Margeret Bonanno - Probe

They were greeted by a second surprise: Cartwright was not alone. The admiral sat, not at his desk, but at a nearby conference table across from the white-haired President of the Federation Council. And from their furrowed brows, it was clear that whatever had come up was serious indeed.

"Admiral. Mr. President." Kirk nodded in turn at each man; Sulu followed suit. "I believe you both know my helmsman, Commander Sulu."

Cartwright gave a distracted nod, barely glanced at Sulu; the President looked as if he were about to object to the commander's presence, then changed his mind and released a small smile of welcome.

"Gentlemen, sit." Cartwright motioned for them to take a chair. "I know, Captain, that we were supposed to meet about an entirely different subject, but there's something I want you to hear." He rose, went over to his desk, and stooped to press a control.

A burst of static erupted from the console speakers; Cartwright grimaced. "Sorry. The transmission's of poor quality because we had to hyperaugment the volume, and his voice is distorted because of the scrambling devices used."

Kirk strained to sift the words from the static.

"To friends across the Neutral Zone: I have news. You would know it soon enough through normal channels, but better you hear it now, for it has already changed relations between us. The Praetor is dead."

Jim Kirk glanced sharply at Cartwright, who nodded slowly.

"For a time," the distant voice went on, "there will be chaos in the Empire. There is opportunity amidst this chaos, to be sure: perhaps an understanding between our two peoples can be reached. Bring this news to all among you inclined to work for peace, and be wary of those who would stop its spread or distort its meaning: unfortunately, censorship is one of the many things our empires have in common."

The static increased, gradually drowning out the transmission. Cartwright pushed the control, ending the message.

"How recent is this report, Admiral?" Sulu asked.

"As recent as a subspace squirt from the heart of the Empire received at three this morning," Cartwright answered, his sculpted, dark face looking ashen, suggesting that it had gotten him out of bed and he'd been hounding the decoders from that time to the present.

Kirk shook his head skeptically. "There've been rumors of the Praetor's impending death since Hector was a pup, or at least as long as I've been in Starfleet. I suppose even a Romulan can't live forever, but even so, he's only third in power-"

"Third in rank, but first in power," the Federation President interjected, his tone indicating that he took the report very seriously. "There is no question among those who know but that the Praetor rules the Empire. Or ruled it, while he lived."

"If we can trust that message," Sulu interjected.

"Nothing Romulan can be trusted completely," the President said. "However, we have received information from this same source in the past, and it has always proven out in the long run."

"In any event," Cartwright said, "regardless of personal feelings any of us may have, we have no choice but to assume it may be true-and to prepare accordingly."

In the Empire, there was no doubt of the Praetor's death. The press of the crowd in the streets of the capital bore witness to it and threatened to produce deaths of its own as every element struggled to reach and enter the Hall of Columns to view the body and be seen expressing earnest sorrow at the passing.

Jandra herself would soon have to join them, though she would at least not have to endure the physical danger represented by the impatient mob of "mourners" she had seen from the windows of the Citadel quarters she shared with her husband, Tiam. It was possible, she supposed, that for some very few the "mourning" was genuine. For most, it was-it had to be! — the necessary show of Orthodoxy, nothing more. As for her own thoughts, they were occupied-as they had been since she had first been informed of the "honor" to be bestowed upon her-almost exclusively in trying to thread her way through the maze of what the death and the subsequent summons might mean to her. It had come with stunning suddenness, almost as sudden as the "reforms" with which the Committee seemed to be trying to overwhelm the very Empire. For years, her "rehabilitation" had exhibited little more progress than Tiam's career, but now, in a matter of days-

"An official flitter will come for you," Tiam interrupted her thoughts, trying not to posture too obviously in the glass as he arranged the mourning ribands over his uniform insignia. "I've had a place cleared on the roof to avoid the mob."

"What music will they require?" Jandra asked, careful to keep her voice neutral, her hands unclenched in her lap; tension was bad for them and would affect her playing.

"The flitter pilot will bring it." Tiam turned in her direction. Jandra's heart quickened. She remembered when the marriage had been arranged, and how she'd raged and wept for days when told it was the only possible route to rehabilitation for herself and her family. Yet, when she first saw Tiam, her rage had dissipated somewhat. At least he is handsome, she remembered thinking at the time. That was before she knew the rest, before she realized that the road back to Orthodoxy was exceedingly slow, that, though her alliance with Tiam allowed her back from the Provinces, she was as much an outsider as ever. "Undoubtedly the Lerma requiem will be required," Tiam went on solemnly. "Lerma has been longer on the Orthodox list than any of his contemporaries."

"Of course," Jandra replied without itlflection, thinking: Lerma is so bland that no one, not even the Praetor, could have objected to him.

So she had been summoned to play at the Praetor's funeral. Romulans were masters of irony, but this, Jandra thought, was beyond irony. This Praetor, who was a swine and a murderer, who by the most conservative estimates was responsible for a million deaths or "disappearances" among his own kind, not to mention

untold incursions against alien citizenries, this Praetor whose own order had sent her elder brother on an impossible mission whose failure required his execution, her parents' ritual suicide, and the un-Orthodox stigma placed upon her and her surviving sibling-this Praetor presumed to reach her even beyond his own death and require that she offer him her music.

"It is quite an honor," Tiam emphasized, not for the first time. "I do not need to tell you there will beuncertainties-in the coming days. I was made a middle-level administrator by this Praetor's favor. Who knows what I may achieve with his successor, provided he is pleased with me and mine? And I have been told on good authority that several elder musicians were passed over in your favor." He eyed her as if expecting an expression of gratitude. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged. "As for me, I have already been made privy to something that-" He fell silent abruptly, as if realizing that, in his need to boast, he had slipped into dangerous territory.

Jandra held her silence, unaware of Tiam's momentary apprehension. She still reflected on the "honor" he insisted she was being done and wondering how he dared say such words to her. He of all people knew her family's past, knew she had married him solely in order to win rehabilitation for herself and her brother. How that fact must gall him even now, she thought with some slight satisfaction.

She looked up from her hands in her lap to see that Tiam was watching her narrowly.

"You're indolent," he accused her. "Have you somequalm-about the honor assigned you?"

"I will play, Husband." Jandra fought to keep the

resignation out of her voice. "More than that you need not know."

Commander Hiran of the bird-of-prey Galtizh was the very model of restrained military mourning as he received official notification of the Praetor's passing. Only when he was safely in his quarters did he allow the hint of a smile to soften the lines of his broad, rough-hewn face.