And Tal’Aura is already strong, Durjik thought. By calling for a new Senate, she had also brought back into existence the Continuing Committee—the political body responsible for the confirmation of a new praetor. In theory, Tal’Aura had sown the seeds of her own potential demise; in practice, Durjik saw, she had gathered enough power to prevent the Committee from being a threat to her.
Durjik continued to regard Tal’Aura from across the chamber. She sat silently as the debate about the Typhon Pact raged around her. She had attired herself in a deep-purple ceremonial robe, and she wore it well on her tall, slender body. Her hair had grayed considerably since she had seized the praetorship, but it suited her, her quiet maturity lending her an air of confidence and authority. She sat just behind the line of four tables that accommodated the eight members of the Continuing Committee, and with the possible exception of Rehaek, she seemed the only one on that side of the chamber comfortable with the vociferousness of the arguments being waged.
Rehaek, though, appeared not only comfortable, but almost unaccountably disinterested in the proceedings. He sat farthest right among the members of the Continuing Committee, his attention seemingly on none of the speakers, but wandering to the huge silver sculpture hanging above the circular, marble mosaic at the center of the chamber. The piece mirrored the image engraved in glass behind Tal’Aura, but rendered in imposing dimension.
The reverse of Rehaek, Durjik thought. Where the great figure of the raptor loomed above the Senate as though a menace, the young chairman of the Tal Shiar—the elite Romulan intelligence agency—looked remote, a man of no great consequence. And where the inanimate statue in reality proved a danger to no one, the seemingly uninvolved Rehaek controlled the resources to imperil every person present—including Tal’Aura.
Across the room, Vortis suddenly shot up from her seat. The head of Agricultural Affairs, she occupied a spot on the Continuing Committee along with other cabinet directors, the proconsul, and a pair of appointed senators. Not usually excitable, she shouted down Senator Eleret. “This new alliance will bring food into the Empire!” she yelled. “Why are you insisting otherwise?”
“Because it is otherwise,” Eleret said. “Even if the other nations in this new alliance begin to provide the food our people need, we will be ceding to them power over our lives. What happens when those other nations want something from Romulus that we’re unwilling to give? They’ll withhold provisions, starve us, in order to get what they want.”
“That will not happen,” Tomalak said, rising from his chair as well. “While members of the Typhon Pact will be providing necessities for Romulus, we will be providing necessities for them. It will be a relationship based upon mutual benefit.”
“‘Mutual benefit,’” Eleret spat. “Do you truly wish to entrust the lives of the Romulan people to the whims of the Tholian Assembly? Or to the exacting requirements of the Tzenkethi autarch?”
“Who would you rather trust?” Vortis demanded. “The president of the Federation and her council?”
Tomalak raised his arms, one hand toward Eleret, one toward Vortis. “Please, please,” he implored them. “One thing we need to do is trust ourselves. The association that the Empire will share with the other Typhon Pact nations is laid out in meticulous detail in the treaty document. That association mandates monitoring of any . . . delicate . . . provisions. There will be no need for blind trust, but we will undoubtedly be able to establish verifiable trust.”
Vortis assumed a vindicated posture, hands on her hips, elbows out, almost as though challenging Eleret to say more. The senator appeared ready to do so, but before she could, another voice spoke. “An association with those other powers will necessarily position the Empire for the possibilities of both rewards and dangers, but any such association would,” said the young senator who Durjik had seen stand earlier. He spoke in low but confident tones, not loudly, but still able to project his voice throughout the chamber. “Perhaps of more importance, so too would isolationism.”
“Are you advocating for the new alliance or against it?” Durjik barked, wanting to test the tyro. He reached for the young man’s name and family, trying to picture in his mind the document he’d scanned earlier, which contained information on each member of the new Senate. Dor, he thought. Xarius or Xarian Dor, of the Ortikant.
“I am trying to decide whether or not to vote to ratify the Typhon Pact treaty,” said the young man. “That is why we’re here, is it not?” He paused, as though allowing an opportunity for a response, but when none came, he continued. “I am in favor of advancing our relations with our celestial neighbors in general, and I believe that the way this treaty is composed, it will benefit the Empire and the other nations.”
“So you’re for it,” another senator called out.
“Maybe,” he said. “My concern is that such a significant alliance will engender fear in the Federation, in the Klingon Empire, in the Reman Protectorate, and in the Imperial Romulan State. Rather than fostering peace in the quadrant, the Typhon Pact could bring us to the brink of war.”
Let it, Durjik thought. With the losses that the Federation had suffered at the hands of the Borg, it would stand little chance of defeating the combined force that the Typhon Pact could deploy. But Durjik knew the governments of the Empire’s prospective allies, and while most shared a distrust—and even a loathing—of the Federation, he knew that they also shared a reluctance to declare war on it. That is the problem with signing on as coequals.
As Tomalak responded to Dor and the debate continued, Durjik thought, almost wistfully, If only Donatra had not succeeded. By dividing the military and carving away planets from the Empire to form her own fiefdom, she had weakened the Romulan people. But if Donatra could be defeated and the Empire returned to its former glory, Durjik thought that by virtue of its renewed size and military might, it could easily become the de facto leader of the Typhon Pact. Romulus could then propel the launch of a first strike against the Federation and the Klingons.
With the right praetor in place, Durjik thought. He resented the notion of the Romulan Star Empire entering an alliance with other powers as coequals, but the possibility of at last ridding the cosmos of the Federation and their Klingon lapdogs made the ignominy worth considering. So much so that when debate finally ended late that afternoon, Durjik cast his vote in favor of ratifying the Typhon Pact treaty.
As did a majority of the senators, and all of the Continuing Committee.
13
In his cell, Spock lowered himself to his knees and interlaced his fingers. With bowed head, he closed his eyes, preparing to embrace the peace of meditation. In his mind’s eye, he traveled through ancient caverns, seeing moisture glistening on stone walls, and unreadable symbols notched into solid rock.
From there, Spock envisioned pushing out of the damp, cool subterranean space and into the arid heat. The great figure of a Vulcan master, sculpted from fire-red stone, rose high above him. He descended low, amorphous rock ledges, down to pools of boiling water and churning heaps of lava. Ahead lay the Fire Plains of Gol.
Spock continued on, sweeping across the great furnace of the empty plateau. His consciousness floated above the vast plain, the heat falling away as the Vulcan ground lost what few discernible elements it possessed. Spock soared over the increasingly blank land, concentrating his will on the barren topography.
Slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, Spock felt his concerns slough away from his mind. He shed the thoughts that consumed him, peeling them away like unwanted layers of clothing. A sense of calm enveloped him, a tranquility that nestled his awareness in its quiet depths.
But then a point of color appeared in the drab stretch of terrain. Where the easy contemplation of emptiness had brought peace, the blemish in the otherwise-unfilled extent demanded focus. Spock approached it from afar, and from above, driving toward it until it began to give up its detail: a body, lying in the desert, motionless, limbs twisted into unnatural positions. As h
e drew closer, he saw the network of dark-green lines suffusing the flesh. Even before the face came into view, he knew the identity of the inert figure: the Reman who had tried to kill him.
Spock opened his eyes. He briefly considered making another attempt to meditate, but decided against it. Instead, he would do what he had been doing for the past five days: he would wait.
Pulling himself from his knees, Spock moved over to sit down on the sleeping surface, one of only three features in the bare cell. Other than the refresher tucked behind a screen in the corner, and the magnetically sealed door, the small room claimed no other elements to interrupt the flat planes of the floor, walls, and ceiling. Obviously designed for neither comfort nor torment, the cell served well its singular purpose of detention.
Five days had passed since Spock, Venaster, and D’Tan had attempted to convey the Reman from their custody to that of Romulan Security. During his imprisonment at the Via Colius security office, Spock had been treated fairly, receiving regular meals and few questions. The latter surprised him, as did the fact that, at least as far as he knew, he had been charged with only one crime, the relatively minor offense of residing illegally on Romulus. In his few interactions with the security staff, no one had mentioned the illegality of the Reunification Movement, or made the spurious but predictable charge of espionage.
From the beginning of his incarceration, Spock had requested to speak with the protector who headed the security office. For three days, he received no response, until the protector appeared and curtly asked why Spock wanted to talk with him. Spock explained that he possessed information Tal’Aura would consider vital, and that he sought an audience with her. The protector—who identified himself as R’Jul—scoffed at the idea of an alleged criminal meeting with the praetor, and he left as abruptly as he had arrived.
Spock wondered if he’d made a mistake in coming to the security office. His intention to advance the cause of reunifying the Vulcan and Romulan people remained, as did his conviction that the current Romulan schism provided an opportunity to foment such an advance. But if he—
Without warning, an energetic hum erupted from the door, which then retracted into the wall. Beyond the force field that evidently had been erected to keep his cell secure, a pair of sentries flanked Protector R’Jul. “On your feet,” commanded R’Jul, his tone containing neither antagonism nor compassion.
Spock did as instructed. R’Jul stepped back, and the sentries—he recognized one as Sorent—trained disruptor pistols in his direction. Sorent then reached up to the side of the door, the hum fading as she deactivated the force field. The trio then dropped back to the far side of the wide corridor.
“Exit the cell,” said R’Jul, “then turn to your right and walk forward.”
Again, Spock followed the protector’s orders. As he passed from his cell and into the corridor, he asked, “Where are you taking me?”
R’Jul did not respond.
Doors lined the corridor on one side only, all of them closed. As Spock walked forward, hearing the footfalls of his jailors tracking behind him, the tableau put him in mind of what had brought him to the security office. In the present instance, though, he had exchanged places, no longer the guard, but the guarded.
At the far end of the corridor, R’Jul instructed him to turn right again, the only option available. When Spock rounded the corner, he saw a short, empty walkway that ended at a large, open door. Beyond it stood the interior of what appeared to be a shuttle or ground transport of some sort. R’Jul ordered him inside, where Sorent manacled him to the bulkhead. She then secured the doors, and in moments, Spock felt movement, suggesting that the vehicle had started on its way.
Spock did not know his destination, but he knew enough of Romulan Security to wonder if his journey would take him only one way.
The massive wooden doors, intricately carved with ornate scrollwork and inlaid with green-veined ruatinite, dominated the courtyard. Above, sunlight shined in through the windows of the cupola, imparting a hazy, twilit glow to the circular space. Other sets of doors offered access and egress to the courtyard, but none commanded attention like the ones before which Spock stood.
When the vehicle transporting him had stopped, Sentry Sorent released him from his restraints and turned him over to a pair of armed uhlans. The two Romulan military officers conducted him through a series of tunnels, until finally climbing a flight of stairs and emerging into the courtyard. Once there, one of the uhlans pulled twice on a length of thick, braided golden rope. Several seconds passed, and then a chime sounded, though Spock could not determine its source.
One of the uhlans stepped forward and pushed open the doors. He then motioned to Spock, telling him to enter. Spock did, and found himself within a dark, opulent chamber. The black floor gleamed, while the walls appeared composed of volcanic stone, burnished to give them a rich, heavy gloss. Reaching up to a high ceiling adorned with a well-executed mural, pairs of deep-blue columns marched along the periphery of the round room. Between the sets of columns, ancient Romulan artwork, realized in various media, communicated both a sense of history and the mark of great wealth. At the far end of the regal space, opposite the doors, a raised platform contained a tall chair bedecked in gold. In it sat Praetor Tal’Aura.
“Approach,” she said simply.
Spock did so, the boots of the uhlans thumping along behind him at close range. When he had neared to within several paces of the praetor, he stopped and bowed his head. “Thank you for seeing me, Praetor.”
“I am seeing you because it suits me,” said Tal’Aura. She glanced to either side of Spock, at the uhlans. “You may leave.”
“But Praetor,” one of them protested, stammering over her title, “our orders—”
“Are mine to give,” Tal’Aura said sharply. She peered back at Spock. “Do not worry,” she told the uhlans. “This man is a pacifist. Is that not right, Spock of Vulcan?”
“I intend to commit no act of violence against you, if that is what you mean,” Spock said.
Tal’Aura once again looked at the uhlans, and this time they departed without comment. Still, Spock had little doubt that the praetor had not been left unprotected. Appropriate security measures likely had been implemented in her audience chamber, from the monitoring of the room to the secreting in it of remotely controlled weapons.
“I am told that you claim to be in possession of information vital to me,” said Tal’Aura. She wore a navy suit of a severe cut, its acute features complimenting her trim body, and echoing the points both of her ears and of the tapering hair that depended along the sides of her narrow face. “Was that merely a feint employed in an attempt to speak with me, or do you truly have such information?”
“The information of which I spoke is genuine,” Spock said. “But it is not data that I bring to you. It is a different perspective.”
A slight smile curled Tal’Aura’s lips. “A different perspective? Of that, I am quite certain,” she said. “But why would I even listen to the opinion of an outworlder—of an intruder—let alone consider it to be of vital importance?”
“Because it is the logical thing to do,” Spock said. “And because what I relate can help both you and the Romulan people.”
The praetor sat forward in her chair and seemed to study Spock. “And why would you wish to help me?” she asked, clearly not believing that Spock would.
Spock did not prevaricate. “In general, I would not,” he acknowledged. “But where the cause I support shares common aims with you, there is room for cooperation.”
Tal’Aura sat back, dismissing the idea with the brush of her hand. “Your cause it not licit, Spock,” she said. “As praetor, I cannot share its aims.”
“The criminalization of the Vulcan-Romulan Reunification Movement is arbitrary, based upon no moral or ethical precepts,” Spock noted. “The elimination of such a statute is therefore easily justified and easily accomplished.”
“Easily?” Tal’Aura asked, her brow fu
rrowing.
“You are the sole political leader of the Romulan Star Empire,” Spock said, stating the obvious. “Within the Empire, you essentially can do as you see fit to do.”
“You so readily discount the power of the Senate?” Tal’Aura said.
The question stopped Spock. It implied the re-establishment of the Empire’s legislative body, something that, as far as he knew, hadn’t occurred since Shinzon’s dastardly mass assassination.
“The new senators may have been selected only recently, but many have served in government before,” Tal’Aura said. “Imposing my will upon them may not be as easily achieved as you think.” She waited for Spock to respond, but apparently read his silence as ignorance. “Wait,” she said. “You don’t know about the Senate.”
“No,” Spock said. “But it does not alter the considerable power you must still wield. If you choose to push for the legalization of the Vulcan-Romulan Reunification Movement, it will likely happen.”
“True,” Tal’Aura said. “But you have not convinced me that I should. What is this ‘different perspective’ that you wish to convey to me?”
“I must first state that which you already know,” Spock told her. “The collective disposition of the Romulan people continues to deteriorate. They have been witness to the murder of Praetor Hiren and most of the Senate, the takeover of their government by a Reman force led by a human, and your own seizure of power. They have watched as dissent has been quashed, most notably in the elimination of Admiral Braeg and his opposition movement. They have seen the Remans revolt and not only gain their independence, but become a ward of the Klingon Empire. Perhaps most damaging of all, they have lived through the fracturing of the Empire into two rival states. On Romulus and the worlds you lead, Praetor, the rationing of food and medical supplies has become commonplace.” He paused, allowing Tal’Aura a moment to digest, as a whole, the series of hardships experienced by her people. “Even with a new Senate,” he then continued, “I wonder how long it will be before the citizenry follows the lead of the Remans, rising up to combat a government they do not trust and that they believe has failed them.”
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Rough Beasts of Empire Page 11
