TAMARA ANGEL stood gazing through a high stone window. Shafts of purple sunlight poured into the room, the rays playing upon her dark braided hair.
She was not looking forward to this meeting. It would be with someone she had met before, for preliminary talks; he had impressed her as slippery and evasive. He seemed to act independent of the wishes of his government. And he would have a further advantage now; he must know that her people were desperate.
Nevertheless, she straightened and turned with the pride of a strong soldier, as the timid rap played upon the battered door. A young girl's face appeared. "Tamara Angel, the representative of the Romulan Empire has just beamed down. He is waiting outside. But he has refused to let me take his weapon from him."
Tamara considered for a moment. "Do not press the point," she said at last. "Show him in."
The girl disappeared. She returned in a few moments, followed by a tall, swaggering Romulan. He stooped to pass through the low doorway of the small room used for one-on-one conferences. The pointed ears and ascending eyebrows, combined with a cruel sneer, lent him a very menacing aspect. His Romulan phaser was prominently strapped to his side. Tamara drew herself up to her full height; her glance let him know she was not impressed.
"It is good to see you again, Miss Angel," he said. "I hope that now we can clinch our deal."
"I am prepared to hear your terms, Agent Tarn," she replied.
"Very well. But there is little time to bargain. Your revolution must be helped quickly." The sympathy in his tone rang false, the voice was slippery, offensive. His manner contradicted everything Tamara had ever heard about Romulans. They were said to be a Spartan, reserved people, as befitted their Vulcan heritage. Though they had lost the fierce honesty of the Vulcans, and the strict code of logic and emotional repression, they were said to have retained Vulcan dignity. The first time she had met Tarn, she had expected the proud representative of a warrior race; she had encountered instead a conniving businessman.
"The Romulan Empire is at the service of the Council of Youngers," Tarn continued, "and our supplies can be delivered to you within the week. Let us finalize our agreement."
"I wish to know first," Tamara said, "in what capacity you represent the Romulan Empire."
"I am their agent in this exchange."
"And yet"—Tamara circled round him—"you are an independent arms dealer, are you not? The weapons and equipment we will be sent are largely of your procurement. And you will keep a large percentage of the profit."
"What is that to you?" Tarn's smile had vanished.
"I wish to understand the hierarchy of authority more clearly," Tamara pressed on. "If the equipment is inadequate, or if we are in any way dissatisfied, who can be held responsible? Do we appeal to the Romulan Empire? Or are we expected to try and exact justice from you?"
"The empire has authorized me to act, and will, of course, take responsibility for any difficulty I might cause," Tarn spat out. "Contact them, if you wish, and hear the promise from them."
"I have contacted them, several times," Tamara returned. "I have sent interspace coded signals asking this very question. But I still await their reply. The airwaves remain silent."
"Perhaps your signals never got through," Tarn suggested. "This quadrant is, after all, plagued by ion activity. Perhaps your transmitting equipment is of poor quality."
"That may well be," Tamara replied archly. "After all, it is of Romulan design."
Tarn shrugged. Tamara was infuriated by him, and by her position. Tarn was no fine specimen of a Romulan, but obviously, the empire had not cared to send one. The agent they had sent was a reflection of what they thought of her planet. Yet she and the council could not protest. The Orions could not supply them with the goods needed; the Romulans had the Council of Youngers, and they knew it.
"Very well, Tarn. Quote me your figures. How much can you deliver? And how much are you demanding in payment?"
Tarn gave her the figures, and when he quoted the price her planet was expected to pay, she let out a shocked gasp, which dissolved into a laugh.
"You are joking, surely. The council could not come up with that sum in a year's time."
"That is unfortunate. But there are other ways you can pay. In argea, for example."
"Argea? What use would Romulans have for that? It is not a drug those with your physiology can use."
"No. But it can be refined, and sold to those who can use it through … unofficial channels." Tarn winked.
Tamara nodded. The Orions received argea payments for the same reason; to sell it on the black market to worlds with humanoid populations. Did the Romulans also engage in such traffic?
"Perhaps," Tarn went on, pushing recklessness over the edge, "it could be sold back to you. I understand your planet has a need of the drug argea."
Tamara counted to five, slowly. Her temper was checked. "In what form do you propose we deliver the argea?"
"We will send ships, to raze fifty miles of forest," Tarn said easily. "You may choose where on your planet it shall be. The ships are standing by to arrive tomorrow."
"You said delivery will not take place for a week," Tamara said sharply.
"Delivery must be made by a circuitous, unusual route. Surely you do not wish the Federation to know you are purchasing such a large supply of ships and guns from us."
"No. No, we do not."
"Nor your neighboring world, Boaco Eight. Best to keep the edge of surprise as far as they're concerned." His left eye winked again. Tamara wondered, if he winked a third time, whether she would hit him.
"It is ridiculous to think we will let you rob our forests of so much argea, without our even having seen the shipment of materials you are sending. We have never before made so great a purchase from the Romulan Empire—"
"Have you ever been dissatisfied with our goods?"
"Often. But at least we knew we'd get them."
"I am insulted by what that implies, councilwoman. You had best not make enemies of us. If Boaco Eight declares war on you, what then, eh?" One of his slender eyebrows rose, to emphasize his point. "Will the Federation sell you arms? Better to accept our offer quickly."
Tamara swallowed. "Let us then, at least, scale down the deal." She tried not to sound like she was pleading. "The sea and air vehicles, the construction materials … let all that go. Only the spaceships and weapons are needed at this time."
"The size of the transaction was agreed upon last time," Tarn insisted, "and we are already at work filling your original order of goods. It is all or nothing. What is your reply? I grow impatient."
"I alone am not authorized to accept," Tamara lied. "The Council of Youngers will meet this afternoon and decide the matter then."
"I had heard that your council was in some … disarray?"
"That is not so," Tamara bridled. "It is true, we have lost an important, and much loved colleague." She fought the impulse to sink against the stone wall, stayed firm where she stood. "Another minister is away, others are on the opposite landmass. But those who are here now will meet and decide on your generous offer."
"We await your decision," Tarn said with mock courtesy. "If I may be shown to my quarters, to rest …"
Tamara Angel called out to the girl guard who was waiting in the corridor, and she reappeared. She escorted Tarn out, and Tamara Angel kept her eyes locked fixedly on his back until it vanished. She was overwhelmed again by a feeling of injustice; the knowledge of how deserving, how unique, how important the people on her world were, and how little that meant in the larger scheme of the galaxy.
It was there Noro found her an hour later, sitting on the floor, immersed in the sunlight's shaft, her knees pulled up, her arms locked around the tops of her high boots.
"I was told you have called a council meeting," he said shyly. "It is about the deal with the Romulans, is it not?"
Tamara nodded. "They are offering us dangerous and unfair terms. I see no choice but to accept. But I think it should be discussed by the council, first."
"The council, such as it is," Noro said ruefully, with a ragged smile.
"There are enough of us here to discuss the issue," Tamara said, springing to her feet. "But I do wish Iogan was back from space, to be a part of this, to meet this Tarn. He who is always so keen on the Romulans, saying they can be trusted."
Noro ducked his head, tried not to look at how the sunlight caught her hair. His admiration of Tamara Angel was an old ache, an old friend, one he had learned to live with. It did not need voicing now, or ever. "Perhaps Iogan's trust is justified," he said. "Perhaps they are willing to invest in us as allies."
Tamara looked doubtful. "We are too unimportant for that, Noro. And too far away. I have a bad feeling about this," she added, thinking of Tarn's pointed ears and smirking face. "As if we are, as the humans say, compacting with the devil. Oh, these galactic arms dealers are all nothing but mercenary scum! Yet his government knows he is here. They chose him as their envoy. And there seems little alternative—let this be a test, then, of Romulan friendship and respect."
They had left the small conference room and headed out into the corridor. Noro told her of progress at an education center on the other landmass. Tamara listened, but her mind wandered back to thoughts of Romulan cargo ships, shooting through space at a dizzying speed, loaded with … new strength for the revolution? Could it be true?
She had traveled the stars once, in such a ship. In the days of Puil, she had been sent to school and university on Federation Planets, had absorbed their ways, their style of dress, had returned to take her place among her planet's elite … and then turned her back on all of that. She chose to discover, instead, her world and its people.
"I have heard from my little brother," she told Noro. "He visited me last night. I think my parents know he sees me, and he says they are learning to live with the times. Peace talks between us may soon be possible." She laughed.
"That in itself is encouraging in such violent times," Noro said. He had never left Boaco Six; a breathtaking trip to one of its moons as a child was the farthest he had ever been. He was a fearless fighter in battle, and a good minister—social skills he had none. He always simply stared at Tamara with a kind of comical awe. She felt a wave of affection for him and squeezed his hand.
"Come, my old friend," she said. "It is time for the meeting of the council. The others must have gathered by now."
"Will you put it to a vote?"
"Yes. I will tell them Tarn's offer. And we will vote."
Noro followed her through the echoing hall, to the doors of the great chamber. Tamara's thoughts were again of space, and wondering if all that cold vastness contained a single friend. If so, where was he now?