Sisko hadn't slept well, and that morning he'd risen early, making sure he departed without seeing anybody, knowing that Jake would make his apologies to the rest of the family. He transported to San Francisco, then after having breakfast at a local eatery, spent the rest of the morning in a library, putting his head down in a carrel and catnapping until the afternoon. Then he made his way to Starfleet Headquarters for his meeting.

Sisko had been seated in the reception area for twenty minutes when the door in the right wall opened inward. A tall woman greeted him by name and asked him to come inside. He did, entering another anteroom, with a desk to the right facing the windows and a small seating area to the left. The woman closed the door behind him.

"I'm Lieutenant Reel," she said, p.r.o.nouncing it as two syllables: Ree-el. Ree-el. Because of the name and her considerable height-she stood very nearly two meters tall-Sisko suspected that she hailed from Capella IV, as did the man for whom she worked. "Before I bring you in to see the admiral, may I offer you something to drink?" When Sisko thanked her but said no, she crossed in front of her desk to the inner door, a wide slab of burnished mahogany. She turned the k.n.o.b and stepped inside. Because of the name and her considerable height-she stood very nearly two meters tall-Sisko suspected that she hailed from Capella IV, as did the man for whom she worked. "Before I bring you in to see the admiral, may I offer you something to drink?" When Sisko thanked her but said no, she crossed in front of her desk to the inner door, a wide slab of burnished mahogany. She turned the k.n.o.b and stepped inside.

"Admiral, Benjamin Sisko to see you," she said.

"Thank you, Reel," said a deep voice from within. "Show him in."

"Yes, sir." Reel glanced back at Sisko, inviting him into the office of Starfleet's commander in chief by moving aside. Sisko walked past her, hearing her close the door after him.

The large office sat enclosed by three walls of windows, providing a spectacular one-hundred-eighty-degree view of the Presidio and beyond. Ahead and to the left, Sisko could see the unmistakable form of the Golden Gate Bridge. Glancing around, he saw the inner wall decorated with a colorful a.s.sortment of primitive crafts: carved figures and masks, cloaks and capes, scarves and coronets.

Admiral Akaar-articulated in the same manner as Reel's name, Aka-ar Aka-ar-sat behind an enormous desk, sizable enough to suit his considerable bulk. Possessed of a broad chest and shoulders, he stood up from his chair to reveal a commensurate height, at least two and a quarter meters tall. He had dark, almost black, eyes, and gray hair pulled back behind his head.

Sisko had met the admiral after returning from the Celestial Temple, during the days leading up to Bajor's entry into the Federation. He hadn't spent a great deal of time with Akaar, but he'd found him steady, somewhat formal, and forceful in a quiet, careful way. It pleased Sisko that the admiral had agreed to meet with him, particularly with such little advance notice.

"I welcome you with an open heart and hand," Akaar said, lifting his right fist to the left side of his chest, then opening his hand and holding it out, palm upward.

"Thank you, Admiral," Sisko said, mimicking the gesture. "And thank you for seeing me."

"I'm afraid I can't see you for long," Akaar said. "Even though we're still a.s.sessing the damage done by the Borg, we're already trying to move forward, trying to formulate a plan to restore Starfleet."

Sisko nodded. He knew that it would likely require years of effort to return the fleet to its former strength. Not only would Starfleet need to construct new ships and train new personnel, but it also would have to renew the infrastructure supporting both of those activities.

Akaar pointed to the chairs in front of his desk, and Sisko took a seat. The admiral sat back down and folded his hands together atop his desk. He said nothing more, apparently waiting for Sisko to tell him why he'd requested a meeting.

"I'll get right to the point," Sisko said. "I've decided that I want to rejoin Starfleet."

Akaar nodded. "I see," he said evenly. "May I ask why?"

Sis...o...b..inked, surprised. Considering the terrible losses suffered by Starfleet-losses to which the admiral had just made reference-he'd expected to be welcomed back into the service, not met with questions. "Does it really matter?" he asked.

Akaar seemed to consider that. "Perhaps not," he said. He stood from his chair once more, and Sisko thought that the admiral had chosen to end the meeting. But then Akaar walked out from behind his desk, along the far wall, and turned to gaze out toward San Francis...o...b..y. "You weren't here when the Breen attacked Earth," he said.

"No," Sisko confirmed, a bit confused by the rapid shift in the conversation. "I was on Deep s.p.a.ce Nine."

"Of course," Akaar said. "But you saw the images of the bridge."

"Yes." Sisko recalled well seeing pictures of the damaged Golden Gate: the drooping cables, one of the towers bent and twisted, the deck blown apart in the center of the span.

"And do you remember what you felt when you saw those images?"

Sisko did, and said so. He'd experienced a visceral reaction at seeing the broken form of a landmark he'd known and appreciated for most of his life.

"I'm sure you're aware that the Golden Gate is known not just all around Earth, but throughout the Federation," Akaar said. "And because of its proximity to Starfleet Command, it's become a.s.sociated with us." The admiral turned from the window to face Sisko. "When the images of the wrecked bridge were distributed across the comnets, the number of applications to Starfleet and the Academy skyrocketed. Not just from Earth but from Andor and Tellar and Aurelia and Betazed. There was even a spike in applications from Vulcan and Pacifica."

"People wanting to defend against the enemy who destroyed the bridge," Sisko said.

"People wanting to defend against the enemy who destroyed a part of their their universe," Akaar said. "An enemy who attacked a home they knew, even if it wasn't precisely their home." The admiral's shoulders moved slightly in what Sisko took as a shrug. "We actually received applications from a few Gorn and Ferengi, and even one Tholian." universe," Akaar said. "An enemy who attacked a home they knew, even if it wasn't precisely their home." The admiral's shoulders moved slightly in what Sisko took as a shrug. "We actually received applications from a few Gorn and Ferengi, and even one Tholian."

Sisko understood. In some regard, hadn't that been how he'd come to serve on Deep s.p.a.ce 9, wanting to defend the Bajorans and their home? Bajor had ultimately become his home too, but initially, that hadn't been the case.

Akaar crossed back to the desk and half-leaned, half-sat on its edge. He towered over Sisko and fixed him with the stare of his dark eyes. "Is that why you want to rejoin Starfleet?" he asked. "To help defend a Federation that's been badly wounded?"

Sisko did not respond. He couldn't, because he knew in his heart how he really felt: that he had already done more than his share to protect and serve the United Federation of Planets. But he didn't think the admiral would want to hear the true reason Sisko wanted to return to active duty.

"Wanting to defend the Federation is a legitimate reason to want to serve in Starfleet," Akaar went on. "But Admiral Walter told me that just last week he offered you an admiralty and the posting of your choice. You turned him down. So I have to ask myself, and I have to ask you, what's changed between then and now?"

Again, Sisko felt that he lacked an answer that the admiral would want to hear. And so again, he said nothing. Akaar regarded him silently for a moment, then pushed away from the desk and returned to his chair.

"As far as my information goes," the admiral said, "what's changed for you between the time you left the New York New York and now is that your father died." and now is that your father died."

The words sent a shock, a physical sensation, through Sisko's body. It somehow wounded him to hear somebody state his loss as a fact-a loss that he supposed he had yet to fully accept. Your father died. Your father died. His world seemed to shatter anew. His world seemed to shatter anew.

Akaar leaned forward in his chair. "I'm sympathetic about your father," he said quietly. "But I also understand how such a death can drive a person to do things they would not otherwise have done . . . that they might not want to do tomorrow." He paused, as though to give Sisko the opportunity to comprehend his point-or perhaps to refute it. When Sisko said nothing, the admiral continued. "Starfleet needs people, and it particularly needs good, experienced officers like you, Mister Sisko. What you accomplished with Bajor, and the role you played in defeating the Dominion, speak to your exceptional abilities. And I appreciate your willingness to leave your home to take command of the New York New York and defend Alonis against the Borg. But I can't have somebody joining the service today and resigning tomorrow. There's enough instability already throughout Starfleet. We need to turn that around, not contribute to it." and defend Alonis against the Borg. But I can't have somebody joining the service today and resigning tomorrow. There's enough instability already throughout Starfleet. We need to turn that around, not contribute to it."

Sisko didn't know what to say. He briefly considered admitting the truth-that he couldn't go home, and that he had nowhere else to go-but he didn't think that would effect the result he wanted. Instead, he groped for something, anything, to tell Akaar. The moment reminded him of one he'd had a dozen years earlier.

"Admiral," he finally said, "when I was first a.s.signed to Deep s.p.a.ce Nine, I objected to the posting. I was raising a teenage son, and a hostile frontier beyond Federation s.p.a.ce didn't seem the appropriate place to do that. I even considered leaving Starfleet so that I could return to Earth." Akaar listened impa.s.sively, as though none of the revealed details surprised him. Sisko wondered if the admiral had consulted his service record before their meeting. "In the meantime, I followed orders, I went to Bajor, to Deep s.p.a.ce Nine, and I changed my mind." Sisko leaned forward in his chair too, wanting to emphasize his next words. "Last week, after my temporary return to service ended, and after watching the Borg kill eleven thousand Alonis and scores of Starfleet personnel, I decided I didn't want to continue in Starfleet." He paused, wanting to doubly underscore his final thought. "I changed my mind."

The admiral held his gaze for long seconds. Sisko hadn't lied-he really had changed his mind-but neither had he offered up the whole truth. Akaar wanted to know why Sisko sought a return to Starfleet, but Sisko had no intention of divulging his reasons.

"All right," Akaar said at last. Sisko couldn't tell whether he had satisfied the admiral, or if Starfleet's commander in chief had ultimately chosen simply to allow the return of an experienced officer to a service that desperately needed him. Akaar leaned back in his chair, and Sisko did as well. "I know Admiral Walter offered you your choice of a.s.signments, but if you're hoping to return to Deep s.p.a.ce Nine-"

"No," Sisko interrupted, wanting to dispel the idea of a posting within the Bajoran system. "I was thinking more along the lines of my last a.s.signment."

"Starship command," Akaar said.

"Yes."

"The New York New York will be undergoing repairs for quite a while," Akaar said. "But we do have ships out there that need a new captain." will be undergoing repairs for quite a while," Akaar said. "But we do have ships out there that need a new captain."

"Any port in a storm," Sisko said.

"I could promote you to admiral," Akaar said, "but frankly, we've got enough of those around here right now."

Sisko couldn't be sure, but he thought the admiral might still be probing for the reasons he'd asked to rejoin the fleet. He didn't know what would satisfy Akaar, so he simply told him the truth. "I don't need the rank," he said. "I just want to return to service."

"All right, then," Akaar said. He rose from his chair, this time clearly signaling that the meeting had come to an end. Sisko stood up and faced the admiral across his desk. "Welcome back to Starfleet, Captain Sisko."

12.

Durjik watched as the young senator stood up in the last tier of the Romulan Senate Chamber. He rose in the same way that so many other senators had throughout the afternoon. Unlike most of those others, though, the political neophyte did not bellow out his opinion or question or whatever had driven him to his feet. Rather, he waited for Tomalak to recognize him from the floor of the chamber. That did not happen immediately.

Because Durjik had served in the Senate before, he could have claimed a position in the first tier of seats, or even on the other side of the large circular room, at one of the tables reserved for the Continuing Committee. Instead, he had eschewed both for an undistinguished place amidst his fellow senators. He would still bl.u.s.ter and make his views known, as people would expect of him, but he would do it in a manner that would not openly challenge the praetor. In that way, he hoped to make himself less of a threat, and therefore less of a target.

Of course, he could afford to a.s.sume a lower profile, knowing that his interests-both political and personal-were well represented on the Continuing Committee.

It amused Durjik to observe Tomalak ignoring the young legislator in favor of responding to the bloviations of Senator Eleret, the beldam from the Remestrel clan. Eleret doggedly asked about the dwindling foodstuffs for the ma.s.ses throughout the Empire-an understandable concern, to be sure-but she steadfastly refused to listen to what the proconsul had to say-also understandable, Durjik thought.

As he waited for the exchange to end, Durjik took the time to study Tal'Aura. In the center of the opposite side of the chamber, she sat in a high-backed chair-not quite a throne-facing the rows of senators. Behind her, a detailed wooden framework held an expanse of gla.s.s etched with the symbol of the Empire: a front-on view of a raptor, its talons clutching the worlds of Romulus and Remus. Except that a length of black cloth had been draped in an arc from the top corners of the gla.s.s. Durjik grasped the obvious symbolism, the official recognition and remembrance of the senators that Shinzon had murdered in that very room, but he wondered if the mourning cloth had been purposely hung so that it would cover the depictions of the two Romulan core planets. Thanks to the traitorous Donatra and the incompetent Tal'Aura, Remus-or at least its people-no longer belonged to the Empire.

Still, Durjik admitted to himself that Tal'Aura not only presented herself well in the role of praetor, but over time had shown herself adept at consolidating and holding on to power. Her initially stunning request of the Hundred that they re-form the Senate, which on the surface looked like an action that would weaken the praetor, actually insulated Tal'Aura and potentially would draw even more power to her. Once the new Senate had convened, she'd revealed her negotiations with the Breen, Gorn, Kinshaya, Tholians, and Tzenkethi, and her radical plan for the Romulan Star Empire to join them in a new ent.i.ty she called the Typhon Pact. By taking the proposition to the Senate, she shielded herself from charges, or even the appearance, of overreaching, of single-handedly committing the Empire to a radical new course. At the same time, if such a pact did form, it would immediately elevate the strength of its component members, and thus of their leaders.

And Tal'Aura is already strong, Durjik thought. By calling for a new Senate, she had also brought back into existence the Continuing Committee-the political body responsible for the confirmation of a new praetor. In theory, Tal'Aura had sown the seeds of her own potential demise; in practice, Durjik saw, she had gathered enough power to prevent the Committee from being a threat to her. political body responsible for the confirmation of a new praetor. In theory, Tal'Aura had sown the seeds of her own potential demise; in practice, Durjik saw, she had gathered enough power to prevent the Committee from being a threat to her.

Durjik continued to regard Tal'Aura from across the chamber. She sat silently as the debate about the Typhon Pact raged around her. She had attired herself in a deep-purple ceremonial robe, and she wore it well on her tall, slender body. Her hair had grayed considerably since she had seized the praetorship, but it suited her, her quiet maturity lending her an air of confidence and authority. She sat just behind the line of four tables that accommodated the eight members of the Continuing Committee, and with the possible exception of Rehaek, she seemed the only one on that side of the chamber comfortable with the vociferousness of the arguments being waged.

Rehaek, though, appeared not only comfortable, but almost unaccountably disinterested in the proceedings. He sat farthest right among the members of the Continuing Committee, his attention seemingly on none of the speakers, but wandering to the huge silver sculpture hanging above the circular, marble mosaic at the center of the chamber. The piece mirrored the image engraved in gla.s.s behind Tal'Aura, but rendered in imposing dimension.

The reverse of Rehaek, Durjik thought. Where the great figure of the raptor loomed above the Senate as though a menace, the young chairman of the Tal Shiar-the elite Romulan intelligence agency-looked remote, a man of no great consequence. And where the inanimate statue in reality proved a danger to no one, the seemingly uninvolved Rehaek controlled the resources to imperil every person present-including Tal'Aura.

Across the room, Vortis suddenly shot up from her seat. The head of Agricultural Affairs, she occupied a spot on the Continuing Committee along with other cabinet directors, the proconsul, and a pair of appointed senators. Not usually excitable, she shouted down Senator Eleret. "This new alliance will bring bring food into the Empire!" she yelled. "Why are you insisting otherwise?" food into the Empire!" she yelled. "Why are you insisting otherwise?"

"Because it is is otherwise," Eleret said. "Even if the other nations in this new alliance begin to provide the food our people need, we will be ceding to them power over our lives. What happens when those other nations want something from Romulus that we're unwilling to give? They'll withhold provisions, starve us, in order to get what they want." otherwise," Eleret said. "Even if the other nations in this new alliance begin to provide the food our people need, we will be ceding to them power over our lives. What happens when those other nations want something from Romulus that we're unwilling to give? They'll withhold provisions, starve us, in order to get what they want."

"That will not happen," Tomalak said, rising from his chair as well. "While members of the Typhon Pact will be providing necessities for Romulus, we will be providing necessities for them. It will be a relationship based upon mutual benefit."

"'Mutual benefit,'" Eleret spat. "Do you truly wish to entrust the lives of the Romulan people to the whims of the Tholian a.s.sembly? Or to the exacting requirements of the Tzenkethi autarch?"

"Who would you rather trust?" Vortis demanded. "The president of the Federation and her council?"

Tomalak raised his arms, one hand toward Eleret, one toward Vortis. "Please, please," he implored them. "One thing we need to do is trust ourselves. The a.s.sociation that the Empire will share with the other Typhon Pact nations is laid out in meticulous detail in the treaty doc.u.ment. That a.s.sociation mandates monitoring of any . . . delicate . . . provisions. There will be no need for blind trust, but we will undoubtedly be able to establish verifiable trust."

Vortis a.s.sumed a vindicated posture, hands on her hips, elbows out, almost as though challenging Eleret to say more. The senator appeared ready to do so, but before she could, another voice spoke. "An a.s.sociation with those other powers will necessarily position the Empire for the possibilities of both rewards and dangers, but any such a.s.sociation would," said the young senator who Durjik had seen stand earlier. He spoke in low but confident tones, not loudly, but still able to project his voice throughout the chamber. "Perhaps of more importance, so too would isolationism."

"Are you advocating for the new alliance or against it?" Durjik barked, wanting to test the tyro. He reached for the young man's name and family, trying to picture in his mind the doc.u.ment he'd scanned earlier, which contained information on each member of the new Senate. Dor Dor, he thought. Xarius or Xarian Dor, of the Ortikant. Xarius or Xarian Dor, of the Ortikant.

"I am trying to decide whether or not to vote to ratify the Typhon Pact treaty," said the young man. "That is why we're here, is it not?" He paused, as though allowing an opportunity for a response, but when none came, he continued. "I am in favor of advancing our relations with our celestial neighbors in general, and I believe that the way this treaty is composed, it will benefit the Empire and the other nations."

"So you're for it," another senator called out.

"Maybe," he said. "My concern is that such a significant alliance will engender fear in the Federation, in the Klingon Empire, in the Reman Protectorate, and in the Imperial Romulan State. Rather than fostering peace in the quadrant, the Typhon Pact could bring us to the brink of war."

Let it, Durjik thought. With the losses that the Federation had suffered at the hands of the Borg, it would stand little chance of defeating the combined force that the Typhon Pact could deploy. But Durjik knew the governments of the Empire's prospective allies, and while most shared a distrust-and even a loathing-of the Federation, he knew that they also shared a reluctance to declare war on it. That is the problem with signing on as coequals. That is the problem with signing on as coequals.

As Tomalak responded to Dor and the debate continued, Durjik thought, almost wistfully, If only Donatra had not succeeded. If only Donatra had not succeeded. By dividing the military and carving away planets from the Empire to form her own fiefdom, she had weakened the Romulan people. But if Donatra could be defeated and the Empire returned to its former glory, Durjik thought that by virtue of its renewed size and military might, it could easily become the de facto leader of the Typhon Pact. Romulus could then propel the launch of a first strike against the Federation and the Klingons. By dividing the military and carving away planets from the Empire to form her own fiefdom, she had weakened the Romulan people. But if Donatra could be defeated and the Empire returned to its former glory, Durjik thought that by virtue of its renewed size and military might, it could easily become the de facto leader of the Typhon Pact. Romulus could then propel the launch of a first strike against the Federation and the Klingons.

With the right praetor in place, Durjik thought. He resented the notion of the Romulan Star Empire entering an alliance with other powers as coequals, but the possibility of at last ridding the cosmos of the Federation and their Klingon lapdogs made the ignominy worth considering. So much so that when debate finally ended late that afternoon, Durjik cast his vote in favor of ratifying the Typhon Pact treaty.

As did a majority of the senators, and all of the Continuing Committee.

13.

In his cell, Spock lowered himself to his knees and interlaced his fingers. With bowed head, he closed his eyes, preparing to embrace the peace of meditation. In his mind's eye, he traveled through ancient caverns, seeing moisture glistening on stone walls, and unreadable symbols notched into solid rock.

From there, Spock envisioned pushing out of the damp, cool subterranean s.p.a.ce and into the arid heat. The great figure of a Vulcan master, sculpted from fire-red stone, rose high above him. He descended low, amorphous rock ledges, down to pools of boiling water and churning heaps of lava. Ahead lay the Fire Plains of Gol.

Spock continued on, sweeping across the great furnace of the empty plateau. His consciousness floated above the vast plain, the heat falling away as the Vulcan ground lost what few discernible elements it possessed. Spock soared over the increasingly blank land, concentrating his will on the barren topography.

Slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, Spock felt his concerns slough away from his mind. He shed the thoughts that consumed him, peeling them away like unwanted layers of clothing. A sense of calm enveloped him, a tranquility that nestled his awareness in its quiet depths.

But then a point of color appeared in the drab stretch of terrain. Where the easy contemplation of emptiness had brought peace, the blemish in the otherwise-unfilled extent demanded focus. Spock approached it from afar, and from above, driving toward it until it began to give up its detail: a body, lying in the desert, motionless, limbs twisted into unnatural positions. As he drew closer, he saw the network of dark-green lines suffusing the flesh. Even before the face came into view, he knew the ident.i.ty of the inert figure: the Reman who had tried to kill him.

Spock opened his eyes. He briefly considered making another attempt to meditate, but decided against it. Instead, he would do what he had been doing for the past five days: he would wait.

Pulling himself from his knees, Spock moved over to sit down on the sleeping surface, one of only three features in the bare cell. Other than the refresher tucked behind a screen in the corner, and the magnetically sealed door, the small room claimed no other elements to interrupt the flat planes of the floor, walls, and ceiling. Obviously designed for neither comfort nor torment, the cell served well its singular purpose of detention.

Five days had pa.s.sed since Spock, Venaster, and D'Tan had attempted to convey the Reman from their custody to that of Romulan Security. During his imprisonment at the Via Colius security office, Spock had been treated fairly, receiving regular meals and few questions. The latter surprised him, as did the fact that, at least as far as he knew, he had been charged with only one crime, the relatively minor offense of residing illegally on Romulus. In his few interactions with the security staff, no one had mentioned the illegality of the Reunification Movement, or made the spurious but predictable charge of espionage.

From the beginning of his incarceration, Spock had requested to speak with the protector who headed the security office. For three days, he received no response, until the protector appeared and curtly asked why Spock wanted to talk with him. Spock explained that he possessed information Tal'Aura would consider vital, and that he sought an audience with her. The protector-who identified himself as R'Jul-scoffed at the idea of an alleged criminal meeting with the praetor, and he left as abruptly as he had arrived.

Spock wondered if he'd made a mistake in coming to the security office. His intention to advance the cause of reunifying the Vulcan and Romulan people remained, as did his conviction that the current Romulan schism provided an opportunity to foment such an advance. But if he- Without warning, an energetic hum erupted from the door, which then retracted into the wall. Beyond the force field that evidently had been erected to keep his cell secure, a pair of sentries flanked Protector R'Jul. "On your feet," commanded R'Jul, his tone containing neither antagonism nor compa.s.sion.

Spock did as instructed. R'Jul stepped back, and the sentries-he recognized one as Sorent-trained disruptor pistols in his direction. Sorent then reached up to the side of the door, the hum fading as she deactivated the force field. The trio then dropped back to the far side of the wide corridor.

"Exit the cell," said R'Jul, "then turn to your right and walk forward."

Again, Spock followed the protector's orders. As he pa.s.sed from his cell and into the corridor, he asked, "Where are you taking me?"

R'Jul did not respond.

Doors lined the corridor on one side only, all of them closed. As Spock walked forward, hearing the footfalls of his jailors tracking behind him, the tableau put him in mind of what had brought him to the security office. In the present instance, though, he had exchanged places, no longer the guard, but the guarded.

At the far end of the corridor, R'Jul instructed him to turn right again, the only option available. When Spock rounded the corner, he saw a short, empty walkway that ended at a large, open door. Beyond it stood the interior of what appeared to be a shuttle or ground transport of some sort. R'Jul ordered him inside, where Sorent manacled him to the bulkhead. She then secured the doors, and in moments, Spock felt movement, suggesting that the vehicle had started on its way.

Spock did not know his destination, but he knew enough of Romulan Security to wonder if his journey would take him only one way.

The ma.s.sive wooden doors, intricately carved with ornate scrollwork and inlaid with green-veined ruatinite, dominated the courtyard. Above, sunlight shined in through the windows of the cupola, imparting a hazy, twilit glow to the circular s.p.a.ce. Other sets of doors offered access and egress to the courtyard, but none commanded attention like the ones before which Spock stood.

When the vehicle transporting him had stopped, Sentry Sorent released him from his restraints and turned him over to a pair of armed uhlans. The two Romulan military officers conducted him through a series of tunnels, until finally climbing a flight of stairs and emerging into the courtyard. Once there, one of the uhlans pulled twice on a length of thick, braided golden rope. Several seconds pa.s.sed, and then a chime sounded, though Spock could not determine its source.

One of the uhlans stepped forward and pushed open the doors. He then motioned to Spock, telling him to enter. Spock did, and found himself within a dark, opulent chamber. The black floor gleamed, while the walls appeared composed of volcanic stone, burnished to give them a rich, heavy gloss. Reaching up to a high ceiling adorned with a well-executed mural, pairs of deep-blue columns marched along the periphery of the round room. Between the sets of columns, ancient Romulan artwork, realized in various media, communicated both a sense of history and the mark of great wealth. At the far end of the regal s.p.a.ce, opposite the doors, a raised platform contained a tall chair bedecked in gold. In it sat Praetor Tal'Aura.

"Approach," she said simply.