Strange New Worlds 2016 (13 page)

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.

“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.”