Here it is: Story number four rejected by the editors of the Strange New Worlds contest.
If this year is anything like the others, well… someone over at Pocket Books has dain bramage.
“The Letter”
By Joseph Manno
Surrounded by enemies, yet hidden in plain sight, they watched and
waited.
***
Her tempter smiled.
“Second thoughts?”
Alida took a long look at the modified enlistment contract
displayed on the PADD, and a longer look at the man who’d offered it to her:
Romulans weren’t, as a rule, an overly empathetic people, but this man had at
least maintained the façade of a caring expression during the last few minutes.
She had no doubt it was little more than a self-serving tactic,
though. Effective recruiters lived well. The less successful were returned to
the rank-and-file, so it behooved the good ones—and Ante-Centurion Severus
clearly thought himself one of the good ones—to do whatever it took for a
signature of commitment. If that meant a little faux sincerity, well, so be it.
His voice was at once companionable and conspiratorial.
“Securing such a lucrative arrangement for a recent graduate was
not easy, Alida. Your marks and performance, though, more than warrant such an
opportunity.”
And, of course, she thought, barely suppressing a derisive snort, you only did it because I’m that special.
The stylus in her hand wavered; with a sigh, she set it down—the
contract unsigned.
As Alida had expected, the recruiter’s “concern” quickly went the
way of her “resolve.” With a bit more vehemence than perhaps he’d meant to
employ, Severus stressed, “Few
students are offered an immediate slot in the Star Navy’s cadet class, Alida.
To serve the Romulan people in this way is not only a great responsibility, but
an unequaled honor, as well.”
Fitting, I suppose that
a recruiter would sound like a recruitment presentation… and be as persuasive.
She stood.
“I apologize, but it seems I am not fully prepared for this
‘honor,’ Ante-Centurion. Perhaps tomorrow—assuming the offer will still be
good, then?”
Now most of his filial consideration was gone, replaced by
irritation at what he now assumed had been a wasted effort.
Still, she imagined he thought, it
wouldn’t due to let loose the rope that might still ensnare….
“Of course it’s still
good, Alida. I hope to see you then. We can continue discussing your future.”
And how it might benefit
you, she thought.
Alida thanked him; and, after leaving the room, she congratulated
herself on maintaining her smile
better than he had his.
Outside, the day was cloudy, but that hardly diminished the sight
that greeted her: The blocky battlements of the Imperial War College towered
over Alida, a dull, monotonous green
in the less than brilliant illumination; and beneath them, around her, the
students and instructors moved with purpose—a purpose she had yet to embrace.
Across the
They, too, had invited Alida to attend one of their orientations,
but instead of the “hard sell” Severus and others had attempted with her, the
agent she’d spoken to had let her known that she would be welcome… but was hardly
required.
This method had proven more effective.
With a mixture of fascination and dread, Alida set out across the
valley.
***
They watched her depart, taking a different path than the one
they’d expected. The younger man, determined to accomplish their purpose, made
as if to follow… but a strong hand restrained him.
“Let her go.”
“But, Master… after all this time… to lose our chance now…. She’s in our grasp!” The distress
and anger in his voice was evident.
His elder chided, “Patience.
“We shall have another opportunity… and soon.” His voice was full
of resolve, and calculation.
“I am certain of it.”
***
He was following her;
Alida was now certain of it.
Could his presence be a test of some sort? It wasn’t difficult to
imagine her prospective teachers devising, and then imposing, what would
probably be labeled an “impromptu preliminary field exercise.” After all, just
an hour ago, the Tal Shiar recruiter, Major Tarnak, had told her that she’d be
“evaluated constantly... and thoroughly.” Maybe he’d been speaking more
literally than she’d thought.
This couldn’t be an
attempt to trail her undetected, she was certain, for even the most junior of
agents wouldn’t be so inept: Alida had spotted the man almost immediately.
Assuming it is a man, of course.
The dull gray hood and cloak were cunningly designed and carefully
worn: Together, they disguised build and gender very well. The presence beneath
it, though, was subtly commanding: Romulans didn’t easily give way, yet the
throng in the marketplace unconsciously parted for her mysterious “admirer,”
despite no visible evidence of either rank or stature. And the stride… the
stride was definitely male, or all
her lessons in kinesthetic observation had been wasted.
What to do?
“Let an opponent think
you are playing his game, even as you change the rules and make it your own.”
Alida resolved to do just that.
It was as if he’d read her mind, or at least her purpose, though:
As soon as she’d decided to approach him, and turned with that intent, he was
gone.
A few moments determined search of the marketplace turned up
nothing but a sea of uninterested, uninteresting faces. She wished for the
scanner that, only an hour ago, she’d been reconfiguring—yet another test—under
Varnak’s critical eye… and then wondered if, somehow, the hooded man would have
known Alida had it, and never appeared.
She would not, after all, find him, it seemed; she would have to
let him find her.
It would be nightfall in an hour, and Krocton Segment had both an
imposed curfew and public facilities that left a lot to be desired. Keeping to
well-lit, sensor-scanned areas on her way back to the house would be almost
impossible; and Alida debated on whether to do just that, or take as swift and
direct a route as she could.
It was a short debate.
The neighborhood was, of course, quieter in the evening, but this
served her interests: Any sound gained a brief life of its own and echoed
through the narrow streets.
In just a few minutes, it became apparent that someone was
following her; again, if it was a goal to do so unheeded, he (or she) needed a
lot more practice. Alida began to consider precisely where to turn the tables
on her pursuer: She had played here for much of her life, and finding a good
spot from which to ambush someone wouldn’t be hard at all. Krocton, too, was
very Romulan: There were shadows everywhere.
So when the second figure—the one she’d never heard because it had
never moved—appeared from one of the better ones and yanked her back into it,
Alida was unprepared. She drew breath—whether to fight or scream she didn’t
know. A hand found its way to the juncture of her neck and shoulder; though she
twisted to avoid it, the attack was at least partly successful. Her senses
reeled, and the world grew, if not dark, even grayer than it had been. Alida
tried to flee, to at least flail, but wasn’t even sure if her arms had moved.
The world teetered.
And then, abruptly, it was restored.
She was sitting on the ground. Both dizziness and assailant were
gone. Her neck was a bit sore, and she absently rubbed at it, all while
attempting to clear her thoughts.
When she stood, though, something clattered to the ground in front
of her—something that been resting, until then unnoticed, in her lap.
They dropped something?
No. They left me
something.
Alida retrieved the PADD, and almost examined it there and then.
Instead, she pocketed the little device and headed home, her mind full of
conspiracies and mysteries, but empty of answers.
She hoped her new “acquisition” would provide them.
***
The elder frowned as his pupil relayed the encounter.
“You laid hands on her?” The disapproval was almost withering.
“Time is short,” the student countered. “I was simply following
the principle you did when coming here.”
Wary of cleverness, the master inquired, “And what principle is
that?”
“’It is easier to ask for forgiveness than it is permission.’”
To that, there was no ready reply.
***
Her mother was not
pleased, and let it be known with the traditional maternal litany.
“Where have you been?
I’ve been worried about you. I was
about to contact the authorities and have them begin a search!”
Alida rolled her eyes, and sighed.
“Mother, this is Krocton. You know as well as I do that the
‘authorities’ here consist of one old man armed with a stun stick—who’s
probably been in bed for two hours by now.” She almost mentioned what had
happened, but something prodded her to remain silent on that particular
subject. Instead, Alida replied, “I’ve been walking… thinking about my future.”
Then, she reluctantly added, “I visited the recruitment offices again today.”
If there was one thing she knew could rouse her mother from the
state of vague anxiety in which she lived, it was that.
“What? I told you, I don’t want you to have anything to do with the military—especially the Tal Shiar.”
“The Tal Shiar isn’t
military.”
The response was a “Don’t distract me with the facts” expression
Alida had grown to hate—though her personal
favorite was another motherly standard: “Because
I said so.”
Once again, Alida tried to explain her reasons.
“Mother, it’s the best option for all of us! The Star Navy has
better facilities and resources than the University… and the Tal Shiar get the best of everything. The pay is excellent,
especially for an officer. You wouldn’t have to keep that clerical job any
longer. You could live in a decent lodging, instead of this…” Her voice trailed
off, and Alida realized she’d probably said one sentence too many.
Her mother’s eyes held hurt as she answered with an angry, “I’ve
done the best I could since your father left, Alida. I know we don’t have much,
but we’re beholden to no one—not the government, not the military… and not the Tal Shiar.”
For an instant, Alida thought she would spit at the name; she’d
done it before.
“Mother, I’m sorry. I know
you work hard. That’s why I don’t want
you to have to do that anymore.” Alida looked at the woman who’d raised
her—putting aside the fact of who she was, and simply examining what she saw.
A drab woman, with a
drab job, and drab prospects for the future.
Unless I do something to change
that.
“I’m very tired, and I didn’t sign anything. I’m going to bed.”
She shut the door, gently but firmly, on her mother’s continued
protests. Fortunately, soundproofing was the only excellent thing about the
little tenement’s construction.
Then, Alida did something she never had. She locked it.
Now, for the first time, she examined the PADD.
It was not of standard availability or issue. As a matter of fact,
she’d never seen one of this type. The lettering on it was unfamiliar, though a
few symbols here and there jostled her memory enough to recognize the language
as Federation Standard.
A Starfleet PADD?
But why…?
Alida wondered for a moment just how much trouble she’d be in if
Ante-Centurion Severus—or, worse, Major Tarnak—saw her with this.
She suppressed a shudder.
For a moment Alida’s thoughts turned to other occasions when she’d
huddled under the covers on her bed, hunched over a PADD—prepared to instantly
flop down and feign sleep if the door to her room opened.
I’m not sure if Mother
would be angrier at me for reading those military histories Father loved… or
what I’m about to do now.
The PADD’s memory held a trove of information. After perusing for
just a moment, Alida felt the hairs on her neck rise, and hastily deactivated
the little device. Despite herself, she peeped out from under the covers and
glanced around; though obviously alone, fear at the data’s nature had, for a
moment, overridden reason: Only a sentence or two had convinced her that even possessing the material would be enough
to put Alida on intimate terms with a prison cell… or a disruptor bolt.
In some ways, Alida was typically Romulan. She savored secrets,
and she thought herself strong enough to handle anything. This warred with her
belief in the righteousness of the state, and the spark of fear any Romulan
felt at the thought of sudden, horrible reprisal.
Despite that very real threat, she could almost hear the hooded
man.
“If you do not read, you
will never know.”
She made her decision.
***
The morning’s discussion had picked up precisely where the
evening’s had ceased. Considering she’d determinedly pounced the moment Alida’s
door opened, for an instant the younger woman idly wondered if her mother had
been lying in wait for much of the night. Alida ended this conversation in much the same way she had the other—by closing
a door behind her.
She had three separate appointments this morning—along with one
invitation. The PADD had contained, along with some very interesting reading, a
brief personal message:
If you wish to have your
questions answered, return to the marketplace tomorrow at the noon hour. On
your honor, do not discuss what you have learned with anyone else.
Alida had noted the use of the Old Language word for “honor,” “m’nhei’sahe,”—a word with far
different linguistic and emotional connotations than the more standard “m’nav’en,”
which Severus had employed when attempting to persuade her—and wondered what it
signified in this context. It certainly wasn’t a popular word in the current political
climate.
She knew, despite the stricture her mysterious “friend” had
attempted to impose, that discussing this with someone, with anyone, was
probably the prudent action to take. She also realized it would be impossible
to keep all of today’s commitments. Yet here she was, alone, having remained
silent.
The hooded man appeared from around a corner, and in that moment,
Alida’s mind returned to the fact that this could still all be an elaborate Tal Shiar test, to see what she’d do if
confronted with confidential material… and somehow knew this next choice would
irretrievably affect the course of her life.
Major Tarnak was waiting. So was the hooded man.
Again, she made her decision.
The figure led her to the outskirts of Krocton Segment so slowly Alida
almost felt like she was taking part in a religious procession, and eventually
entered a small apartment complex that was, if anything, even shabbier and less
attractive than the one in which she lived. The furnishings were sparse and
utilitarian.
Her “host” was definitely male, slender—almost gaunt. It was
obvious to Alida he felt complete command over the situation… and, perhaps,
her: His pose as he waited seemed relaxed, nearly tranquil.
“You are Alida?”
Why was he asking for confirmation of the obvious?
“You know who I am. What do you want?”
He sat back in the chair, a bit heavily, and replied, “First, I
must apologize for the assault on your person yesterday evening. My… associate… had been instructed to
deliver the PADD to you… and that is all. I assure you he has been reprimanded
and is most apologetic.”
She heard an insistence in his statement that, for some reason,
made her doubt it.
He finished with, “I have a letter for you.” He held another PADD,
this one a more familiar Romulan design, out towards her.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Who wrote this ‘letter’? Why didn’t you just include it on the
first PADD, or send it through the standard postal channels?”
She noted the slight hesitation before he responded.
“I… believe this particular letter will require a subsequent
explanation. In addition, I was uncertain as to whether you would receive it.
“Your mother did not seem enthusiastic about the possibility.”
Alida leaned forward, angry that this had gone past the
two—three?—of them. It was as if he’d broken some unspoken agreement.
“How do you know my
mother?”
He made no effort to reassure her with his tone. “I attempted to
deliver this to you, through her, some time ago… but she would not accept it,
or even speak to me after learning my intent. More, she summoned the
authorities, and I was barely able to escape.”
Now there’s a surprise.
“So,” she asserted, “you’re a fugitive from justice…”
Now his voice modulated slightly, taking on an intimation of
humor. “No. I am a fugitive from both Romulan security forces and the Tal Shiar. There is a significant
difference.”
Should I attempt to
arrest him? Is that
what this is about?
“If my mother refused to speak with you, and the authorities wish
to apprehend you, those are sufficient for me.”
The hooded man withdrew his hand, the PADD still unclaimed.
“It is my understanding that you reached your Age of Decision
yesterday.”
Alida folded her arms, and countered with a dismissive, “What of
it?” but her thoughts weren’t so resolute. Her basic education had been
completed only two weeks before; as of now, all her choices were her own.
A part of her, though—the part that had always caused her unrest
and trouble—had been unable to make
that choice.
Perhaps now she would learn why.
“Until yesterday, your mother’s wishes were necessarily paramount.
You are now an adult, though, according to both Romulan and Vulcan law; thus, I had no further reservations about
approaching you. It is logical to base decisions on knowledge rather than emotionalism—especially
such negative emotions as fear or anger.”
Again, he extended the PADD.
This time, she took it… but rather than reading, set it face down
on her lap and challenged, “How can I trust the message when the messenger
hides his identity? Show me your face.
“Tell me who you are.”
For a moment, Alida didn’t think he would.
Then, he cast back the hood, and there was no longer any need for
him to tell her who he was.
She had seen him before—in newscasts, mostly, but occasionally on
the media alerts posted on public vid comms by the security forces and, even
once or twice, the Tal Shiar.
Spock.
Spock, child of her people’s greatest enemies, the Vulcans and
Terrans.
Spock, who had, over 100 years before, helped steal the cloaking
device that would have given the Empire dominance over the quadrant.
Spock, who had galvanized the “political malcontents” and
“weak-willed pacifists” into a force that tore at Imperial strength and
stability.
In the upper reaches of Romulan strata, only Surak, who had committed
the blasphemy of quenching the fire of the Vulcan spirit, was more hated.
She was certain now of two things: One, this was not a Tal Shiar test.
And two, she would, no matter what Spock said, read the letter.
***
The young man who escorted her back—Alida thought she’d heard
Spock call him “D’Tan”—seemed uncomfortable, and despite her situation, she’d
had to suppress a smile: Clearly he’d been the one who’d delivered the PADD…
and the neck pinch.
He was also better than Spock at remaining inconspicuous. Only a
block from her home, she turned to give him a cursory “Thank you,” only to find
he’d already left her side—when, she had no idea.
Her mother was pacing the small common room, crossing and
re-crossing the border between livid and terrified.
“You have three messages
waiting. Evidently you missed your appointments at the University and the military schools.”
Alida almost gave her “The Tal Shiar is not military” comment again, but decided to let it pass. Somehow,
the distinction didn’t seem very important anymore.
“You didn’t go to any of your appointments?
Why?”
The kalivah beckoned.
Alida took the carafe of blue liquid from the pantry shelf—it had, somewhere
along the line, become a staple of the household, at least for her mother—and
poured a tall glass. After a moment, she filled a second, and slid it across
the counter to the other woman, whose expression during her bartending had
gravitated from angry to astonished.
“Drink your ale, Mother; you’ll feel better. You always do.”
That observation wasn’t at
all well-received.
“I expect you to be more respectful, Alida. What’s the matter with you? Tell me.”
Instead of talking, though, Alida drank, draining the entire glass
before refilling it and repeating the process.
“I seem to have a tolerance,” she noted, all too soberly. “Genetic
predisposition, I suppose.” She then tossed the glass over her shoulder, not
even flinching as it shattered on the stone floor behind her.
“What did they tell you about him, Mother? I’d always wondered
where he’d gone—why you’d forbidden any discussion of him. For a while, I
thought he’d just deserted you. Perhaps a woman in some other port had caught
his eye and stolen his heart.”
For the second time in a minute, a glass shattered, as Alida’s
mother dropped hers.
Quite a few things have
been broken today, Alida thought.
“They told me he’d defected,” the older woman whispered. “The hero
of Norpin Five, Alidar Jarok, had defected to the Federation—that he delivered
technical schematics on our Warbirds to Starfleet. That he was the worst kind
of traitor.
“And that we were lucky they didn’t just execute us both for his crimes.”
“And you believed them?”
Now, finally, she yelled back.
“No, Alida, I didn’t
believe them! I may worry too much, and drink too
much, but I’m not stupid. The
government says whatever suits its purpose at the moment.”
Then she added, “What I did
know was that I couldn’t have you lionizing your father, or talking about him
as a hero, anymore. Whatever he’d done—or
hadn’t done—the Empire had abandoned him.”
She couldn’t meet Alida’s eyes.
“If we were to survive, I knew we
had to abandon him, too.”
Alida Jarok took the bottle of kalivah,
and set it down at her mother’s side. Then, she placed the pair of PADDs beside
it, and murmured, “A little light reading, or a little heavy drinking. It’s
your choice, Mother.”
She then left the room, left the house… and left that part of her
life behind.
Alida’s mother read it all… how the High Command had let slip
disinformation—plans for an assault on the Federation—all to test her husband’s
loyalty. It was a test he had failed, in their eyes… but she could read between
the lines how he’d acted to save lives—to save the Empire.
Perhaps she had no right after turning her back on him, but she
was prouder of Alidar Jarok—her husband—now
than ever she’d been.
She marveled how the letter he’d written had passed across the
Neutral Zone border in the hands of a Federation commander, who’d in turn
entrusted it to Spock. She wondered at the man so hated by the government, and
suddenly understood that perhaps the danger he represented was only dangerous
to those who lie as a matter of course.
She read the letter Alidar had written to his daughter—their daughter:
My Precious Child,
I promised your mother
that I would return to you both. If you are reading this, I have failed to keep
that promise, and for that I am sorrier than you can know.
They will tell you I am
a traitor… or they will tell you nothing. I truly do not know which of those
possibilities is worse.
You must not
simply believe what you are told—by them or me. Instead, daughter, you must find that
place in your heart not touched by either lies or facts—which can also lie.
Seeking truth is not easy; but it is a worthwhile goal, and one our people seem
to have forgotten.
For, by the estimation
of our people, I am
what they call me—a traitor. I did betray the Empire, and that for which it now
stands.
You must decide, for
yourself, whether the Empire in which you live is worthy of your loyalty… or
whether you, too, must find something else in which to believe.
I can tell you only that
I love you, and that my love endures.
Father
And, lastly, she read the final entry on the second PADD. It was a
message from Spock, and said a great deal with few words:
There is still a letter for you, too.
Perhaps you would consent to read it.
Alidar Jarok’s wife decided to do just that.
***
Master and pupil watched as the small but serviceable transport
cloaked, and then heard it lift off and set out.
D’Tan considered the events of the past few days, and said, “I
didn’t think it was possible that both Alida and her mother would need or want
asylum in the Federation. You were right about having faith.”
Spock arched an eyebrow, smiled slightly, and considered the irony
of a Romulan so readily learning a lesson that his own people still seemed
determined to resist.
In my arrogance, I had come here believing that Romulus
needed what Vulcan could provide—our logic, our serenity. And perhaps this is
so.
But these are not the only virtues.
There was passion—which it had taken him a lifetime to learn was
truly a virtue—and principle: D’Tan had both in abundance… and as he learned
every day more of what Spock could give him, he became far less a student and
far more an example of the vision to which his mentor aspired.
“Do you think Alida will return someday?” D’Tan asked.
For a moment more, Spock silently watched the imagined path of
their now departed ship, and then roused from his musings.
“If not her, than her children, or her children’s children,” he
replied.
“And we must see to it that they are welcome when they do.”