The atmosphere was dark and heavy, cloying with the sweetness of exotic, honey-laden flowers. A lantern threw its smoky light across the room, but it did not reach the shadowy corners. Ornate tapestries covered the walls: sombre hunting scenes full of screaming coursers, the raw colors of wind-whipped banners, ancient weapons and trampled earth stained with the rich blood of the wounded. Hide-covered furniture, savage in its heavy elegance despite carved woodwork and gilt decorations, filled the room like a gathering of prehistoric animals. The doorway was set in a wide, wooden frame of fantastic running beasts where each creature swallowed the tail of its leader in an endless predatory race. A floor of black wooden tiles shone with polish and the passage of many feet. It reflected everything set upon it with the murky distortion of swamp water. Ornaments were scattered throughout the chamber: a clear glass wine goblet, a great circle of sabers hung on the wall like a wheel with countless spokes, a wealth of jewel-encrusted sculpture.

Spoils, thought S'Talon. This was not the room of a warrior at all. A dragon perhaps, sitting on its hoard. Yes, a dragon, he thought, looking into the Praetor's eyes.

The Praetor was seated in the largest chair. He was a handsome, heavy-set man whose leonine features already sagged under the weight of a life devoted to dissipation. Silver hair framed his face in short, elegant curls. His hands, heavy with jewelry, rested on bowing lizard's heads carved in black wood. He lounged in the chair, but there was no relaxation in his pose. S'Talon watched the Praetor's hand curl around a carving. The dragon's claw was poised and ready to strike. Involuntarily he braced himself.

"...so, S'Talon, you have been selected."

As he had thought. Again he had been graciously granted the opportunity to die.

"It is the chance of a lifetime." Greed glittered in the hooded eyes. "If you serve the empire well, it will serve you. The risks are high, S'Talon, but the rewards are great. Go with the Emperor's blessing."

I will need it, thought S'Talon as the Praetor's unctuous voice faded into the darkness.

"I am honored, my Praetor," he said tightly.

The Praetor inclined his head as S'Talon saluted and backed from the room. He smiled a small and private smile, aware of the commander's unyielding anger. S'Talon was an annoying ache in his side. To be frank, he could not stand the man. Nobility angered him, angered him twice over because in this case it was genuine. Yet opportunity rises to the surface like oil on water. He had found a solution to more than one problem in S'Talon's assignment. The mission was necessary and profoundly dangerous. If, by some miracle, he survived, S'Talon's already overdeveloped reputation would grow even more... but he would not survive. Still, it would never do to let him attempt such an important task unsupervised. He was too intelligent to be predictable.

The gentle sound of a latch opening recalled the Praetor to the matter at hand.

"Come in, Nephew," he said to the shadows, and a tall, slim young man appeared from behind a tapestry. Despite the elegant cut of his tunic and the style with which he wore it, there was a dangerous expression around his mouth, an enjoyment of injury -- rather like a weasel after chickens. He smirked.

"Old S'Talon is angry enough to bite someone's head off," he commented.

"Take care that it is not yours," snapped the Praetor. "It is never wise to provoke combat when you are overmatched. I am sending you with S'Talon to watch, not to cause an insurrection. Don't give me that sly look. Presently you will have more power than you can handle... or you will be dead."

"Not I, Uncle. The fates smile on me."

"They will continue to smile only if you carry out my orders. Your surveillance of S'Talon must be exacting. He will know he is being watched. Make no mistakes. If you are careless, he will have you strung up by your thumbs."

"I should like to see him try it!"

"So should I," muttered the Praetor.

"What was that, Uncle?"

"Umm, I said, 'he'd be foolish to try.' You are, after all, my nephew. However, the fact remains that, given sufficient provocation, he will certainly try and very likely succeed."

"Never! My position..."

"Your position is of small importance in space. Once you are under S'Talon's command, your political ties cannot protect you. Technically, your life is in his hands. If you wish to hold on to it you will follow my orders!"

The Praetor watched his nephew digest this unwelcome piece of information. He waved a hand at his uncle, pushing the Praetor's grim prophecies aside.

"I shall return with S'Talon's head and his glory..."

"No! S'Talon may be old-fashioned and squeamishly gentle, but he should not be underestimated. He has a keen eye for treachery and one of the most envied military records in the empire. But he is notorious for his independence. Should S'Talon deviate from the course I have given him, I wish to know."

"But, Uncle, I have heard you curse his name. Surely it would be better if he were to have an accident... oh, while checking a propulsion unit..."

"There will be no more of this idle talk. S'Talon is at least a known quantity. You will report his actions -- that is all. Do not waste this opportunity, Livius. If you fail it will not be the Commander's wrath you face -- although you may then wish it was."

The Praetor's voice had hardened and his eyes were implacable as granite. Color drained from the young man's face as he crossed his arm across his breast in the Romulan salute.

"Yes, my Praetor. It will be as you have ordered."

"Let us hope so," said the Praetor warmly.

The centurion rose as S'Talon backed from the Praetor's audience chamber. She noted black fire in his eyes and the corded muscles of his neck. Anger crackled in his movements.

"The ship awaits, Commander," she began, but S'Talon turned and swept down the dimly lighted hallway without answering. He covered the tiled floor in long strides, the angry precision of his footsteps echoing down the corridor. The centurion had to run to keep up with him. Snatches of the raging monologue he flung over his shoulder rang in her ears like a long-expected finale.

"...suicide!... If he had listened to the warnings, but no!... big enough for him to bother with!... only when he lost his favorite did he listen to anyone! And now he wants me to lead a detachment into certain death -- for glory! We will all be dead soon enough..."

Snarls subsided into a low grumble as the commander approached the palace gates. He returned the guard's salute with wordless savagery and without slackening his pace. The centurion followed grimly. As S'Talon strode past their parked air car, she sighed. She would have to come back for it.

They wound through meandering streets and she tried not to see the empty city. The worst of it had hit the capital and its gates had long since been shut, its population evacuated. Those who remained were ravaged and hopeless. It was rumored the Praetor would not leave his palace for fear of them.

All along the streets houses watched their passage with vacant windows. Where once the soft light of solar panels glowed, there was darkness. The city was hollow, like a great harp with the strings removed. Its wooden frame was capable of promise only -- of melodies once played or those to come. Without the vibration of life it was a sad relic. The centurion felt she was being watched by a skeleton whose grinning jaws and sightless eyes followed her with prophetic certainty. She shivered and moved closer behind S'Talon.

They crossed a cobbled street at the edge of an older residential area. Trees had overgrown the walk, their blue-green foliage at its peak. The houses were made of poured stone cast in pure, simple shapes. They reflected the simplicity of an ancient way of life fast disappearing under the yoke of avarice that was the Praetor's governmental policy. The demise of the warrior's austere ideal was mourned not only by those who remembered it at its peak, but by the young searching for identity. Only in officers of S'Talon's calibre did that ideal live, and there were too few like him.

The centurion was deep in her own thoughts when S'Talon stopped so abruptly she almost ran into him. Reproaching herself for inattention, she stood on her toes to look over S'Talon's shoulder. The cause of her near disaster stood unperturbed behind a hedge. He was idly clipping it, but as S'Talon stood in respectful silence he disengaged himself from his work to peer nearsightedly at his observer. A slow smile lit his patrician features.

"S'Talon, my boy!"

S'Talon clicked his heels together and gave a short, courteous bow of greeting. The centurion, though a little startled to hear her superior addressed in such an informal tone, bowed also.

"Well, well. It's been a long time. What brings you here?"

"Frankly, sir, I am angry and seek emotional release through exercise, to be followed, I hope, by the stability of logic. Though I knew you resided in this section of the city, I was sure you would have left with everyone else."

"Why? I am an old man. What have I to fear? Even from death. It has never been my friend. Had it, I would have died in the service of my people instead of wasting out my days like a mindless vegetable. No, I have no reason to leave." The old man peered into S'Talon's face. "Come here, my boy. My eyes are not what they used to be."

As S'Talon moved closer the old man's slanting white brows drew together in a frown.

"You said you were angry, S'Talon, and I see you spoke the truth. Anger is stamped on your face for all to see. What, may I ask, is its cause?"

S'Talon frowned more deeply, but did not reply, and the old man chuckled.

"That fool of a Praetor."

"S'Talon's anger was pierced by alarm. "Sir, you must guard your words! You, of all people, know that."

"As I told you, S'Talon, I no longer have cause for fear. I have lost everything but my life, and that I hold in very small regard." He cut off S'Talon's protest with a wave of his hand. "I suppose you have been elected to solve this problem we're having?"

"Problem, sir?" Not only was he forbidden to speak of his mission, but the Praetor had spies in the most obscure places. He could not allow his respect for this man to provoke rash comments.

"Don't play games with me." Pride flared for a moment in the dim eyes, showing the man's will to command. "But, I suppose you must, even as I had to. Perhaps fate has brought you here on this day. I am aware of your standing in the fleet. The course of your career is of interest to me. The empire was my responsibility for a good number of years." He smiled ironically. "Old habits die hard. I have kept myself informed on certain key issues, and I have followed the actions of those most likely to influence the fate of the empire."

"Then why choose me?" asked S'Talon bitterly.

"Because you are a bastion of the old order. In that alone you are unique. It makes you both a symbol and a stumbling-block. It is patent that the Praetor would like to see you removed, but in such a way that you become a martyr to his cause and not a standard for rebellion." The old man paused as he saw anger flash unchecked in S'Talon's eyes. "Now who must guard his actions?" he inquired. "It is inevitable that you will be the Praetor's chosen pawn, but even he does not realize the part you will play in the events to come. He has made a mistake. Though he understands your military capabilities and your sense of honor, he has little conception of your flexibility or the depth of your loyalty... to that which you deem worthy of it. In this, I have the advantage of him, but then, we are two of a kind."

"You pay me a most extravagant compliment, sir."

"Nonsense. It was not meant so. Merely a statement of fact. I see other facts as well. Though my eyes are dim, my mind is clear, clearer than it has ever been. We are facing destruction. I know that, and if my judgment of your quality is correct, so do you. You will be the key. Sometimes the life of the largest beast depends entirely upon the ability of its smallest member to remain strong in adversity. I cannot tell you how to act, what roads to take or methods to employ, but I can tell you this: do not be afraid to follow the dictates of your instinct, and do not let your pride get in the way of judgment. I have been guilty of both offenses, so I speak with the wisdom of experience."

"If you have, sir, I was never aware of it."

"You are kind to an old man, S'Talon, but you are singularly thoughtless. Who is the exquisite creature standing so patiently behind you?"

S'Talon started and then stepped to one side. "My centurion, sir. Centurion, Supreme Commander of the Fleet, Tiercellus."

The centurion began to salute him, but Tiercellus' voice stopped her.

"None of that, my dear. I've been retired for so long I hardly remember how to return your courtesy. S'Talon did not mention it, but I am sure you have a name."

"I am called S'Tarleya, sir."

"So. If S'Talon's job will be difficult, yours will be even harder. You must keep the key from being broken. He already has enemies who seek his life, either from jealousy or because he jeopardizes their political influence. His position as scapegoat -- yes, we must call it that -- will make him doubly vulnerable. You must keep him alive."

In Tiercellus' crisp authority S'Tarleya saw the supreme commander. It was no frail old man, but a superior officer who enjoined her to protect S'Talon's life. She straightened, accepting not only his trust but the fear she had run from before.

"His life is mine," said S'Tarleya quietly.

"That should do," replied Tiercellus. The old-fashioned oath of loyalty with which S'Tarleya answered seemed to please him.

S'Talon's dark eyes were unreadable as he studied the centurion and his former commander. He had the feeling he was missing something. They were possessed of an understanding that went beyond words. Still, words were what he had to deal with. Tiercellus' estimation of the situation was frighteningly correct.

"Your words have not cheered me," he said. "They are frail ropes thrown from one lost man to another, incapable of bearing either man's weight."

"How right you are, S'Talon, but they are all I have to give -- warnings flung into a stiff wind." He smiled. "I would not be surprised to see them hurled back in my face. But I am grateful for the chance to voice them. It is all I have now -- my experience. It is a small contribution to the cause, a token resistance to a death I profess to welcome. We are complex creatures, are we not?"

S'Talon nodded.

"So complex we are not able to cope with simple issues," he replied.

Tiercellus cocked his eyebrow in an unspoken question.

"Life and death. Our lives consist of nothing else, yet our capacity for ignoring both of them is amazing. We cloak them in ritual and philosophy so we can avoid facing them, but, in the end, they are the only subjects worth considering."

"S'Talon, you sound like an old man! That is supposed to be my prerogative."

"I must confess I feel like an old man."

"The weight of command. And yet you would not have it lifted for all the wealth of the empire."

Some of the bitterness faded from S'Talon's eyes as he perceived Tiercellus' understanding.

"I see that you would not. Nor did I. But the time comes when each of us must defer to another. Looking back, I believe the acknowledgment of that was the hardest moment in my life."

"Am I to give up then? Forsake the Romulan way?"

"Never. But... there may come a time when your understanding is not enough. At such moments help springs from the most unlikely sources."

"And I should watch for it?"

"If you do not, if you are not the same man I knew, if you have become afraid to think for yourself, then we are indeed lost. All my years of military experience tell me you have become the fulcrum upon which the empire turns. Life or death -- you said it yourself. I believe your actions will determine the fate of Romulus and its colonies."

"That is a heavy weight to place in one man's hands."

"S'Talon, I do so only because I think you can bear it, and because it is imperative you understand the magnitude your actions will assume."

Tiercellus raised his head proudly, the courage of the Romulan bird of prey in every line.

"I am Romulan. I have given my life in service of the empire. I will not survive, but it must. It must be reborn into even greater glory. S'Talon, I do not think we shall meet again. If you live or die, do so with the honor befitting a noble race. Farewell."

The salute Tiercellus had previously refused he now executed with the elegance of long practice. At his hands it was a benediction, a gift born from the ancient warrior's respect. As S'Talon returned it sadness crept around his heart like an insidious fog.

"Farewell," he replied.

The centurion also saluted the old man, standing in his garden like a memorial to a bygone day, and followed her commander down the street, pondering the somewhat unusual interview. Though she could make little sense from it, she realized she had been led into an open commitment. In the Romulan empire, nothing was ever open. Subterfuge and deceit were a way of life. To freely declare one's true motives was unheard of, though, S'Tarleya reflected, it might once have been a part of that tradition S'Talon and Tiercellus understood so well. In any case, she could not recall her words. In truth, she did not want to. At the entrance to a secluded park S'Talon turned to face his subordinate.

"I shall not be long, Centurion," he began, but she cut him off.

"Commander, I have been your aide for many years. Surely you will accept my help now. There will never be a more desperate hour."

"You know, then, the magnitude of what is happening?"

"Yes. There have been certain indications, though the council has taken pains to minimize the danger."

"It is generally known, then?"

"No. Even among our crew only a few have guessed the truth. I have been uneasy for some time, but because my reactions were instinctive, emotional, I put them aside. Until now."

"Tiercellus was plain enough, wasn't he?"

"Yes. The moment he spoke of the impending danger, I knew his words were true."

S'Talon nodded.

"His opinions coincide so exactly with mine that I must acknowledge their truth or reverse my own judgment. Your instincts have proven correct, Centurion. In this conflict they might serve well. I suggest that you heed them."

"I believe we will all have to use every weapon at our disposal."

S'Talon sighed.

"It is a deadman's trap, but we are to be used and that makes me angry. I will not ask that you accompany me into certain death..."

"You do not need to ask. You know that I will go... whether I am ordered to or not."

A touch of insurrection lurked in the centurion's words and S'Talon smiled thinly.

"There would seem to be no hope, no way to defeat this monster. Nevertheless, we shall make the attempt -- and we shall seek every means to survive. I will need your help."

"Of course, Commander." She added under her breath, "I cannot do otherwise."

"You are my right hand, Centurion," he said, looking down at her dark hair.

"I will leave you to the peace of this place. When you are ready... the Raptor has been prepared. It carries auxiliary fuel."

"It is suicide, Centurion. That I can tell you, but no more."

"Death is preferable to life without purpose or hope," she answered distantly.

"Do not embrace death with such fervor," he chided. "I will return to the ship momentarily. In the meantime, you are free to make your own preparations, but be sure, Centurion, no one suspects the nature of this flight."

"My pledge is to obey," she answered, saluting her commander.

S'Talon returned the salute with a warmth he seldom felt toward his officers. Loyalty was a gift rarely given. He, better than anyone, knew its value. Tiercellus had prodded S'Tarleya into an overt betrayal of a commitment she had been silently expressing for years. Now she had placed his life above her own. She was a good officer -- even brilliant. For the first time it occurred to S'Talon she should have been promoted long ago, that she should be commanding a ship of her own. He wondered if the Praetor's dislike for him was placing a stumbling-block in her path. Perhaps, if they returned, he would see about a transfer for her, somewhere where her commander's political ties were more in keeping with the Praetor's ideals. Just now he was deeply grateful for her. Next to Tiercellus, she was the most honorable person he knew. He watched the centurion as she walked down a long avenue of trees. As she turned a corner and vanished from his sight a dark figure slipped from behind one of the tree trunks and followed her. Spies. Everywhere spies -- but too far away to have heard their conversation. His own shadow surely waited behind another tree.

S'Talon sat down heavily. His shoulders sagged with the weight of his thoughts. He did not want to die. Illogical to desire life under such circumstances. Even if, by some miracle, they were successful, the sorrow in store would be more than he wanted to face. Surrounded on all sides by treachery and deceit, spied upon and used -- he was tired of it all. And now this hopeless mission. Even if the empire survived, he was leading his crew into certain destruction. He rebelled. Those who served with him were the finest the empire had to offer. They would die, so the Praetor and his ilk could survive to build another empire more selfish and deceitful than the last, succession upon succession of overindulged parasites feeding on the toil of others. He rubbed his forehead, knowing he was right, knowing also that he would carry out the mission to the best of his ability. There were innocent lives at stake too, and if he saved one of those it would be enough. Honor was a difficult thing to be bound by.