Star Trek: Unspoken Truth

by Margaret Wander Bonanno

  “Unless, of course, the empire needs her for additional missions,” Saavik observed dryly. She had not given him back his disruptor, and he hadn’t seemed to care. Not for the first time, she wondered if he truly was protected by a vast network of fellow agents, or operating alone. “It is said that there is only one way out of the life of a spy.”

  Narak’s smug little smile widened. “Largely exaggerated, I’m afraid. Seriously, you will be allowed to go on your way, for now. We may need you, after all, when the Federation’s peace feelers to the Klingons fail and the two sides go to war.”

  Thus with the augmentations Narak provided (applied in a safe house whose location she was unable to determine with any exactitude), a tall, attractive young Vulcan civilian female named T’Vaakis took up residence in a block of flats within walking distance of the Enclave that enclosed Vulcan High Command, having ostensibly relocated from the remote polar city of Nah’namKir, where she had earned her degrees in linguistics and communications, in search of employment. All of her documents were in order, and the rental agent barely glanced at her as he let her into the flat.

  Saavik found herself torn between amazement at the thoroughness with which Narak and his handlers had accomplished this, and annoyance at their obviousness.

  “T’Vaakis? Could you find a more obvious rearrangement of the letters of my true name?” she wanted to know. “As for giving my point of origin as the very city where you murdered Tolek—”

  “Ah, careful now!” Narak said, not for the first time. “The dearly departed may or may not have met an untimely end, but you would be hard-pressed to connect me with the instrumentality.”

  At present I am hard-pressed to do anything other than yield to your instructions! Saavik thought, seething.

  “At least give me credit for a well-honed sense of irony. No? As for your name, the thought was that it would be easier for you to remember than something more obscure. Trust me, no one will notice. Everyone from your landlord to the gatekeepers at Vulcan High Command will scan your documentation, see that it is in order and, expecting nothing less, grant you complete autonomy. You’ll see.”

  The fact that he proved correct only made her angrier. Had Vulcan truly grown so complacent?

  Having assumed her new identity, she had expected explicit instructions.

  “There will be none,” Narak had told her, his breath on her face as he admired the lens implants that would alter her retinal patterns. “It is assumed you’re clever enough to figure out how best to destroy Sarek’s reputation on your own. All you need do is report to one of your contacts periodically and update your progress.”

  “‘One of my contacts’? Not you?”

  “Alas, no. To be truthful, this assignment was assembled somewhat hastily. It’s as if my superiors are testing me as much as you.” He handed her a small memory chip. “This is time-coded. It will tell you whom you’re to contact and where when the time comes. Oh, and don’t try to tamper with it.” Had he studied her so well? “It has a built-in self-destruct. For the rest, you know Sarek better than any of us, for all our years of observation. Follow your instincts.”

  “Why is it necessary for me to visit the Enclave in person? Surely whatever ‘evidence’ I manufacture can be planted by remote.”

  “And tracked back to the source,” Narak said, shaking his head at her naïveté. “Vulcan may be complacent, but it’s not ignorant. I’m afraid you’ll have to risk being caught on the premises. But you’ll see I’m right.”

  Again she’d had to grit her teeth to keep from lunging at him, ripping out his throat, and throwing herself on the mercy of the nearest authorities. But who, exactly, would she be at that point? Former Lieutenant Saavik, late of Starfleet, who, following a series of emotional outbursts, had ostensibly lashed out and killed an old man at a sacred shrine? Or a cipher named T’Vaakis who had sprung into existence only a few hours earlier, and whose “burn identity” had not yet been confirmed by the handler currently violating her personal space in order to transform her into something she was not? T’Vaakis would be detained as a spy. Saavik’s fate was less certain. How did she know the authorities she was turning herself over to were not also part of the Romulan plan?

  Keeping still as Narak puttered with the syntheskin on her ears and not letting her thoughts seep through to her face took up all her energy. There had to be a way out of this. She simply had not found it yet.

  Perhaps, once she gained entrance to the Enclave, it would find her.

  She had occasionally accompanied Sarek to his office as a child—not often, but often enough. While she had not been there in years, surely, she thought, someone would recognize her now.

  No one did. She had strode through the massive bronze entrance doors, across the echoing marble foyer (“art deco,” she’d heard Commander Uhura refer to it once, and simultaneously wondered what that meant and when Uhura had had opportunity to be here), and through the security zones with ease—again, more attention was paid to her credentials than to her face—and moved among the staff, ostensibly inquiring about a minor clerk’s position that had conveniently opened up in an ancillary department (had Narak’s people arranged that too?), tamping down memories of walking beside the ambassador, dressed in her best clothes, a new tunic bought especially for the occasion, as a sudden adolescent growth spurt had made her taller than Amanda all but overnight, an expression of great solemnity on her face as Sarek introduced her to those with whom he worked whenever he was on Vulcan.

  According to the laws of physics, there was a sense by which the very molecules of the walls and floors “remembered” her because she had passed this way before. Saavik wished with a child’s passion that they would cry out and give her away so that she did not have to do this thing.

  Barring that, she might wish that Sarek himself would pass her in the corridor and, not even trying to disguise the warmth in his eyes, inquire pleasantly why she was here, so that she could pour her heart out to him and throw herself on his mercies.

  But she had been away so long she did not even know where Sarek was, where any of those most important to her were. Here in the throbbing heart of the universe as she knew it, she was more alone than she had been on Hellguard. At least there she had had the stars.

  With a start, she saw someone approaching her in the corridor, someone who had known her in the life she had left behind. Surely now this charade would be ended.

  The ancient one Simar rose from his simple pallet as he did daily, to greet the dawn with optimism and a glad heart, for the eighty thousand three hundred and fourth time. Having performed his ablutions and his morning meditation and partaken of a simple breakfast, he repaired to the orchards to see to the gathering of fruit, which was his particular pleasure. The young ones no longer permitted him to climb to the highest branches, but what he could reach from the ground was his to gather. The simple task pleased him, leaving his mind clear to explore the mysteries of the universe. This morning, however, before his gathering basket was even half full, he became aware of the presence of someone who had glided up silently beside him.

  “Another day, Old One,” T’Saan of the V’Shar greeted him pleasantly, joining him in the picking.

  “And a glorious one,” he responded, his pale eyes sparkling. “Especially to one so recently recalled to life.”

  It was how he greeted his superior whenever they spoke following the event that had sent Saavik into the desert some months before. Call it a story with a humorous climax.

  In a place as devoid of technology as Amorak, it had been simplicity itself to fake the old one’s death and allow the rumor of it to ripple throughout Vulcan society on the say-so of a handful of temporary guests at the shrine once they returned to their routine lives.

  T’Saan had at first considered throwing in a few more “deaths” to make the story more convincing. She had done this before, using the names of Vulcans who had died as infants and building lives for them in the archives, but this time i
t had seemed quite literally like overkill. It would be difficult enough rehabilitating Saavik when this was over, and besides, she owed one of the V’Shar’s eldest operatives his own moment of glory.

  Thus Simar, very much alive, suppressed a smile as he remembered how he and Saavik had “struggled” before he fell to the tiled floor in a reasonable facsimile of violent death, giving credence to the young woman’s “madness” for the benefit of the person or persons who were stalking her. Now that it was assumed those persons no longer had eyes on Amorak, it was safe for Simar to live once more.

  “Was it wise for you to come here in person?” he asked T’Saan now, thinking her presence might renew the interest of the watchers.

  She had thrown back the hood of her travel cloak then, and he saw that she wore a face different from the one he’d seen the last time they’d met. It had been her voice by which he’d recognized her.

  “None but you knows who I truly am. I thought you deserved to hear my gratitude in person.”

  “A long journey for an unnecessary indulgence,” the old one remarked dryly. “Most illogical.”

  “So you used to tell me when I was your student,” T’Saan mused. “Nevertheless, that wasn’t my only reason.”

  Simar set down the picking basket and tried to read T’Saan’s face, no easy task even for someone who had known her since she was younger than Saavik.

  “She has been successful, then?”

  T’Saan nodded. “With the first phase, yes. She has earned the infiltrator’s trust and gained access to the Enclave.”

  Simar looked thoughtful. “Was it this dangerous when we were that age?”

  T’Saan thought about this. “Doubtless it was. We were simply too young to realize it.”

  Simar carried the picking basket to the gathering place. When he looked back, T’Saan was never there.

  Saavik’s steps faltered. The elder coming toward her was none other than T’Lores, who had been Sarek’s aide for as long as anyone could remember. She had in fact been a part of the Enclave before Sarek’s tenure, helping the green young diplomat find his way when he first arrived. It was as if T’Lores had been there from the time of the beginning. If anyone would recognize Saavik for who she was, it would be this one.

  But T’Lores, her step sprightly despite her great age, simply glanced at the young woman’s visitor’s badge, then at her face, and nodded in greeting as was only polite among strangers. Barely recovering herself in time, T’Vaakis did the same. Finding the correct turn in the corridor, and the office to which she needed access unlocked and devoid of personnel, she set about leaving the first of a series of data triggers.

  There was much to remember. During their time in the safe house, Narak had had her memorize a plethora of information—dates and times and places where Sarek had purportedly met with Romulan agents and persons of interest, to exchange information for financial considerations and other perquisites, his goal being to undermine the very peace initiative with the Klingons that he claimed to espouse.

  Memorization was essential for this first phase of the endeavor. Potential employee T’Vaakis had entered the Enclave empty-handed. It was doubtful she would give anyone any reason to have her searched, but Narak’s masters had been thorough. Everything T’Vaakis needed to enter into the main database within the Enclave was contained in her memory. Hard data such as holographic “evidence” and supposedly intercepted communications would be supplied in later phases.

  Doing it this way would be time-consuming, hence dangerous. She would have to gain access to a computer away from prying eyes and sensitive ears and enter key words and strings of code manually into several secured levels without triggering alarms or firewalls.

  Narak had chosen the ideal candidate for the task. Even the most thorough spies outside the walls would not know in detail what she knew, right down to where the least used data entry areas were, and which codes to use to access them.

  “That went well,” she heard Narak’s voice in her ear, courtesy of a cochlear implant no larger than an eyelash, as she seated herself at a data console within sight of the door, in case someone entered unexpectedly and she had to do a data dump. “You were hoping the old one would recognize you, weren’t you?”

  “Pure supposition on your part,” T’Vaakis barely whispered, beginning to tap in the requisite codes. As invasive as Narak’s procedures had been, even he could not monitor the increase in her heart rate as the old one had passed her without recognition. Still, how in the hells did he know what had just transpired in the corridor? Was there more to the corneal implants—cameras as well as retinal reorganizers—than she’d suspected?

  “Call it hope,” Narak said. “If you hadn’t been wishing she’d recognize you and blow your cover, I’d have thought you’d given in too easily.”

  “Do you wish me to proceed, or will you continue to distract me?” she demanded tightly.

  “My apologies,” Narak said with a chuckle. “Just one question. How do you feel?”

  Saavik hesitated. “Strangely exhilarated.”

  • • •

  “Subject has entered data room in Sector V as expected,” T’Lores said quietly into the personal communicator within the jeweled family crest that decorated the left lapel of her tunic.

  “Excellent!” came T’Saan’s voice in return.

  “Instructions, Lady?”

  “At present, observe only.”

  “Do you wish me to quarantine her inputs when she has finished?”

  “Negative. Let them venture where they may, that we may ascertain the extent of the journey before we terminate it.”

  Fifteen

  Infiltrating the Enclave and implanting the trigger codes was the first phase and the simplest. Having been given no instructions for the next phase, Saavik was not overly surprised when she returned to her rooms that evening to find that the door code had been activated, the door left slightly open, and someone was waiting for her inside.

  She had been told to expect the appearance of handlers at all stages of this venture, but she had not expected to encounter a mirror image of herself.

  Obviously another Romulan sleeper agent, was her first thought as she studied the young woman—on closer examination, not her literal twin; the look was identical, but something about the way she moved said she was not yet out of that awkward adolescent stage—examining the decor in the sitting room. Obvious, for one, because a Vulcan would not presume to touch another’s belongings without permission.

  Inwardly she scowled. Why did the interloper’s actions irritate her more than her presence? They weren’t her belongings to begin with but had been provided by another of Narak’s cohort in the unlikely event that T’Vaakis chose to entertain visitors, or even that her landlord might become curious enough to gain entry to the flat.

  That, Saavik decided, was Romulan thinking, just as what her twin was doing was Romulan behavior. Curious how they can live among us for years but still not grasp the nuance. Hold that thought; it may prove useful!

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she demanded. She had a fair idea, but she wanted to hear the words.

  “I am called T’Vaakis,” her doppelgänger said, “and I am considering which of my belongings to put into storage and which to send on ahead to my destination.”

  “Which is … ?”

  “… not something a Vulcan, out of respect for another’s privacy, would ask.” The interloper set down the vase she had been examining and rewarded Saavik with a look as unwavering as her own. Her eyes were luminous, dark, as large as Saavik’s … or Narak’s. Almost as if she could read Saavik’s thoughts, the stranger sighed and looked away. “Probably unwise to send anything onward, lest you be tempted to trace my whereabouts.”

  This was interesting. “Do you doubt my commitment to the mission?”

  “Better to doubt and be mistaken than to trust and be betrayed.”

  Saavik had a sense, then, of how Narak must have felt
when he was grooming her to enter the Enclave, and the thought that occurred there was, If he had this one, why did he need me? No doubt the identity he provided me, or at least the palm print that opened the door, is hers.

  “Spoken like a true Romulan,” she said wryly. A lifetime of near obsession with truthfulness had made her particularly unprepared for the layers of duplicity she was now required to participate in.

  Think! She may look the part, but only you knew where to go within the Enclave, how to access the mainframe, and where exactly to plant the data triggers. Tread cautiously. Just as you have passed as T’Vaakis to this point, from here forward she might as easily be altered to pass as Saavik. If you are to survive to complete this mission, you must keep your head clear!

  “I will take that as a compliment,” T’Vaakis said, returning the wry smile. “Come. We have much to do and not much time …”

  It has always been easier to destroy than to create. Removing the augmentations that had transformed Saavik into T’Vaakis took far less time than Narak had needed to add them. The real T’Vaakis worked quickly and silently to destroy all trace of the palm prints, ear prints, and retinal distorters. The cochlear implant remained. Narak’s voice nagging in Saavik’s ear would persist, with the added annoyance that she could not answer him.

  “So T’Vaakis departs her rented rooms just as she arrived,” she mused as, with a snap of her fingers, the real T’Vaakis indicated that Saavik was to exchange clothing with her to complete the ruse. “Leaving Saavik with a conundrum. How am I to explain my sudden appearance in ShiKahr when my last known whereabouts was the shrine, and there is no record of my having reentered the city of my childhood?”

  T’Vaakis, knowing she was meant to convey these thoughts to their mutual handler, declined to answer. She was more intent on gathering a datapadd, several garments from the wardrobe, and some toiletries, which she placed in a small travel bag, the better to appear authentic in her resumed identity if she were questioned for any reason. Saavik could almost admire her.