2292
“More ale!” the Klingon demanded. “More ale for all!”
Dinner took place in the officers’ mess aboard the Romulan warbird. Plavius, commander of the Harrier, played host from the end of the table, while Spock sat across from his fellow observer, a boisterous young Klingon lieutenant named Chorn, who was taking advantage of his current posting to enjoy generous quantities of Romulan ale, which had contributed to his rather exhausting good spirits and sloppy table manners. Blue ale dribbled from his lips, staining his luxuriant black beard. A large personality matched his physical dimensions, the latter of which put Spock in mind of a human sumo wrestler. Chorn belched heartily, and not for the first time.
“Drink up, fellow travelers! Tonight is a good night to dine!”
Spock exchanged a bemused look with Plavius. If nothing else, the Klingon’s obstreperous presence and behavior had provided them with a common irritant to bond over. Spock was less certain what impression Chorn was making on Nawee, the Osori envoy seated at the opposite end of the table. The Klingon was taking up so much space, conversationally as well as physically, Nawee could barely get a word in.
“An intriguing libation to be sure,” the Osori managed to insert. “A credit to your culture, Commander Plavius.”
The famously potent beverage appeared to have minimal effect on Nawee, who professed to be middle-aged by Osori standards. Thickening scales retained an opalescent sheen, and his lilting voice fell into the alto range. He accepted a refill from a helmeted centurion while enjoying a plate of steamed Romulan mussels in a coppery green cream sauce. Spock, for his part, appreciated the vegetarian soup and salad Plavius had courteously provided for him. He nursed his own glass of ale deliberately.
“Romulan civilization is exceptional in all respects,” boasted Hepna, a junior officer seated at Plavius’s right hand. Her burnished helmet had been set aside, revealing short brown hair and bangs, cut with military precision. A severe expression crossed into naked distaste as she cast a pointed glance at Chorn. “As are our manners.”
“Ha! A shot from starboard!” The Klingon laughed off her barb. He slapped her back in appreciation, earning him a venomous look from Hepna, which bounced harmlessly off Chorn’s ebullience. “Tell me, Subcommander, is it true what they say about Romulan women?”
“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean, Klingon.”
“Sure you don’t,” he said, grinning. He raised an empty cup. “More ale!”
Spock speculated, somewhat uncharitably, as to whether Chorn had been dispatched to the Harrier because even his fellow Klingons desired a break from him. Spock attempted to steer the focus of the table talk back toward their guest of honor.
“May I inquire, Envoy, as to your views regarding the possibility of the Osori developing closer ties with other species?”
“I prefer to keep an open mind,” Nawee said. “Perhaps more so than my esteemed colleagues. Gledii is highly skeptical, while Cyloo is quite excited by the prospect. My own feelings are mixed. On one side, why change a policy that has kept us safe for millennia? On the other, there may be danger in not adapting to a changing universe. Who knows which approach promises the most security in the long term?”
“Why think only of safety?” Chorn challenged him. “Klingons do not base our decisions on fear, but on what we can wrest from life with our might and courage.” He brandished a cup of ale in one meaty hand and a jumbo-sized mollusk in the other. “Why hide behind your shields when a galaxy of undiscovered prizes and pleasures are just waiting to be seized if you have the will. Klingon bloodwine! Orion women! Caitian wrestling! Whole new worlds of treasure and adventure ready to be claimed by the bold!”
Interesting, Spock thought. In his own unabashedly hedonistic way, Chorn was framing the Osori’s dilemma in terms of rewards rather than risks, and making a case for seeking out new experiences and knowledge in the greater galaxy. Perhaps Chorn has been assigned this mission for better reasons than I first thought.
“A singular perspective,” Nawee said. “Certainly, I mean to study all facets of the question before arriving at a conclusion. That is, after all, the purpose of this exploratory expedition.”
“To that end,” Plavius asked, “are there any questions you wish to ask us? To help you achieve a better understanding of those facets?”
Nawee looked around the table, pondering the commander’s offer.
“Maybe you can illuminate me on one matter. While Lieutenant Chorn is manifestly of different stock than you and your crew, Captain Spock appears to be very much of the same breed, with only his Starfleet uniform to distinguish him from the other faces aboard. What then is the difference between a Romulan and a Vulcan?”
“Much,” Hepna said forcefully.
Plavius turned toward Spock. “Would you care to enlighten the envoy, Captain? Being the source of his confusion?”
“By all means.”
Spock wondered at the commander’s motives in passing the question over to him. Simple courtesy—or a desire to avoid weighing in on such a potentially contentious topic? Spock suspected the latter; he knew enough of Romulans to appreciate that even the commander of an imperial warbird had to watch his words carefully, for political reasons.
“Our peoples indeed share a common ancestry,” he explained, “but we diverged many generations ago due to… philosophical differences. For better or for worse, we have charted very different paths since then.”
“Worse for you perhaps,” Hepna said. “We have stayed true to the proud martial history of our ancestors, instead of rejecting power and cunning in favor of placid, bloodless intellectualism. Small wonder you have allowed the humans to eclipse you; at least they still have some spirit and ambition. We are nothing alike, not anymore.”
Spock was unperturbed by her words. “With all due respect, that is not how I would characterize the status quo. I would rather think there remains common ground between us, from which deeper bonds might still grow and prosper in time.”
“To what common ground do you refer?” Nawee asked.
Plavius entered the discussion, perhaps to mitigate his underling’s combative attitude. “I suppose it can be argued that our philosophies are not so far apart. Romulans are devoted to duty, Vulcans to logic, but duty and logic can be seen as cousins of a sort. Both involve mastering one’s personal ego and desires, cultivating the virtues of self-restraint and discipline in the service of a higher ideal.”
“Vulcans also have a keen sense of duty,” Spock agreed. “As do Starfleet officers.”
“To duty!” Chorn raised his cup in a toast. “And honor and glory!”
Hepna winced at the Klingon’s vociferous volume. She edged her seat farther away from him, while making a point of putting her own cup down lest she appear to be joining him in his toast. She toyed with her table knife instead.
“But if you are so alike,” Nawee pressed, “why do you remain divided and at odds?”
“Family feuds are often slow to heal,” Spock said, speaking from personal experience. “There can be much history to overcome, sometimes of a painful nature.”
“Is there no hope of reconciliation?” the Osori asked.
“There are still some on Vulcan who hold out hope for reunification, if not in our lifetimes, then perhaps generations from now. I cannot say whether such aspirations are ever entertained on Romulus as well.”
Nawee turned a curious gaze on Plavius. “Commander?”
“Careful, sir,” Hepna cautioned, her eyes narrowing. “These are treacherous waters. You would not want to give our guests the wrong impression.”
“I am aware of that, Subcommander.”
Plavius took a moment to wipe clean his monocle, buying time to craft his response with care. Spock inferred that the subject of reunification was not something he could speak freely about, or at least not in such a public venue. He wondered what the commander might say were he less constrained.
“As my subordinate so helpfully reminds me, this is a somewhat controversial topic that is probably beyond the scope of this discussion. Certainly, I would not presume to speak for the praetor or the senate, let alone the Romulan people, on such a sensitive matter.”
Chorn chuckled. “Could you dance any more carefully, Commander, while saying nothing at all? No surprise you Romulans invented the cloaking device. You’re the masters of concealment!”
“We owe no answers to you, Klingon,” Hepna said icily.
Nawee frowned. “I find this enmity between Vulcans and Romulans somewhat discouraging. How can we Osori hope to establish ties with your peoples if you cannot even make peace with your own kin?”
“Your situation is quite different,” Spock said. “Whereas we have an unfortunate legacy of past conflicts to overcome, the Osori have no history, negative or otherwise, with our respective peoples. The future is a clean slate on which we can write whatever we choose, unhobbled by past grievances.”
“Maybe.” Nawee did not sound entirely convinced. “And what of the humans? Where do they fit into this fraught history of yours?” Nawee glanced at a viewport, through which the Enterprise could be seen cruising alongside the Harrier, just out of weapons range. “Nothing personal, Captain Spock, but I regret that I will not have an opportunity to spend time with a human before we arrive at the conclave on Nimbus III.”
“For what it is worth, Envoy, I am half human.”
There was a time, indeed for much of his life, when Spock would have been hesitant to admit this so readily, but he had since come to terms with both sides of his nature. Although he still adhered to Vulcan teachings, he was no longer ashamed or embarrassed by his human heritage. He now appreciated that his mixed background could be a strength, not a weakness, lending him a unique perspective.
“It can be said, in fact, that my presence here is living proof that beings from very different worlds and cultures can unite to create something new, and live together in harmony, as my parents do to this very day.”
“I have met your father,” Plavius volunteered. “He is a statesman of considerable skill and wisdom. Alas, I have never had the pleasure of encountering your mother, but I am certain she must be a woman of distinction.”
Spock heard no judgment in his voice.
“That she is, Commander, and very human… in the best way.”
“A Vulcan wed to a human,” Hepna said incredulously. “I confess I’m unclear who has married up in that scenario. Or down, as the case may be.”
“That will be enough, Subcommander,” Plavius rebuked her. “Our guest’s family is above reproach, do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” A sour look belied her compliance. “I did not mean to speak out of turn.”
Spock judged her contrition insincere but chose, in the interests of diplomacy, to accept it at face value. “You are hardly the first, Subcommander, to find my parents’ union puzzling. I cannot say I always understand it myself.”
“Just so!” Chorn said, chortling. “Who can understand the mysteries of mating? Red blood, green blood… the heart is a wild beast that cannot be tamed!” He raised his cup again, slopping blue ale on the tablecloth. “To fighting our friends and bedding our foes… and drinking too much to tell the difference!”
He emptied the cup in a single gulp, then broke wind ferociously.
“More ale! The night is young!”
Hepna’s face curdled. Nawee politely lifted his cup in response. Spock and Plavius shared another moment of silent endurance.
They had a long journey before them.