdore looked up from his shackled wrists and noticed that both Remans stood a full head taller than he did.
“Let’s not make this take any longer than it has to, my brothers-in-arms,” Valdore said. Being executed was by far preferable to slowly rotting away or starving in such a godsforsaken place as this.
As his armed escorts marched him through the convoluted stone drabbikwarren of the cell block, Valdore closed his eyes, walking blindly as he listened to the echoing clatter of the uniformed Remans’ boots, which utterly drowned out his own rag-wrapped footfalls. Concentrating on the sounds, he tried to imagine exchanging his tattered, ill-fitting green prison attire for a standard military uniform, but couldn’t quite get his mind around the idea. The realization threatened to overwhelm him with despair. Has confinement so diminished me that I can no longer even visualize what I once was?
Valdore had lost track of the exact number of weeks that had passed since the start of his confinement, no doubt partly because of the windowless cell to which the First Consul had banished him. Being spared a return to those cramped confines was a blessing, no matter the reason; the prospect of his own imminent death gave the disgraced Romulan admiral only a sense of relief.
Next came a growing hollow pang of disappointment as the guards conducted him up from the intricate maze of subsurface catacombs into the vast, cathedral-like spaces of the Hall of State. Valdore knew by then that his disgrace was not destined to end in so tidy and merciful a fashion as he had allowed himself to hope.
Unless First Consul T’Leikha had lately taken up the practice of dispatching her political prisoners in the midst of the finery of her richly appointed audience chamber.
Valdore said nothing as he was marched roughly toward the silver-haired, aquiline-faced woman who was seated in an attentive, almost vigilant pose on the raised dais before which he and the guards had come to a halt. Still bound in wrist shackles and flanked by the armed Remans, Valdore was made to stand perhaps a dozen long paces away from the First Consul.
Somewhat closer to the First Consul, and guarded closely by another pair of raptor-eyed Reman soldiers, stood a second prisoner. Valdore blinked for several moments before he realized that he recognized him, despite the man’s thinning white hair, averted gaze, and defeated, stoop-shouldered posture.
Senator Vrax?Valdore thought, not willing to tempt fate by speaking aloud unbidden in the presence of the First Consul. I, too, am only a prisoner now,he reminded himself.
“ Jolan’tru,Admiral,” said First Consul T’Leikha.
A bitter laugh escaped Valdore’s lips in spite of himself. “I am no longer an admiral, First Consul. Perhaps you read of it in the newsfeeds.”
T’Leikha chuckled, her smile gleaming like a burnished Honor Blade. “I have decided to correct that injustice, Valdore. As has a majority of my colleagues in the Senate, several of whom have the ear of the Praetor, just as I do. It seems, Admiral, that the Romulan Star Empire once again urgently needs your service.”
The First Consul appeared content to wait silently for his reaction. Valdore said nothing, hoping that he wasn’t revealing just how nonplussed he was by this dramatic change of fortune. Remus had circled the Motherworld several times since he and Vrax had been removed from their respective posts and imprisoned as punishment for their discovery and defeat by the Earther-allies against whom they had been working in secret. Neither the Senate nor the First Consul were known to reverse such precipitous decisions lightly. All Valdore understood with any certainty was that circumstances must have changed greatly since he and Vrax had been incarcerated. Something has gone terribly wrong,he thought, glancing at Vrax and wondering just how much his erst-while colleague knew.
Valdore nodded in the direction of the broken former senator. “And what is to become of him?”
“Your restoration to the admiralty cannot come without a price, Valdore,” T’Leikha said, as though lecturing an obtuse servant who lacked a grasp of the intuitively obvious. “Someone still must take the blame for the calamity that befell your prototype drone ships. The Senate will back my recommendation that he be executed for betraying the Praetor’s military secrets.”
Despite her unconcealed contempt for the miserable wreck of a man who slouched before her with downcast eyes, Valdore could feel only pity for his old colleague. Whatever Vrax’s failures—whatever disagreements they’d had in the past—Valdore knew that Vrax deserved better than this.
Valdore turned away from Vrax so that he could meet the First Consul’s sharp gaze directly. “His dishonor can be no worse than my own. Iwas responsible for losing the prototype drone warships to the Earthers and their allies. Vrax merely supported my own misguided efforts.”
The First Consul leaned forward and regarded Valdore again in silence. Then she smiled. “You are no less noble for your lengthy ordeal in our dungeons, Valdore. And no less brave.”
Valdore returned her smile coolly. “I have very little left to lose, First Consul. And therefore very little left to fear.”
He paused to look back toward the broken man, pausing for a dark instant to rejoice that confinement had not treated him nearly so brutally as it had Vrax. The sight of his old friend brought unbidden wistful memories that spanned many decades. “Vrax and I served together in the Senate long ago, First Consul. Until I was expelled…for posing an imprudent question.”
T’Leikha nodded. “I am aware of your record, Valdore. You and Vrax were friends—at least until you questioned the wisdom of the Romulan Star Empire’s doctrine of unlimited expansion.”
“And I doubtless would have been executed for it, had Vrax not intervened directly on my behalf. He persuaded First Consul Aratenik to help him convince the Praetor to spare my life.”
“So?” T’Leikha asked. Her eyes narrowed, as though they functioned as a gauge showing precisely how much patience remained behind them.
“So the Senate would no doubt listen to yourrecommendation for clemency as well,” Valdore said, looking T’Leikha squarely in the eye. “As would the Praetor himself.”
Her brow had begun to furrow in incompletely restrained fury. “You forget your place, Valdore. Your family is not so powerful as you seem to think.”
Valdore met the continued onslaught of her gaze without flinching. “If members of my family were influential enough to free me from imprisonment, they certainly would have done so long before now. Therefore I must assume that youhave brought me here, First Consul—and that you did so because you needme. Otherwise you would not have seen fit to changemy ‘place.”’ He gestured toward Vrax without breaking eye contact with T’Leikha. “So, given my evident importance to you, I respectfullyrequest that you spare this man’s life. The Romulan Star Empire may one day have need of him again, just as has proved to be the case with me.”
T’Leikha paused to digest this, then nodded toward Vrax’s guards, who swiftly began conducting the slope-shouldered prisoner away. For a fleeting moment before the former senator exited the chamber, Vrax’s gaze locked with Valdore’s.
Valdore glimpsed both anger and despair in his old friend’s once roc-sharp eyes. He realized then that if his request for clemency was to succeed, he had very likely done his old friend no favors. Sometimes you either end up in charge,Valdore thought, or else you end up executed. There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground.
But he couldn’t concern himself with that now. His stomach rumbled hollowly, and noisily enough to make him wonder whether his Reman guards might be startled by the sound.
Again turning his attention fully upon First Consul T’Leikha, Valdore said, “I require a meal, a bath, a clean uniform, and communications with my family. And then I want a briefing about everythingthat has happened while I have been…away.”
T’Leikha nodded. “All of that has been prepared. You will have until tomorrow morning to prepare a coherent strategic plan for presentation to the Empire’s Military Tribunes, and to the Praetor himself.” She grinned like a predator anticipating a kill. “Welcome back, Admiral Valdore.”
After taking a swift meal and an equally swift shower, and then properly attiring himself in a uniform tunic that now felt disconcertingly loose across his chest, Valdore took a seat at a triangular table in a small conference room located deep in the bowels of the Hall of State. Here he endured a briefing that was anything but brief. The uniformed centurion who was conducting it—a young man named Terix—was copiously thorough, so much so that Valdore could not help but feel overwhelmed by all that had occurred since his confinement had begun.
But he knew he hadn’t the time to dwell on that, for there was far too much to do. Nor did he wish to consider overmuch the mortal danger he was in, since the Praetor’s own intelligence service was no doubt watching him closely for any sign of disloyalty, now that he once again had access to so much highly sensitive imperial military data.
He concentrated instead on the renewed sense of overarching purpose that once again consumed him.
The Empire’s adversaries had moved forward considerably in their plans during Valdore’s detention. Earth and its allies were now close to formalizing a mutual defense pact that might be better described as a permanent confederation. Five highly advanced, starfaring worlds capable of interposing themselves between the Romulan Star Empire and its necessity-driven ambitions for expansion could soon present a unified military front to the outworlds of the Empire’s ever-broadening—and ever more diffuse—frontier. And that hostile front might even succeed in beating back the Empire’s massed forces, given the reliable new intelligence reports indicating that Coridan Prime now apparently possessed avaihh lli vastam—warp-seven-capable vessels—at least in prototype f
orm.
They could very well strangle us within our own territory,Valdore thought with increasing agitation as he listened to Terix and reviewed the many classified text files, flat and holographic pictures, and graphs that the centurion had provided. If the Coridanites should share this technology with the rest of the worlds in this so-called Coalition of Planets before our Empire can bring its own countermeasures online…
Valdore did not want to pursue the thought to its conclusion, though he couldn’t stop himself from visualizing the national banners of Earth or Vulcan or Coridan fluttering in the Apnex Sea’s cool breezes over all of the ancient domes and arches of Dartha’s venerable Government Quarter, including the stately vastness of the Romulan Senate itself. Even without the Coridanites’ warp-seven-capable technology, the Coridan system’s abundant dilithium reserves would not only greatly strengthen Earth and its Coalition of Planets, but they might also benefit the uncouth creatures of the Klingon Empire, longtime adversaries whose own expansionist tendencies rivaled those of Romulus itself.
Putting aside his apocalyptic speculations for the moment, Valdore leaned toward Terix and interrupted him. “Centurion, what is the current status of our own high-warp research projects?”
Still standing between Valdore’s table and the wall screen that currently carried a map of the Coalition of Planets’ projected boundaries along the Romulan frontier, the young briefer scowled down at his boots for a moment. He was clearly about to convey some bad news, and was just as clearly worried about being held personally responsible for it.
After being prompted with a curt monosyllable, Terix said, “The first full-up test of the new stardrive was undertaken earlier today, Admiral, on Unroth III.”
“And?”Valdore asked in a low growl, making an intentional display of impatience; he hated verbal tiptoeing of this sort.
“We received official word about the results about four dierhaago. The prototype failed, explosively. The resulting energy discharge completely destroyed the prototype and the research complex, and blew off a good portion of Unroth III’s atmosphere.”
