Текст книги "The Good That Men Do"

Автор книги: Andy Mangels

Соавторы: Michael Martin
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“No doubt, Captain,” Phlox said. “But the general public suffered a great deal of psychological trauma at the hands of Terra Prime. And although the terrorists’ actual casualty count was thankfully low, the incident partially reopened some of the profound wounds inflicted by the Xindi nearly two years ago.”

“People don’t easily forget seven million deaths,” Archer said, his mood darkening with the onslaught of bitter memories. Archer suspected that forgiveness for what the Xindi did would probably come only after there was no one left alive on Earth capable of remembering firsthand the horror of March 22, 2153. That’s a wound for future generations to heal,he thought, pining momentarily for a utopian future he knew he’d never glimpse himself. All the more reason why the Coalition of Planetshas to succeed.

Phlox continued, “Like any demagogue, Paxton played to your people’s basest fears by reminding them of their vulnerabilities. Therefore the public needs reassurance most of all. And what better way to reassure the public than with what Commander Tucker might refer to as a ‘dog and pony show’?”

Archer felt a wistful twinge at Phlox’s mention of his oldest friend. He wished Trip could be at his side for this historic occasion–and that the Terra Prime affair hadn’t made it necessary for both Trip and T’Pol to be away now on bereavement leave. He couldn’t think of anything worse than what the two of them were facing now. Fortunately, Earth’s Prime Minister Samuels was calling the day’s proceedings to order, forcing Archer to set aside the woes of his absent friends and colleagues.

The crowd of onlookers quickly quieted as Samuels made his way to the press podium set in the center of the open torus formed by the conference tables. Archer wondered how many people besides himself were aware that Samuels had once belonged to the Terra Prime organization. Archer wondered what would happen should that fact ever become common knowledge. Would it tear the delicate new Coalition apart? Or would it be regarded as something positive, a sign that people can always change for the better?

Archer sincerely hoped for the latter.

Samuels, a ginger‑haired, genial‑looking man of middle age and medium height, flashed a broad smile at the audience as the journalists’ vid units zeroed in on him. A slender, palm‑sized rectangular electronic translation device–one of the units that Hoshi had recently upgraded specifically for use by all of the Coalition delegates and their support staffs–was conspicuously visible on the lapel of the prime minister’s smartly tailored navy blue jacket.

“We’ve gathered here again, in the same chamber where we began our initial discussions months ago, to demonstrate that recent events have made the governments of five worlds more determined than ever to forge a peaceful interstellar community. Allow me to introduce Ambassador Anlenthoris ch’Vhendreni of Andoria; Ambassador Lekev of Coridan; Ambassador Gora bim Gral of Tellar; Ambassador Soval, Ambassador L’Nel, and Ambassador Solkar of Vulcan; and Interior Minister Haroun al‑Rashid of Earth.”

Samuels paused briefly after each name, giving the diplomats sufficient time to rise from their seats and offer respectful nods or bows to the onlookers and journalists. Minister al‑Rashid was a picture of quiet competence in a black suit that emphasized his dark, intelligent eyes. The Vulcans were resplendent in their dusky, bejeweled formal robes, each of them a study in dignity and poise, while the Andorian and Tellarite envoys, each flanked by a pair of junior functionaries, struck a much more martial impression in ornate formal dress based on the military attire of their respective worlds.

Coridanite Ambassador Lekev wore a much simpler, formfitting suit, dominated by his people’s traditional diplomatic mask. Lekev’s face was covered in a metallic material shaped into the stark features of a humanoid skull, while overlapping bands of chitinous, lobster‑colored fabric wrapped his cranium, giving him a faintly crustacean appearance. Unmasked, Coridanites were visually distinguishable from humans only by their prominent nasal ridges and raised forehead striations. When masked, however, they appeared even more alien than either the dour, blue‑skinned Andorians or the hirsute, porcine, and often obstreperous Tellarites.

Archer suppressed an ironic grin when he saw that Ambassador Gral of Tellar and Ambassador Anlenthoris ch’Vhendreni of Andoria–the latter being better known simply as Thoris–both appeared far more ill at ease in the presence of the masked Coridanite than they were with each other. This is going to be a long journey,Archer reminded himself. Maybe the only way it can get started is with baby steps.

“Let me begin by publicly announcing the resolution of a major negotiating impasse,” Samuels continued, his enthusiasm escalating audibly as he played to the press. “The governments of Tellar and Coridan have at last reached an accord over the controversial issue of trade sanctions against the Orion Syndicate…”

Once Samuels finally concluded his nearly ninety‑minute presentation, Archer understood that Doctor Phlox had been absolutely right about the necessity for Samuels’ “dog and pony show.” After all of the principal delegates had taken their respective turns at the lectern, public faith in the coming Coalition Compact–Samuels had renewed his pledge to have the document’s final draft ready for its official signing within six weeks–had to be on the rise, especially if the reaction of Archer’s own crew was any indication. The captain had noticed that all of his people had stood enthralled throughout the proceedings, including Malcolm, who rarely took the words of political figures at face value and sometimes tended to fidget when not kept intensely focused on some urgent tactics‑related shipboard task or other. Archer could see clearly that all of his people were overwhelmed by the historical significance of this day.

The Coalition of Planets was transforming from dream to reality, right before everyone’s eyes. In a matter of mere weeks, the nascent alliance treaty already known across the sector and beyond as the Coalition Compact would become interstellar law, binding five sovereign worlds together inextricably in common, peaceful purpose.

Admiral Forrest would have loved to see this.Archer couldn’t help recalling his late superior officer, the man who had sponsored his captaincy and had defended it from the beginning, through rough and smooth times. Forrest had died more than six months ago in a terror attack carried out by an aggressive and xenophobic Vulcan official named V’Las, a man cut from the same cloth as Terra Prime’s John Frederick Paxton.

Leaning toward Hoshi, who stood between Phlox and Reed and Mayweather, Archer said, “So how does it feel to be an up‑close eyewitness to history, Hoshi?”

She replied quietly after a lengthy and uncharacteristically tongue‑tied pause. “It’s kind of embarrassing for a linguist to have to admit this, sir, but I don’t think I quite have the right words for it.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” Archer replied with a chuckle. Gesturing toward the new translator unit that hung from the lanyard encircling his collar, he added. “But thanks to you, all the delegates didhave the right words.”

Archer watched the assembled diplomats as they stood around the open circle formed by the conference tables, accepting congratulations and handshakes–or respectful gestures, in the case of the standoffish Vulcans, whose touch‑telepathic abilities made them understandably disinclined to allow physical contact–from the Starfleet brass, Earth government officials, and other assorted notables. And it all took place before the all‑seeing electronic eyes of the media, who were even now spreading the day’s words and images throughout the sector and beyond.

In spite of his hopes for the future, Archer couldn’t help but wonder how many other outlying civilizations would take the news being made here today as a reason to become as paranoid as the Xindi had been.

Now who’s being paranoid?Archer thought, trying to force himself to relax.

Malcolm leaned down to speak sotto voceinto Archer’s ear. “Is it just me, or was Ambassador Lekev going out of his way to point out every small nit in the fine print?”

Archer had harbored similar unvoiced thoughts during the presentation, though he wondered if he hadn’t been singling Lekev out for unusual scrutiny because of the decidedly inhuman aspect presented by the ambassador’s mask.

“Maybe we’ve all got to learn to look past masks, Malcolm,” Archer said, eager to give the Coridanites the benefit of the doubt.

“Maybe learning to get along with other species is a beginner’s art,” Travis added.

Archer feared that Mayweather might well be right about that. But before he could think of a suitably upbeat reply, his communicator beeped, its tone indicating an incoming signal from Enterprise. He pulled the small device from his pocket and flipped its metal grid open with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“Archer here. Go ahead, Enterprise.”

“O’Neill, sir,”said Lieutenant Donna “D.O.” O’Neill, her no‑nonsense tones rendered slightly metallic by the communicator’s tiny speaker. She paused, apparently to stifle a sudden cough, before continuing. “Enterprise will be ready to break orbit and get under way for Vulcan within the hour, per your orders.”

Vulcan. There Archer would finally be reunited with Trip and T’Pol–and would no doubt see the grief still lingering on both their faces, T’Pol’s tight Vulcan emotional control notwithstanding. Once again, Archer wished that Trip and T’Pol were here instead of there, focusing on the future and hope rather than on the past and despair.

“Acknowledged, D.O.,” Archer said. “Shuttlepod One will dock with Enterprisein about forty‑five minutes. Then I’ll want best speed to Vulcan. Archer out.”

And let’s hope while we’re gone that nothing spooks these delegates the way Terra Prime did,he thought as he flipped the communicator grid closed.

Three

Thursday, January 30, 2155

Vulcan’s Forge

THE HARSH, DRY WIND stung his exposed skin. Commander Charles “Trip” Tucker III was glad that it was twilight, even if the area was still quite hot. He didn’t know how the Vulcans withstood the heat, given all their layered heavy garments. For the occasion, he had asked for a set of ceremonial robes; it seemed fitting, even if he was soaked in sweat underneath them.

The Vulcan who had helped clothe him had also given him a matching swath of fabric intended to allow him to surreptitiously cover the neurotherapeutic sling with which Phlox had outfitted him; the weapons‑burst he had taken to the shoulder while fighting Terra Prime on Mars the previous week had caused some residual, though thankfully reversible, nerve damage to his left arm. He’d be wearing the sling for another week, at least.

T’Pol was somewhere inside the mostly rebuilt T’Karath Sanctuary. He assumed that she was making whatever preparations needed to be made. He hadn’t attended many Vulcan funerals, and hadn’t particularly had the time–or the desire–to read up on them during the few days it had taken the speedy Coridanite diplomatic vessel to ferry them here.

“Commander Tucker?” The voice was even and crisp. He knew it belonged to a Vulcan before he even turned around. He was not surprised to recognize the shorter woman, even if her shaggy brown hair had now been swept up under a tall cap.

“Minister T’Pau,” he replied, bowing slightly toward her. He supposed that she must have just returned from the recent round of Coalition negotiations on Earth.

“I hope everything has been comfortable for you, under the circumstances,” she said, nodding courteously. “Our workers have been laboring night and day to turn this desolation once again into a sanctuary.”

“I’ve been most comfortable, ma’am,” Trip said. “Your workers have done a great job over the past six months.” He had only seen in holograms what the original T’Karath Sanctuary had looked like. As was the case with many Vulcan religious and philosophical refuges, it had been designed and built to be a part of the low desert hills, rather than something separate from the inhospitable natural world that surrounded it.

“T’Karath was once a significant part of our history,” T’Pau said, stepping forward and looking out over the rocky canyon that sloped away from the sanctuary proper. Trip admired the neat rows of hardy, ground‑level plants that adorned the canyon’s ruddy, rock‑strewn sands. He’d overheard one of the workers refer to these newly planted leafy succulents as kylin’the,which were supposed to possess healing properties. The sight of life returning and persisting so stubbornly in such a hostile place made Trip feel something that strongly resembled hope.

“A history that stretches back to the time of Surak,” T’Pau continued. “The sanctuary was mostly destroyed during a…long‑past conflict among our people. More recently, my Syrrannite sect used it as a refuge, until the High Command made the decision to wipe us out. Much of what remained from the past was destroyed by the aerial bombardment.”

“It’s good that you’re rebuilding, then,” Trip said. “It’ll stand as a monument for your people for the future.”

T’Pau turned and regarded him with one eyebrow raised. “For now at least.” She pursed her lips, and turned back to the expansive view in front of them. “Vulcan’s future is unknown. Hundreds of years from now, this sanctuary may well be forgotten once again.”

“I hope not,” Trip said.

“Is that the reason you are interring her here?” T’Pau asked. “So that she will be memorialized in a place you think will hold importance in our future?”

Trip was momentarily appalled by the question. Every time I think the next Vulcan can’t be any ruder than the last one, I get proved wrong,he thought.

Before he could respond, he saw T’Pol step out of the entrance behind them. She was dressed in elaborate royal blue robes not unlike those he wore himself, though she didn’t look at all uncomfortable in them. Around her neck she wore the IDIC symbol her mother had sent to her shortly before her death.

“No, Minister, that is not the reason we are interring Elizabeth here,” T’Pol said. “We do not choose to do this out of some attempt to publicly memorialize our…daughter. We do this because my mother is buried here as well. She would have appreciated knowing her granddaughter.”

T’Pau nodded. “Even if only for a short time. That is logical.” She paused for a moment, and then added a question. “Do you think she would have accepted the child, given its…mixed parentage?”

Trip realized that his face was betraying his emotions–annoyance at the moment–and willed his features into a calmer countenance. He knew that T’Pau had been close friends with T’Les, the mother of T’Pol. They had even been at the sanctuary here together when T’Pol and Captain Archer had arrived. Shortly afterward, Archer–who was carrying within him the katraof Surak–had found the long‑lost Kir’Shara,an artifact that contained the writings of Surak. The discovery was almost simultaneous with the bombing of T’Karath, during which T’Les had been killed.

In the aftermath of the destruction, T’Pau, Archer, and T’Pol had delivered the Kir’Sharato the Vulcan High Command, just in time to stop the traitorous Administrator V’Las from launching the people of Vulcan into an ill‑advised war against the Andorians. Shortly thereafter, the High Command was dissolved, and a reformation of Vulcan government began. T’Pau had been made a minister, and since that time had led the movement to spread and adopt the philosophies and teachings of Surak on a planetary scale.

So if she was an ally of T’Les, and she and her society both got some real benefit out of what Archer and T’Pol did here, then why is T’Pau acting this way?Trip didn’t dare ask the woman, and didn’t really need to. He had dealt with enough Vulcans to know that their suppression of emotions made them seem uncaring and unkind much of the time.

T’Pol answered the minister before Trip could. “My mother was a highly respected faculty member at the Vulcan Science Academy. If for no other reason than this, she would have found the first offspring ever to be produced by a Vulcan and a human to be fascinating. That Elizabeth was the product of her own daughter’s genetic material would–I have no doubt–have encouraged her to accept the child.”

Before T’Pau could say something else that might make the tension even more unbearable, Trip held his right hand up. “Minister, if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to begin the ceremony for Elizabeth now.”

T’Pau nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Certainly. The priests have prepared the chamber for you. They have only to deliver the vessel containing the child.” She turned to walk away. “I will make certain that all work ceases until you are finished, so as not to disturb the proceedings,” she said over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” T’Pol said, her voice flat, and quieter than normal. She turned to look at Trip, her dark eyes wide.

He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and pulling her into a hug with his uninjured right arm. He felt her frame stiffen against him before relaxing almost imperceptibly.

He knew the tension was not just because of the pending funeral service. It was more personal even than that. Their relationship had all but dissolved last fall–even after T’Pol’s divorce from her husband Koss, whom she’d been forced to marry in order to get her mother re‑instated at the Academy–then seemingly rekindled almost two months ago.

The discovery just last week that, six months earlier, Terra Prime scientists had created a binary clone child, using stolen DNA from Trip and T’Pol, had hit them both like a tsunami. The radical Terra Prime isolationists had hoped to use the Vulcan‑human hybrid as a way to show humans what would happen should they ally themselves with alien races. And although the terrorists were defeated on Mars, the one good result of their plans–the cloned child, which T’Pol had named Elizabeth to honor Trip’s late sister–did not survive long.

Doctor Phlox had explained that Elizabeth had died because of flaws in the cloning procedures used to create her, but that didn’t make the loss any easier on the girl’s “parents.”

During the few days since Elizabeth’s death, Trip and T’Pol had tried to comfort each other, but something seemed fundamentally broken now. Even when Phlox had related his subsequent discovery that whatever incompatibilities might exist between human and Vulcan DNA wouldn’t prevent Trip and T’Pol from reproducing together in the future, the news had seemed depressing rather than hopeful.

Now, Trip felt T’Pol push away from him, away from his embrace, away from the safety of his arms, away from his emotions. She did not look up at him, but turned quickly.

“We should go,” he heard her say, but all the strength was gone from her voice. She may not have been crying outwardly–her face displayed no emotion–but Trip had never heard her soundso…crushed.

As T’Pol walked away, he couldn’t help but wonder if thiswas really the moment when their relationship finally ended.

The torchlight flickered over the chamber walls of the room chosen to commemorate T’Les. Each of the Syrrannites who had fallen at the sanctuary was interred in a different chamber, with each commemorated by a small monument to mark his or her sacrifice.

T’Pol had initially been surprised at the presence of the monuments, since it seemed an extravagant, almost emotional response to death, mandated by T’Pau. But the minister had reminded her that symbols helped to focus memories, and focused memories were more easily controlled and brought to heel with the stern rigors of logic. While she couldn’t argue with the statement, T’Pol still perceived a certain sentimentality attached to the various obelisks, spires, and markers.

As she attempted to meditate, kneeling on the floor opposite Commander Tucker, T’Pol recalled one of the last conversations she had had with her mother, elsewhere in this very sanctuary. They had argued about the Syrrannites, whom T’Pol had opposed. They had quarreled over the aims of Surak’s teachings, the efficacy of the leadership of the High Command, and the overly forceful manner in which T’Pau had tried to retrieve Surak’s katrafrom Captain Archer. “I shouldn’t have come here looking for you, and I don’t want anything more to do with you,” T’Pol had told her. Minutes later, when the High Command attacked, her mother had been mortally wounded.

T’Pol was holding her when she died, shortly after T’Les had admitted that she had joined the Syrrannites’ cause to help her daughter learn to control her emotions. “I have always been so proud of you,” T’Les had said, just moments before drawing her last breath.

Much had changed for T’Pol since then, at least concerning her understanding of Vulcan philosophies. Although she had always steadfastly refused to believe in the existence of the katra,the experiences that Captain Archer shared–with what he felt was the living spirit of Surak dwelling inside him–were difficult to dismiss. Something had led Archer to the Kir’Shara,and had given him the knowledge required to activate it, thereby revealing the true, undiluted teachings of Surak. Whether that was actually Surak’s katrawas something she still debated even now, but even if it was solely some kind of trace memory engram of a man thousands of years gone, it was proof that Surak had lived on past his death, at least in some limited fashion.

And if he had–or if his katrahad–then it was not hard to imagine the katras of others surviving somehow still, beyond the physical bounds of living flesh.

Meditating here, in front of the sepulchers that contained the remains of her mother and of her own daughter, T’Pol felt herself clinging to the hope that neither of them was truly gone. That perhaps their katras didexist, perhaps embedded in the very stone, sand, and soil of this hallowed place.

Of course, she also had to admit to herself that her hope was undeniably born of emotion. Her mother had often admonished her for having so little control over her emotions, and while she didn’t agree with that assessment, in the nearly one‑year period since she had conquered her addiction to trellium–the substance that allowed her to free herself from the grip of logic and emotional constraint–she had known that her ability to control her emotions was now clearly, perhaps irrevocably, damaged.

There were times when she blamed this damage for her continued feelings for Charles Tucker, and yet she knew that even that explanation was disingenuous. Love, while commonly thought of as an emotion, was certainly possible for even the most logical and restrained of Vulcans. Partners loved each other, family members loved each other…it wasn’t the love itself that was the issue, it was the emotions that accompanied it. Joy, sadness, ambivalence, anger, fear, comfort–all of these had come to her, and had sometimes threatened to overwhelm her, during the times she’d shared with Trip.

Even now, as she looked over to him, kneeling on the stone floor, his head bowed in prayer, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks, T’Pol felt herself torn. She wanted to go to him. She wanted to comfort him and seek his comfort in turn, but she also wanted to reject him, to gird herself against weakness and vulnerability.

She knew that their love was undeniable. Just as she knew it was untenable.

Unbidden, she felt a sharp laugh escape her throat from deep within her. It was a laugh born not of mirth, but rather spawned by something very akin to despair. It seemed to echo inside the chamber for an uncomfortable eternity, though she supposed it had probably remained in the air only long enough to cause Trip to open his eyes and look at her.

In that moment, she was lost. T’Pol squeezed her eyes tightly, willing away the tears that welled up in them. She clenched her teeth as her lips trembled. She felt the IDIC symbol that hung from the chain around her neck–the centuries‑old symbol, delivered to her by her ex‑husband, but given to her by her mother. The metal and stone in the symbol were cold in her hand. Cold and dead. As was her mother. And her child.

No. Theirchild was dead.

In the short time she had known Elizabeth, she was astonished at the instinctual bond she’d shared with the tiny creature. The girl had laughed and cooed several times, but mostly she had just stared at T’Pol and Trip with those dark, round eyes, a sense of nearly complete serenity radiating from the core of her being. Even while in the throes of her terminal fever and sickness, if T’Pol and Trip were both present, Elizabeth had barely cried. It was as if she suppressed only the negativeemotions, allowing only the positive ones to come through.

Was that happiness and calm related to the synthesis of her parents’ Vulcan and human DNA, or had it been a function of her individual personality? The answer to that question would never be known.

T’Pol felt herself trembling, could hear a keening sound she knew was coming from within her. The waves of loss rolled through her mind, washing over every emotional barrier she possessed.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and opened her eyes. Through the blur of unshed tears, she saw Trip in front of her, tears streaming down his own face. This was a recently familiar sight; he had cried in her quarters last week, and then again several times during the Coridanite ship’s flight from Earth to Vulcan. But this time, she was crying with him.

Every part of her wanted him to enfold her in his arms, wanted him to protect her from her own feelings. But he was more emotional than she was. She knew that the more she was with him, the more she would lose control of herself, of the carefully constructed mental barriers she had erected, of the intense passions they kept at bay.

She was broken inside, and she knew that both now and in the future, Trip would only keep the fractures open.

Their child was dead.

And she knew that their feelings for each other must, by necessity, by logic,die as well.

And yet, through her tears, she saw her own arms reaching out for him, saw him moving toward her, felt the comfort of his embrace, the strength within him.

For a long time, they held each other and cried, for all the losses of their past, their present, and, perhaps, of their future.

Four

Day Eleven, Month of Tasmeen

Dartha City, Romulus

THE HEAVY TIMBER DOOR suddenly banged open to admit a pair of hulking, ill‑tempered Reman soldiers into the dank gloom of the cell. Valdore i’Kaleh tr’Irrhaimehn felt his stomach rumble in anticipation of yet another of the imperial dungeon’s meager and infrequent meals–until he noticed that the guards were carrying neither food nor drink.

“Thank Erebus,” Valdore said, seated on the edge of the rude stone cot where he had slept for the past several weeks. “Waiting down here for my appointment with the executioner had begun to grow tedious.”

Neither of the spectral white faces confronting Valdore betrayed any sign of amusement. Of course, Remans weren’t known for their keen sense of humor. “Come with us,” the guard on the right growled as his silent counterpart bared his fangs, manhandled Valdore to his feet, and affixed a set of stout manacles upon his wrists. Valdore looked up from his shackled wrists and noticed that both Remans stood a full head taller than he did.

“Let’s not make this take any longer than it has to, my brothers‑in‑arms,” Valdore said. Being executed was by far preferable to slowly rotting away or starving in such a godsforsaken place as this.

As his armed escorts marched him through the convoluted stone drabbikwarren of the cell block, Valdore closed his eyes, walking blindly as he listened to the echoing clatter of the uniformed Remans’ boots, which utterly drowned out his own rag‑wrapped footfalls. Concentrating on the sounds, he tried to imagine exchanging his tattered, ill‑fitting green prison attire for a standard military uniform, but couldn’t quite get his mind around the idea. The realization threatened to overwhelm him with despair. Has confinement so diminished me that I can no longer even visualize what I once was?

Valdore had lost track of the exact number of weeks that had passed since the start of his confinement, no doubt partly because of the windowless cell to which the First Consul had banished him. Being spared a return to those cramped confines was a blessing, no matter the reason; the prospect of his own imminent death gave the disgraced Romulan admiral only a sense of relief.

Next came a growing hollow pang of disappointment as the guards conducted him up from the intricate maze of subsurface catacombs into the vast, cathedral‑like spaces of the Hall of State. Valdore knew by then that his disgrace was not destined to end in so tidy and merciful a fashion as he had allowed himself to hope.

Unless First Consul T’Leikha had lately taken up the practice of dispatching her political prisoners in the midst of the finery of her richly appointed audience chamber.

Valdore said nothing as he was marched roughly toward the silver‑haired, aquiline‑faced woman who was seated in an attentive, almost vigilant pose on the raised dais before which he and the guards had come to a halt. Still bound in wrist shackles and flanked by the armed Remans, Valdore was made to stand perhaps a dozen long paces away from the First Consul.

Somewhat closer to the First Consul, and guarded closely by another pair of raptor‑eyed Reman soldiers, stood a second prisoner. Valdore blinked for several moments before he realized that he recognized him, despite the man’s thinning white hair, averted gaze, and defeated, stoop‑shouldered posture.

Senator Vrax?Valdore thought, not willing to tempt fate by speaking aloud unbidden in the presence of the First Consul. I, too, am only a prisoner now,he reminded himself.