Strange New Worlds 2016 (12 page)

I sat here, sipping an ale for a while before I began. I finally have a voice; ironically,
what can I say to you, brother, that you didn’t already know. You knew who I could
become well before I did. That’s why I figured you sent me those books. Spock’s pamphlet
set me straight, though. He saved my life. But so did you, twice, at least.

If you weren’t my librarian, then the first time was on that stony field during the
Dominion War. I remember lying in our tent alone. My shoulder burned, wet, bandaged,
and throbbing mad. A Jem’Hadar grazed me earlier that morning. Even now that wound’s
twisted wrinkles ache when I sleep.

There is nothing more hateful than a Jem’Hadar soldier: the scaly skin, the horns,
the dark-obsessive eyes. They rise and consume a hillside as if some far-off floodgates
had burst and out spilled a flexing, unflinching wave. A Reman army had no chance.
Bred to kill, Jem’Hadar had no identity beyond “soldier.” Killing fulfilled them;
drugs sustained them. The Founders wisely subjugated them through drugs and breeding.
You, of course, wept for them, seeing them as kindred victims. At least, I’d argue,
the Jem’Hadar had clear purpose and recognition—they were infamous. Even a Reman’s
purpose and identity were clear. But who or what was a child of a Reman woman and
a Romulan father? When our mother gave birth to you, Yalu, I watched and tasted her
disgust at your spindly Romulan hair, matted and black. I saw myself through her eyes
then. I couldn’t understand what I felt. Our wide, pointed ears, however, marked us
as odd Reman mutts. The guards would call us “ear-mutts.” It’s a wonder our mother
chose to carry us to term, knowing the life ahead of us.

I must write this quickly. Loyalists to the old order at this bar might beat a Reman
to reclaim a sense of patriotism. So, the first time you saved my life: You reached
into our tent, my wound fresh, and dragged me to our commander’s command center, a
troop transport serving as Romulan living quarters beside the rows of Reman troop
tents atop that stony field. The commander sent hundreds of Remans to die as mere
distractions to allow a Romulan squad to tear holes with explosives in Jem’Hadar transports.
The tactic worked; it only took the sacrifice of more than two hundred Remans.

At his desk, the commander swept his hands with grace and skill through holographic
terrain that depicted this barren world—prime real estate for the Dominion to establish
a foothold in Romulan space. We stood, watching his hands sculpt the troops and bombers,
encircling, then swallowing the enemy. And as we stood there, Yalu, I was hypnotized.
Beauty. Precision. Expression. A low hum settled in the room. In there, my wound cooled
to a gentle ache.

Two officers stood on either side of the commander’s desk. Their eyes bore down on
us as if we threatened the commander’s life—it must’ve been our wide, Reman ears.
But they were looking at us.

When he finally acknowledged us, he didn’t look up. “Yes, Yalu?”

“Commander,” you began, “my brother, Troth.”

The commander remained focused on his holograms.

“And,” you continued, “he has a perspective that’ll amuse you.”

“Yes?”

“He hates Remans.”

He looked up, smiling.

“Hates Remans?”

You nodded and looked back at me with an expression that said, here is another opportunity
for something more. You turned back to him.

“Yes, you know our lineage.”

“And you’re my liaison to the Reman troops for that fact.”

“Well, my brother offers himself as entertainment for you.”

He snapped to his feet, moved around his desk, and walked directly to face you. I
stiffened, fearing that this was the end. No Reman approached a Romulan commander
with anything novel like this. He had a strict, arrogant power curving the bones of
his face. Throughout our campaign on this planet, I was a mere photon hovering between
his hands; now, you wanted me to entertain him? I didn’t know what I had to say to
a Romulan. Could he even hear a Reman? His eyes lit when you said I hated Remans.
But I didn’t, exactly—I just hated the not-living of being unseen.

“Well,” he began, moving to me. “Reman workers sustain the empire, so I hate Remans
as much as I hate the beasts of the field. They’re perfectly good at being Remans,
but you’re half-Reman—”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, isn’t that confusing, growing up hating half your identity?”

“Yes, sir.”

He laughed, looking back at the officers that stood by his desk.

“Gentlemen, what we have here is a Muddled Mongrel!”

They all laughed. You began laughing, glaring at me. Laughter, at first, dripped hesitantly
from my lips, until it rolled out as boisterously as the commander’s had.

“Well, Muddled Mongrel, let’s hear something amusing.”

I opened my mouth and said the first thing that came to mind, a story the guards would
repeat whenever I argued about freedom and fairness: “You want to help the Reman out.
You really want to give him a chance to be free, but look what happens when you do
that. Take Zon, for example. You know Zon, right?”

The commander nodded. “The Reman agitator who the colony’s administrator let escape.”

“Yes. Zon escapes, and what does he do first?”

I let the question fill the room.

“In primal desperation, he scurries through the wilds of Remus’s dark side, fingers
crusted over with dirt, finally reaches the lighted side, bone thin, and guzzles down
sewage-tainted water from some abandoned outpost. Then dies.”

The room was still.

“Zon proved one thing: you can take the Reman out of the filth, but never the filth
out of the Reman.”

Their laughter weighed heavily on me, but I could feel the tension rippling off them.
I knew, then, what you’d done for me, and I hated you for it, Yalu.

“Very nice,” said the commander. “I am Commander Tholon. I am certain you know of
me, but not my name nor my passion for entertainment.” He looked to you. “Your brother
must have sensed my frustrated boredom—there is no variety in war beyond its meticulous
game. Especially this war. It is passionless, mere defense-ism. A struggle of survival,
not the expansion of our political sophistication, our complex, penetrating mendacity.
We are destined to hold this quadrant to Romulan standards of civilization. Not defend
our ailing neighbors, but I digress.”

“I’d be happy to help, Commander,” I said with feigned enthusiasm.

“Life demands variety, my Reman friend.” A sculpted grin hardened his face; his gaze
isolated me, leaving me feeling vulnerable, naked. But seen. I had to earn his trust
or his respect, at least.

“Like any good Romulan, I’ll speak and leave the truth to you, sir.”

The grin softened. “Subcommander Shonu, have the cook prepare a meal.”

“Yes, commander.” He left the shuttle with urgency.

Still fixated on me, he ordered his other officer to retrieve my things from my tent.
My chest tightened. In my tent, tucked in the folds of my blanket, I kept Spock’s
pamphlet that I had devoured again and again for years now. We were permitted no personal
belongings aside from a blanket, disruptor, tent, and uniform. But Spock inhabited
me as a third voice in my identity. I cringed at being found with such anti-Romulan,
anti-Reman rhetoric. But proud deception and insinuation, I learned, were honored
hallmarks of Romulan virtue—as both challenge intellect and fortitude. So I grinned,
letting my eyes hint at my transgression.

Later, his officers brought in a table, food, ale, chairs. We were given fresh uniforms;
we were overwhelmed by the treatment. The meal served, Tholon personally poured each
of our ales, saying, “You’re very fascinating, Yalu, Troth.” He began pouring an ale
for his subcommander at his right hand and moved slowly around the table. With each
step, each probing glance, I prepared my next move in what I supposed was a game of
move-countermove.

“Brothers, born of two people: a race of the shadows and a race of the Star Empire—heirs
simultaneously to concealed slavery and ancient nobility.”

The ale fizzled coolly, reaching up the edges of your glass. Its soft hiss triggered
that embittered itch, transforming it. I felt almost new, somehow. Tholon saw into
and defined the tension I felt.

“I am curious: To which heritage do you most closely identify?”

You wisely thanked him for your ale and spoke: “I’ve taken my oath of loyalty to you,
Commander. We won’t survive today’s conflict without each individual’s loyalty.”

He began pouring my glass. “So, loyal today. I appreciate your precise diction, Yalu.
A Romulan trait, I assure you.”

It was my turn.

“Since Romulus doesn’t recognize Remans as citizens, I am left my Romulan heritage
only.”

“An impressive, if scathing, response,” he replied. “Do you enjoy Romulan ale?”

“I’ve never known the freedom to drink it, sir.”

Your face froze in horror. Was I to cross the line again? I feared his countermove.
My skin began to darken, a creeping darkness that reached up my Reman veins like wiry
fingers. But your eyes, Yalu, your eyes calmed me, reminded me of being thrown from
the administrator’s office.

Tholon nodded, still grinning like a dark predator. “You shall enjoy this taste, then.”
He poured his ale.

“Well, Yalu, thank you for bringing me your brother.” He rose his glass for a toast.
“You both choose your words well.”

“It’s our honor, Commander.”

Another Romulan entered the shuttle, whispered in the commander’s ear, and promptly
left. Tholon frowned.

“Troth,” he began. “Have you anything amusing to say about Vulcans?”

He looked at me, desperate for something. Spock’s pamphlet was either exposed or not
by the officers who gathered my things. I decided to play up my Reman role.

“I’ve never met one, sir.” I had to remain ignorant. That is the best sort of Reman,
anyway.

He sighed. “A shame. A few minutes with one will confirm the superiority of our culture
and why we split off from them thousands of years ago. They’re weak. Unwilling to
act, embracing a culture of suppression, one that lies to itself. And the Senate does
nothing to stop Vulcan propaganda in the Romulan Star Empire.”

He stood proud, patriotic, and I became enamored with the deep grin on his face. He
had a clear vision and, despite its debilitating and dehumanizing view of Remans,
I grew curious about it.

“And now we have that Vulcan radical softening our university students’ minds, again,
with high Vulcan philosophy: passivity, false transparency, mere logic.”

Tholon looked at me with a fierce enthusiasm. I hadn’t noticed that both my face and
body flinched, electrified by the reference to Spock.

“Ah, you’ve heard of him,” he continued. We nodded, both sipping our ales. “Well,
gentlemen, his presence on Romulus is more destructive than the public’s recent knowledge
of your race.”

“How’s that?” The question burped out from between my lips. I immediately drowned
my throat in ale.

“As a Reman-raised man, you cannot fully know who we are. We are proud and suspicious.
We question everything and everyone. We do this to ensure our greatness, to challenge
our preconceived beliefs. Living always a bit unsettled. We are always watching, calculating
the wisdom of our enemies as great tests for our superiority to overcome. But a race
of slaves working in darkness would cast doubt on our natural superiority.”

He leaned forward, grinning civilly, waiting for our response. This was some subtle
game, I decided. I had moved onto filling my mouth with the meat on my plate. You
calmly nodded. “A sensible concern. But how does one Vulcan threaten a society that
welcomes the challenging of well-worn beliefs?”

“For years, this Vulcan has nurtured a subversive counterculture. Our young have begun
rejecting the basic truth of what it is to be Romulan: intellect paired with passion.
Their emotional restraint. Foolish. Dangerous!”

And his fist stung the face of the table with a cutting slap. “Damn Vulcan! Lies that
will cripple us!”