by Various
Tholon nodded, still grinning like a dark predator. “You shall enjoy this taste, then.” He poured his ale.
“Well, Yalu, thank you for bringing me your brother.” He rose his glass for a toast. “You both choose your words well.”
“It’s our honor, Commander.”
Another Romulan entered the shuttle, whispered in the commander’s ear, and promptly left. Tholon frowned.
“Troth,” he began. “Have you anything amusing to say about Vulcans?”
He looked at me, desperate for something. Spock’s pamphlet was either exposed or not by the officers who gathered my things. I decided to play up my Reman role.
“I’ve never met one, sir.” I had to remain ignorant. That is the best sort of Reman, anyway.
He sighed. “A shame. A few minutes with one will confirm the superiority of our culture and why we split off from them thousands of years ago. They’re weak. Unwilling to act, embracing a culture of suppression, one that lies to itself. And the Senate does nothing to stop Vulcan propaganda in the Romulan Star Empire.”
He stood proud, patriotic, and I became enamored with the deep grin on his face. He had a clear vision and, despite its debilitating and dehumanizing view of Remans, I grew curious about it.
“And now we have that Vulcan radical softening our university students’ minds, again, with high Vulcan philosophy: passivity, false transparency, mere logic.”
Tholon looked at me with a fierce enthusiasm. I hadn’t noticed that both my face and body flinched, electrified by the reference to Spock.
“Ah, you’ve heard of him,” he continued. We nodded, both sipping our ales. “Well, gentlemen, his presence on Romulus is more destructive than the public’s recent knowledge of your race.”
“How’s that?” The question burped out from between my lips. I immediately drowned my throat in ale.
“As a Reman-raised man, you cannot fully know who we are. We are proud and suspicious. We question everything and everyone. We do this to ensure our greatness, to challenge our preconceived beliefs. Living always a bit unsettled. We are always watching, calculating the wisdom of our enemies as great tests for our superiority to overcome. But a race of slaves working in darkness would cast doubt on our natural superiority.”
He leaned forward, grinning civilly, waiting for our response. This was some subtle game, I decided. I had moved onto filling my mouth with the meat on my plate. You calmly nodded. “A sensible concern. But how does one Vulcan threaten a society that welcomes the challenging of well-worn beliefs?”
“For years, this Vulcan has nurtured a subversive counterculture. Our young have begun rejecting the basic truth of what it is to be Romulan: intellect paired with passion. Their emotional restraint. Foolish. Dangerous!”
And his fist stung the face of the table with a cutting slap. “Damn Vulcan! Lies that will cripple us!”
The word “Vulcan” spun in my mind until the pamphlet came into focus. Tholon’s unashamed Romulan-ness infected me; I felt its weight, warm, squirming in me suddenly, as a line from Spock’s scrawl spoke in me: “Visionaries progress society from within, respecting its inherent nature; in this way, we must first transform our minds.” The word “visionary” lodged in my mind on my first reading; Spock’s words made me feel closer to something beyond the mining colony, our broken mother, and our violent conception. I had never been given a vision of anything, not even the sky, until that pamphlet and, then, the dinner with Tholon.
That warm tension began to twist and rattle in my head. I could feel it, physically on my brow, like a heavy discomfort. My mind wrestled to expel something. And I felt compelled to continue Tholon’s game.
“Commander,” I began, “perhaps, like Zon, Spock has been set wild on Romulus, gathering followers to be culled and sifted as a blight. You only need to view him as a weed. On Remus, the Romulan guards would pluck the few weeds that grew in dim light and twist them into something warm to smoke. It kept them alive, soothed them, but, eventually, it withered into ash.”
His brow arched as he leaned toward me, clapping slowly. “Such striking imagery. This meal, my Reman friends, has certainly been diverting.” The discomfort cleared. I felt weightless, energetic.
As he left the table, his meal cooling on his plate, you looked at me with a mix of congratulations and sorrow, for you knew that you had condemned me to a life of self-hate, belittling Remans and anyone else against the image of a strong, nationalistic empire.
After Tholon’s campaign, I didn’t return to Remus with you and the others. Although, I later learned that you hadn’t either. Tholon recommended me for a new assignment: the Empire Morale Association, a small department within the Romulan military specializing in the creation of fresh entertainment and diversion for the soldiers during the remainder of the Dominion War. I served under the EMA’s executive officer, Subcommander Kah. We hopped between starbases and ships, entertaining the weary soldiers.
One night I bowed, the heat of the spotlight hardening my face. The audience cheered and clapped. I felt good, but oddly removed from it all. Subcommander Kah ushered me off stage and out of the spotlight. He took my place, bowing and clapping with the crowd at the Devron starbase.
“We are gratified that our Muddled Mongrel, Troth of Remus, amused you!” he began. “I never tire of his Remus stories, his retelling of Zon’s foolishness, and all his other humorous observations and poems on that dark rock. He reminds us that, on occasion, even our ancient society’s lowest class produces more than mere dilithium. Now, enjoy yourselves. The ale flows free for the remainder of the evening.”
And he bowed, sinking back into the dim backstage with me.
“Another fine performance, kid,” he said, winking. “You were really sincere.”
If Tholon was the model, seasoned Romulan, then Kah was overly eager to be Tholon. Each word was crisp, layered with accusation and implication. So, I put on your face, Yalu, and replied like a good Reman slave.
“You know where I stand, Subcommander,” I began. “Where every other Reman does, most likely over the waste disposal hatch.”
He grinned, descending into the dark corridor that led away from the starbase’s auditorium. “You keep your words just close enough to the heart of the truth, huh?”
He couldn’t have known about Spock’s pamphlet tucked tightly against my chest, but his eyes seemed to slip down my face to it. I felt its words brandish my skin as a traitor.
Really, Yalu, I don’t know why I kept the page. Kah was right, the more I spoke against Remans and Vulcans, the more sincere those words became. I came to taste the words; they became familiar. They overlaid what I knew of the universe each time I repeated them, ushering me into this other reality—one in which I felt more Romulan.
Days before the war ended, a squad of Jem’Hadar invaded Ztidem Colony. These were different. They groped around the labs, infirmaries, rounding up doctors. Kah and I fled to the generators, blanketing the colony in darkness—a reminder of my life on Remus now turned into my advantage.
Kah and I skulked through the hallways, secured weapons from the officer’s armory, and squeezed ourselves into a medical storage locker. Kah’s breathing never calmed and, in fact, drew the Jem’Hadar to us. Debilitated without their drug to sustain them, our disruptors burned through their shoulders and chests, one after another, until very few remained.
Because of our heroics and Kah’s persistence, I was invited to perform for an important admiral. She commanded the shipyards of Vateen II, the heartbeat of the Romulan fleet.
We arrived in orbit. Subcommander Kah was particularly giddy this evening, and when we entered the transporter room to beam down to the surface, I overheard him chattering with the operator.
“Makes you want to come down with us, huh?” He laughed, joyfully.
The operator nodded.
&
nbsp; “Been grooming this Reman mutt for a night like this. And now that the admiral has taken out one of that Vulcan’s underground cells, she’ll be primed for celebration.” He looked back at me, grinning wide with arms raised.
“Vulcan jokes tonight, I assume?” I asked.
He nodded. “Word is she even has the infamous Spock down there.”
The page twisted and squirmed like a muscle, a loose hand, against my skin. I literally grabbed my chest, the skin around my eyes straining in knots. I realized that Spock was more than just these words that I carried around.
“Coordinates set, sir. The admiral has sanctioned your party for transportation,” the crewman reported.
When we materialized on the planet, towering, ancient buildings congregated at the perimeter of a great courtyard. Warm street lamps kissed the dark cobblestone. A columned building shimmered silver behind curls of snaking smoke. The smoke came from an open door at the building’s base. The doorway led to the building’s cellar, where Spock and his underground met that evening. The admiral later told us how she “vanquished those treacherous libertines,” how the underground planned to install listening devices on all ships docked and built at the shipyards in orbit. This would allow them to move more freely throughout the Empire without fear of persecution.
Soldiers dragged bodies from the cellar door, piling them near the side of the building. Kah made us watch from across the courtyard. He was fascinated. No, exhilarated.
“You have to respect those deviants,” he whispered, his arm around my shoulder. “They made a bold move; it cost them everything, but that doesn’t erase their courage.”
“We’re lucky Romulan suspicion led to their untimely deaths,” I said.
“A great testament to what we fight for, Troth.” A hint of mourning, or regret, lowered his voice’s register. He sighed, then smiled.
“You might be a two-faced traitor, as guilty as these Vulcan-lovers,” Kah began, “but you do remind me of my boy. Died three months ago. Had courage, too, and a fiery tongue; helped storm a Dominion drug-manufacturing facility. Managed to crater the area. He didn’t survive, though. Shrapnel to the brain.”
He paused. “Remember why we’re here: make them forget death.”
We moved toward the building. The soldiers took aim at the pile. Spock wasn’t in the heap, I noticed; relief swelled my throat. I didn’t understand why. As we entered, I heard the soldiers’ disruptors vaporizing the pile. And I think Kah and I thought of his son.
“Come in. Come in!” The admiral sat in a wide leather chair, a flute of ale and ice singing in her hand. Kah cut into the room, enthusiastic, and embraced her other hand, shaking it passionately.
“Admiral.”
“Subcommander, I assume you’ve heard.”
Smiling widely. “This victory secures your status as one of Romulus’s most effective commanders.” He looked back at me, waving me in. “And this is the Reman boy, Troth.”
She looked at me with perfect Romulan suspicion. “Not quite a boy, Subcommander.”
He laughed, pointing to the couch adjacent to the admiral’s chair. I sat obediently.
“A child of Remus, then,” he replied. “He’s ready to perform, but I thought you’d like a personal performance. He’s even prepared his bits on the Vulcan.”
“The Vulcan,” she said, “is resolute. Stubborn. In fact, he lies in an empty room, bleeding green all over himself, and still insists on meditating, calmly neglecting the reality that he led a dozen people to their deaths.”
She stood, placing the flute on a table beside the chair. Her attention shifted to a guard at the door that I had not even noticed. My lack of Romulan suspicion made me less situationally aware, unfortunately.
“Sublieutenant, bring our Vulcan prisoner here. Have him cleaned first, of course. And have our lovely physician pump his blood with something that’ll nullify that arrogant Vulcan restraint.”
A vicious radiance dotted the contours of her high cheekbones and rigid nose. She was elegant, but it was as if her face were a lethal warbird, preparing to tear the flesh from her victim’s bones.
Kah and her traded stories for a while. She even spoke of her last run-in with Spock’s underground. “And then N’Vek trained his disruptor on me, but a loyal officer vaporized him. I knew I had to devote my career to the destruction of Spock’s virulent movement. If it could infect the Tal Shiar, our premier intelligence agency, then it could do anything.”
When Spock walked in, assisted by two guards, they slung him ruthlessly into the couch beside me. Kah insisted on standing by the admiral’s side. “I stand by no other,” he claimed.
“Enough flattery, Subcommander. Your promotion will come.”
She turned to Spock, reaching her hand out to shake his. “Ah, Mister Spock, jolan tru, thank you for joining us this evening.”
“Admiral Toreth,” he replied, ignoring her hand. “It is agreeable to see you were unharmed in the firefight.” I shuddered. A sense of surprise and fear rippled through my body. It was as if the pages and his voice conspired to shock me alive. The voice was gravelly, yet bold and certain.
She smiled darkly, returning to her seat. “Would you enjoy some Romulan ale, or have you still not developed a stomach for our finest liquor?”
“I am afraid that your physician has recently injected me with some sort of suppressant aimed at disabling my emotional control,” he explained. “It is unwise to mix massacre with these civilized pleasantries, just as it is also unwise to mix medication with drink, Admiral.”
He smiled slightly, breathing heavily. I could not look away from him. His hair thinned and grayed in patches. A large green cut hung above his left eye. His clothes were standard prison issue, the very gray, heavy clothing that clung to my sweaty body each day in the mines.
“Oh, Mister Spock, I am so pleased to hear that the rumors were true: that, despite your Vulcan restraint, your human propensity for jabs and barbs surfaces from time to time.”
“Only when logical.”
She looked to me. It was apparently time for me to perform, but I had nothing on my mind but the sweating, bleeding man beside me. He was real, and no longer words on a page. He was vibrant, resisting death and defeat even with the sting of his tongue.
“You shall begin with the tale of the Vulcan/Romulan divide,” ordered Kah.
I nodded.
“This’ll intrigue you, Admiral,” Kah began. “His interpretation of our history with this Vulcan’s people is quite amusing!”
And so I leaned forward, a crewman filling my glass of ale, and spoke my propaganda proudly.
“Imagine a barren desert. The horizon is crisp, yet wavers in the distance. A red sky looms like a burdensome guilt upon your shoulders. You crawl out of some hole that provides little protection from the heat. Out of that hole now, you stumble down the dirt and rock, the bottoms of your feet ashy and cratered by a life of wandering, of scavenging, of aimless violence. And all you can see is bodies, greening stale in the sun. Tears cut clean down your dirty cheeks. You pledge to stop the dying, fearing your own imminent death by some faction of foaming Vulcans.”
“Quite evocative,” the admiral observed.
I stopped, listening to Spock’s breathing. It was still, constant, but a subtle grinding betrayed him. And when I looked over to him, anger subtly creased his forehead.
“Continue, Troth,” ordered Kah.
“Well, what do you do? Fear inspires innovation. This weak, flailing body in the dirt was the much-beloved Surak. He created an entire culture of liars by lying to the early Vulcans. He protected them from their fears. And if he could fool enough of them, he could create a society of weak, self-deceived creatures who, instead of sitting around in dim, dry holes, would sit comfortably, arrogantly, atop cushioned benches beside the amber glow of their c
andles and logic.”
“And what of us?” the admiral asked.
“We,” I began without thinking, “you, sprang up from those same deserts, wrestled yourselves out of the sands and braved the galaxy, skeptical of Vulcan weakness, their self-indulgent deception.”
“Well put, Reman,” she said. “I’m impressed with him, Kah. He could be a powerful Reman voice to wield.”
Kah felt important. “You’ll be the voice and face of Remus, Troth. Now that the war’s exposed your people to the public, we’ll need you.”
“You and the Vulcan are quite alike,” Toreth began. “Voices used by the Empire—one to denigrate, the other, to expose traitors. Troth, you’re opportunistic, and I commend you for it, but, Spock, what does your logic say about all this?”
“It presents a growing countercultural movement within a stagnant empire, Admiral.”
Her laughter seemed controlled, feigned, breathless in that moment. She looked down in her lap and grinned. “It is your stagnant Federation who need our help in their losing fight against the Dominion.”
“The Federation, Admiral, is not being judged. I am,” he said, frustration gurgling in his throat. “I may, however, infer that all of this has been engineered simply to arouse an emotional response. A humiliation. A most fascinating exercise, for you have already won, Admiral—slaughtering Romulan citizens—yet you know that you have, in fact, done nothing to curb the reach and growth of the underground. If you shatter that glass,” he said, pointing to her flute of ale, “its pieces will easily be swept away, but the idea of the glass remains unless you dispose of every individual who has seen a glass. Change will come, Admiral. It is inevitable. History only requires one individual to summon change.”
She gripped her chair’s armrests, clawing them with her finely manicured nails. “The Romulan Star Empire will not wither away into facile, Federation puppets!”