Curiously and without explanation, Lisker Pentrak, who’d said almost nothing during the gathering, put forth the name of Minar T’Nora. Kamemor knew little about Pentrak, and so could only deduce that he aspired to having all points of view represented in the list of nominees, including fears about a repopulated Senate. Kamemor could not imagine that T’Nora would even agree to serve in such a capacity, considering her distrust of the praetor. Oddly, though, she did not object to Pentrak’s nomination.
For her own part, Kamemor held little regard for either Tal’Aura or Donatra, both of whom had contributed to the sundering of the Empire. Further, despite the praetor’s stated desire for a unified Romulan state, she doubted that Tal’Aura would actually work to pursue that goal. Kamemor could only hope that a new Senate would.
Finally, Ren Callonen recommended Xarian Dor. Kamemor kept her emotions in check, not wanting to reveal the satisfaction Dor’s nomination brought her. Her concealment lasted only as long as it took for the gathered clan members to make their individual choices, when Kamemor cast her lot for Dor.
7
When Spock entered the dimly lighted cavern for the first time, the prisoner did not even glance up at him. Dressed in a pale blue coverall, the Reman sat on the ground atop a bedroll, his back against the cave wall. His arms encircled his steepled legs, and his forehead rested against his knees. A metal shackle bound each of his wrists, the cuffs attached by monofilaments to opposite rock faces. His breathing did not appear shallow enough to indicate sleep, so Spock watched, silent and motionless, to see if he would stir.
Spock did not reach out with his mind to search for the Reman’s consciousness, nor open himself up to receive any empathic impressions. Eight days had passed since the failed assassination, six since Spock had first awoken after surgery, but he still did not feel entirely recovered from his experiences. So he simply waited. Two full minutes passed before the prisoner finally looked up, his expression mixing curiosity and confusion; he’d obviously heard Spock enter, but then had heard him neither leave nor move.
The Reman said nothing.
Spock knew that, though held captive in awkward circumstances, the assassin had been tended with as much care as possible. Though he was restrained, the lengths of monofilament allowed him some freedom of movement within the cavern. The lighting had been kept low to accommodate the general photosensitivity of most Remans. Dr. Shalvan had surgically repaired his head wounds; his soiled, bloodied clothes had been replaced; and he’d been fed regularly. Corthin had overseen his interrogation, which had been conducted by Venaster and Dorlok. Because of its immoral nature and dubious effectiveness, torture had not been employed; rather, a range of techniques had been used for the questioning, though none had yet proven successful. The Reman had said virtually nothing, refusing even to give his name.
Making eye contact with the prisoner, Spock stated his own name, then asked, “Who are you?”
The Reman held Spock’s gaze a moment longer, then dropped his forehead back onto his knees. Spock closed his eyes and directed his mind, not to the prisoner, but back to the assassination attempt, to the moment he had let down his mental guard and had connected empathically with his attacker. He searched within his memory of the Reman’s emotions for a name. When he found none, he sought any other detail that might be of use.
Opening his eyes, he saw the Reman’s position unchanged. “You do not hate me,” Spock declared. “You were determined to kill me, but not motivated by some personal enmity.” He paused, exploring what he had detected of his attacker’s psyche. “Why, then?” he asked. “What actions have I taken for you to believe that I should die?”
Again, the Reman did not look up or say anything, or give any indication at all that he had even heard the questions. Trusting that he could not improve upon the efforts of his compatriots to extract information from the assassin, Spock knew that he could add but one distinction to his interaction with the man who had tried to kill him. As both the leader of the Reunification Movement and the intended target, he told his would-be murderer what he would do with him if he did not cooperate.
And still the Reman said nothing.
Spock turned and left, intending to follow through with his threat.
“You want to do what?” D’Tan asked sharply, apparently incredulous, accurately reflecting Corthin’s own reaction.
“I wish to turn the Reman over to the Romulan authorities,” Spock repeated. He stood at one end of the cavern, addressing several leading members of the Reunification cell that worked out of Ki Baratan. While Corthin listened quietly along with Dr. Shalvan, Dorlok, and Venaster, D’Tan voiced his objection.
“That makes no sense,” he told Spock with unrestrained indignance. He raised his hands into the air, palms up, clearly a gesture of his frustration.
“On the contrary,” Spock said evenly, “informing the Romulan authorities of the crime and remanding the perpetrator to them makes complete sense.”
As Corthin attempted to understand why that might be so, she paced slowly toward Spock and D’Tan. The flat soles of her shoes crunched along the ground. “I understand the practicality of what you propose,” she said. “We’re obviously not going to kill the Reman, and we are not set up to keep him as a prisoner.” Since finding the assassin, they’d had to improvise his detention, which had necessarily claimed some of their already limited resources, including their time. In addition to providing the Reman with food, water, clothing, and medical care, they’d had to commit personnel to continuously guarding him.
Corthin stopped beside D’Tan as Spock went on. “Additionally, keeping anybody captive as we have violates Romulan law.”
D’Tan barked out a derisive laugh, which Corthin interpreted and translated into words. “That seems a curious position to take,” she said, “given that the Romulan government has declared the very existence of our Reunification Movement a violation of the law.”
“Granted,” Spock said. “But that declaration can be revoked, or another made to supersede it.”
“Is that what you hope to accomplish?” Dr. Shalvan asked from the rear of the cave. Corthin stepped aside so that Spock could see him. “Do you seek legitimization of the Movement by offering up the assassin as some sort of conciliation to the Romulan authorities?”
“What if he’s working for the authorities?” asked D’Tan.
Corthin thought that idea unlikely. “It’s difficult to imagine a Reman acting on behalf of the Romulan government,” she observed. “A government that kept the Reman people enslaved and confined to unspeakable living conditions for centuries.”
“Actually, Tal’Aura’s autocracy granted the Remans their freedom,” Spock said.
“During an attack on Romulus by the Remans,” D’Tan said, “and only after the Federation got involved.”
“Nevertheless,” Spock said. “But whether or not it seems improbable for the Reman to have acted in concert with the Romulan government, I submit that it is irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant?” Venaster asked from beside the doctor. “You’re talking about the possibility of handing an assassin over to those employing him.”
Spock walked between Corthin and D’Tan to the center of the cave, where everybody gathered around him. “Let us assume for a moment that Tal’Aura did retain the services of the Reman. Returning him to her would not harm us in any material way. We have kept him apart from our operations, so he would be unable to provide any useful information about us. We would free an assassin, but such operatives are easily replaced.” Spock paused, then continued his argument. “Regardless of why the Reman attacked me, or for whose purpose he did so, turning him over to the authorities would demonstrate the Movement’s fidelity to Romulan law, and it would relieve us of the burden of detaining him.”
Logical, Corthin thought. But incomplete. In her time with Spock, she had grown accustomed to the thoroughness of his reasoning, as well as the foresight with which he examined possible courses of action. It
seemed to her that, in transferring custody of their prisoner to the Romulans, Spock had some objective in mind other than simply obeying the law. “If we do as you suggest, there’s no guarantee that the authorities will even believe our story about the Reman,” she said. “They might just as likely think we are attempting to plant a terrorist in their midst.” She saw D’Tan and Dorlok nod their agreement with her. “You’ve told us why your proposal is not a bad idea,” she said to Spock, “but why is it a good idea? What do you seek to achieve?”
“I wish to open a dialogue with Praetor Tal’Aura.”
Corthin expected a surprised reaction from the others, perhaps even another outburst from D’Tan, but everybody remained silent for a moment. Spock’s assertion did not shock Corthin because she had lately sensed his dissatisfaction with the progress of the Movement. Since the attack on him, he had spoken to her several times about augmenting their methods; establishing communication with the praetor would clearly mark such a new direction.
“Why would you want to speak with Tal’Aura?” Dr. Shalvan finally asked. “She has continued Hiren’s program of hunting our people down. Under her regime, Vorakel and T’Solon were captured.”
“Captured, but not executed,” Spock said. “They remain imprisoned, awaiting trial. And the sweeps for our people have become less frequent under this praetor. If I am able to speak with her, I will attempt to negotiate for their release.”
“Does that seem reasonable?” D’Tan asked, his voice more measured than it had been earlier. Corthin could see that Spock’s proposal concerned him deeply.
“It may prove more reasonable than you think,” Spock said. He folded his hands before him and slowly made his way back to the front of the cave, Corthin and D’Tan parting to allow him past them. “As I said, the sweeps for Reunification sympathizers have occurred less frequently during the past few months, which may indicate a softening of the praetor’s stance. Indeed, considering the current state of affairs, the praetor may even be persuaded to completely reverse her position.”
“Tal’Aura suspiciously survived the murders of Hiren and most of the Senate, then later seized power, and now rules essentially as a dictator,” Shalvan said. “She does not seem the type open to persuasion.”
Corthin agreed with the doctor, but Spock had mentioned the “current state of affairs,” and she thought she understood why. “The divided empires,” she said. “For the eventual reunification of Romulans and Vulcans to take place, the Empire itself must unite.”
“Precisely,” Spock said, turning back to face everybody. “Although the praetor may not support our ultimate goal, she certainly must support uniting all Romulans.”
“And we now have more adherents to our cause than we have ever had before,” Corthin reasoned along with Spock. “If Tal’Aura allows us to bring the Movement out of the shadows, it could help her focus public opinion on restoring a unified Empire.”
“Yes,” Spock said.
“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “I’m not convinced that we can trust Tal’Aura.”
“Nor have I suggested that we should,” Spock said. “But if for even a short while our aims coincide, it stands to reason that both parties can benefit.”
“Do you suppose that is why you were attacked?” D’Tan asked. “The Remans have only recently gained their freedom, at least in part thanks to the Romulan schism. A united Empire does not stand to be in their best interests. Could the attempt on your life have been a means for the Remans to disrupt our Movement, in order to make it less likely that we would aid Tal’Aura?”
“Possibly, but again, it is irrelevant to how we proceed,” Spock said. “Are there continued objections to turning the Reman over to the authorities, and to my opening talks with the praetor?” Corthin watched as Spock looked in turn to each of those present. Only D’Tan spoke up.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said simply.
“Noted,” Spock said. He waited for any other response but received none. “Very well,” he said.
Corthin understood that Spock regarded the silence of the others as tacit approval of his plan, and that he would look to obtain a similar endorsement from the rest of the Movement’s leadership. She wondered, though, if Spock considered such consent irrelevant as well. Although he often sought the opinions and advice of others, he also sometimes exhibited a calculated single-mindedness, choosing his own counsel over that of the aggregate.
Corthin agreed with the logic Spock had just voiced, but she still held grave reservations about what he had proposed. She’d said nothing because it would not matter. Before long, she knew, Spock would make his argument to Tal’Aura. Corthin could only hope that the praetor would not have him hauled away in irons.
Or executed.
8
Sisko walked out of the Uptown public transporter facility into the crisp New Orleans evening. Though darkness had not yet descended, the sun had already set, allowing the modest afternoon warmth to begin bleeding off. With the end of winter still several weeks away in North America, Sisko had known what sort of weather to expect. He moved off to the side of the large marble terrace that fronted the transporter terminal, set down his duffel, and pulled on his lightweight brown jacket over his civilian clothes.
Before moving on, Sisko took a moment to peer down the wide stairway that led to St. Charles Avenue. The antique-style streetlamps that marched along below the elevated maglev rail had already come on in the gloaming. The great, twisting forms of southern live oaks lined the boulevard, with an occasional southern magnolia interspersed among them.
Sisko breathed in deeply, and though the magnolias would not bloom until springtime, their citrusy scent returned to him in memory. During the summer months, he knew, the sultry air would hang heavily throughout the Crescent City, laden with the aromas of both flora and food. Sisko had spent so much time in New Orleans during his life that he imagined he could detect the savory smells of the Cajun and Creole dishes he had grown up eating, and that he relished still: gumbos and jambalayas, étouffées and brochettes, bisques and rémoulades.
The scents of home, he thought.
The idea brought him up short.
Discomfited, Sisko tried to put the notion out of his mind. He grabbed up his duffel and headed down the steps. At street level, he turned left, in the direction of the fading sunlight and Audubon Park. As he fell in among the people strolling along the avenue, though, the feeling of “coming home” welled up within him once more.
That’s not a bad thing, he told himself. More than likely, what he felt stemmed from his father’s unexpected return to health. Five days earlier, when Sisko had departed Starbase 197 after receiving Jake’s message, he hadn’t known if he would ever see his father alive again. Sisko replied to his son, letting him know that he would get to Earth as quickly as he could, but with so many Starfleet vessels lost to the Borg and so many private ships pressed into humanitarian service, he ended up having to make his journey piecemeal. Less than twenty-six hours ago, while aboard U.S.S. Vel’Sor, the third of four different starships he took on his trip, he heard from Jake again. With Sisko so much closer to Earth, they spoke with each other in real time.
On the companel in Sisko’s small cabin aboard Vel’Sor, Jake had looked exhausted, but his smile had returned. Although the doctors concluded that they could do little for Joseph Sisko other than to make him more comfortable, the old man actually rallied—enough, at least, that the medical staff agreed to release him from the hospital. When Jake contacted Vel’Sor, he did so from the apartment above the elder Sisko’s restaurant.
And since Dad’s still here, Sisko thought, no wonder this place feels like home.
He crossed Soniat Street and glanced at the expansive grounds to his left, and at the Beaux Arts mansion that had graced the site since its construction in the early nineteen hundreds. Sisko had always loved the look of the beautiful old building, with its wide, columned porch on the first floor, the ornate railing enclo
sing the upstairs porch, the detailed brackets beneath the eaves, the paired dormers rising from the red-tiled roof. The venerable structure had somehow survived the numerous natural and man-made disasters that had struck the Gulf Coast through the centuries. Originally erected as a private residence, it later served as a public library for more than a hundred years, until falling into disuse during the dark days of the post-atomic horror. After decades of neglect, local residents eventually restored it to its former glory and converted it into a museum showcasing the works of regional artists. Sisko had reached his twenties before he’d come to appreciate the contents of the building as much as he did the building itself.
As he continued along St. Charles Avenue, he realized that his easy familiarity with New Orleans, combined with the ongoing presence of his father in the city, made the place come alive for him in a way no other had for some time. He had resided in many other locations—San Francisco, Starbase 137, New Berlin, Livingston and Okinawa and Saratoga, Deep Space 9 and Bajor—and he had eventually adopted a sense of belonging in each of them. He’d even accepted his stay with the Bajoran Prophets in the Celestial Temple, for a period of time he could not define but that the outside world had perceived as about eight months.
In the four-plus years since his return from that other-space and other-time, Sisko had lived with Kasidy and Rebecca in Kendra Province, in the house that he had planned, and that Kasidy and Jake had built during his absence. And they had been happy there—at least until recently. But then something happened. He couldn’t be precisely sure just when it started, or how, but of late, he had begun tracing it back to the accident.
Eighteen months ago, their friends and neighbors Eivos Calan and his wife, Audj, had died in a house fire. Kasidy took the loss hard, as did Sisko. Something more clicked within Sisko, though, something he couldn’t classify at the time, but which affected him very deeply. It went beyond sorrow, beyond loss, something stoking a dread within him that he could neither articulate nor share.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Rough Beasts of Empire Page 7