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... found on any Federation world. In a sense, he had proven nothing so far. The Freelans could have purchased their comm units and software from the Romulans. The ambassador had to see the central computer itself, because he knew that the Romulan cloaking system depended on the massive processing capabilities of these machines; the Romulans would never willingly part with this technology to outsiders for mere profit.
Before leaving his quarters, Sarek tapped softly on Soran's door. Moments later, his aide emerged, also clad in dark clothes, with soft footwear. "The security alarms?" he whispered.
"Disabled," Sarek replied.
The ambassador had visited the Freelan station many times, and knew precisely where to go. When they reached the doors that were labeled MAINTENANCE — NO ADMITTANCE in several languages, including Vulcan, Sarek stopped, motioning Soran to stay back. He tapped on the entry pad, and the portals shot apart.
Sarek stepped into the maintenance area, Soran at his side. The young Vulcan halted suddenly at the sight of a surveillance vid unit, but the ambassador shook his head reassuringly. The valit was overloading the condition-recognition software to the point where it would not be on-line for the time of their visit.
"We must move quickly," Sarek said softly. (Even though there was no one in the area, the urge for silence remained, illogical though it was.) "The valit will not delay the security system indefinitely." He led the way past a transporter room and into the nerve center of the station.
The enormous room contained a gigantic computer system, black metal without decoration, identical to the one Spock had seen ageneration before. Apparently the Romulans were conservative about changes in a technology that worked. Sarek nodded grimly. It was as he had conjectured.
"Ambassador, you must know what you are looking for," Soran said. "Otherwise you would not have been able to devise a valit program."
"Logical," Sarek said, approvingly, seating himself before the closest comm link and taking out his tricorder. "You have deduced admirably. If my theory about the Freelans is correct, then you shall soon see their true identity for yourself."
"This system bears no resemblance to any in the Federation," Soran said, watching as Sarek's experienced hands flew over the tricorder controls, feeding in another valit program, this one designed to follow on the heels of the first valit. It would make all areas of the memory accessible to external control, and display on the visual monitors whatever was accessed.
As the two Vulcans watched, random areas of memory began to appear on the screens. Soran's eyes widened as he made out the characters. "That script..." he breathed. "Romulan!"
"Indeed," Sarek said. "As I expected. But I must capture more than random kitchen requisitions to justify our suspicions." He held up the tricorder's photo chip to the screen.
"So the Freelans are Romulans?" Soran said slowly, obviously taken aback. At Sarek's quick glance, the young Vulcan hastily composed his features.
"Yes," Sarek said. "They are Romulans. I have suspected it for a long time, but gaining proof has been difficult. Ah...personnel data banks. We are in."
Raw information began to flash across the screen — words in Romulan script, operating-system symbols, and numbers, all in a jumbled disarray. Hundreds of screens of data, most of it garbled, appeared in quick succession. Suddenly Sarek leaned forward and signaled the tricorder to backtrack through the images. A quick tap froze the output. Intently, he studied the scrambled data.
"What is it?" Soran asked.
"A name — one of the few Freelan names I would recognize. Do you read Romulan, Soran?"
"No, sir. I will remedy the deficiency as soon as feasible," the young aide promised. "What does it say?"
Sarek indicated a name in flowing Romulan script. "Taryn," he said, simply. "This is a list of Romulan officers, along with their ranks. Taryn is listed, if I am reading this correctly, as a wing commander." The elder Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "A high-ranked Romulan officer indeed." He continued recording data, studying it. Slowly, he made sense of the scrambled information. He generated a decoding algorithm in his mind, and mentally overlaid it on the jumble, seeing order amid chaos.
Minutes later, he was reading it swiftly. Sarek scanned the shipping data first, noting with grim satisfaction that it, too, proved his theory. Military vessels from Romulus and Remus made regular voyages to Freelan, and Freelans voyaged to the Romulan worlds. Romulan officers were logged as being "detailed" to Freelan.
Freelan also had a small fleet of birds-of-prey located in probe-shielded hangars that were camouflaged by the simple expedient of placing them beneath massive ice shelves, with roofs impregnated with selonite.
The communications logs listed hundreds of subspace messages between the Romulan worlds and Freelan. Government communiqués listed Freelans on "missions" to various worlds, particularly Earth — and, nearly always, the Freelan merchant, diplomat, or scientist was accompanied by an aide with a Vulcan name.
Sarek automatically memorized those names, knowing, however, that further checks would reveal that they — like Savel were not Vulcan citizens.
None of the evidence Sarek uncovered was a direct link between the KEHL activity and the Freelans — or Romulans — but the ambassador found the circumstantial evidence damning.
Without warning, a sudden, familiar sound made him freeze.
Soran heard it, too. "Ambassador — a transporter beam!"
"Attempt to distract the newcomers, while I disengage the valits," Sarek commanded, his fingers flying. Without a thought he abandoned his hope of copying further Romulan data banks. If he and Soran were caught here, spying, the Romulans would be within their rights to summarily execute them for espionage.
Quickly, he injected the last of the valits, the one designed to eradicate all evidence of his tampering. He could hear footsteps approaching from the direction of the transporter room as he leaped up, tricorder in hand, looking for a place to eliminate the evidence of his spying, Without the tricorder as evidence, he might be able to pretend to have awakened in the night, ill, and to have been searching for the station's automated med center. There was little chance that he would be believed, but, without hard evidence, the Freelans might hesitate to take him into custody. Seeing a disposal unit, Sarek dropped the tricorder in and cycled it, not without a pang at the loss of his proof. Logic dictated, however, that he save himself.
Glancing around him, the ambassador realized that the computer room was singularly devoid of hiding places. Silently, he resigned himself to being caught, and having to feign illness, when a loud crash sounded next door, in one of the engineering chambers that held banks of automated equipment.
The approaching Freelans exclaimed — in Romulan! — and went to investigate. Peering out of the computer area, Sarek warily scanned the hallway; then he made a swift, soundless retreat back to the entrance. The ambassador knew that his young aide must have caused the crash that had distracted whomever had come to investigate the "malfunction." Would Soran be able to escape, also?
A second later Soran, soundless on his soft-soled shoes, hurried up beside him. Quickly, the two Vulcans left the maintenance area and returned to their quarters.
Later, as he relaxed in the narrow bunk, the ambassador allowed himself a faint, ironic smile in the concealing darkness. It is not endgame yet, Taryn, he thought. Today you may have had me in check, but mate is still a long way off.
The next day, Sarek waited tensely for some indication that his late-night foray had been discovered, but apparently the last valit had been successful. Taryn displayed no indication of suspicion during the morning's negotiating session.
The ambassador was just beginning the afternoon's session when Soran approached, a guarded expression on his normally calm features. "Ambassador? There are two messages coming in from Vulcan. They are...important."
Hastily, Sarek excused himself and went to his quarters to view them in private. The first was a written message from his wife that read, simply, "Come home if possible, please. Amanda."
Staring at it, the Vulcan experienced a rush of unease. Never, in over sixty years of marriage, had his wife ever interrupted him in the midst of a mission to ask him to return home. What could be wrong?
His silent question was swiftly answered by the second message, prerecorded by his wife's physician, T'Mal. The graying Healer stared straight into the screen, as though she could see him. Her expression was calm, as usual, but the ambassador could discern a hint of sorrow in her eyes. "Ambassador Sarek, you must return home immediately. Your wife is gravely ill. I do not expect her to live more than another month...possibly less. I regret having to impart such news in this manner, but I have no choice. Return home immediately."
Copyright © 1994 by Paramount Pictures
