Fic: Figol's Lament
Title: Figol’s Lament
Author: vegawriters
Series: The Secret Knowledge of Water (eventually tied to Imzadi)
Fandom: Star Trek: Picard
Timeframe: Pre-Series
A/N: This directly references theories and events from The Last Best Hope by Una McCormack. Also, as a reminder, I don’t really write in order, but all of my stuff tends to tie together, so I hope you can follow. The title for the piece comes from the Irish poem, Figol’s Prophesy
Disclaimer: Picard belongs to, you know, the powers that be. But, many of the powers that be got their start in fic. Think about that ... But, until then ... I make no money from this.
Summary: Still, she did have to give Earth credit for trying. It was more than Romulus would do.
Earth, 2381
Laris knew the minute that she stepped into the Ambassador’s office that this assignment truly was different and that the situation on Romulus was in fact as dire as she suspected. She was, after all, a Tal Shiar agent, with a head on her shoulders and two eyes in the back of her head.
As ordered, she beamed down, went through the proper diplomatic channels, reported to the Ambassador’s office. As ordered, she followed her to a cafe outside the grounds of the embassy. As ordered, she took a seat and looked into her new commander’s eyes. However, it takes more than a few minutes to wrap her mind around the instructions being given to her.
“You will remain on staff here in name only,” the Ambassador said, her voice low but still catching the not so subtle attention of the Section 31 agents around them. When they did not flinch, Laris realized this was intentional. “You will take your documents, keep your name. Find somewhere to live and try to start over.” The Ambassador paused. “I’m trying to get as many people out as I can. I’ll never lose face with the Federation, but …” she sighed.
Understanding hit Laris’ stomach like a disruptor blast. Secretive order to secretive order, Section 31 was allowing Romulans passage to Earth. Romulus hadn’t asked for help yet, not on that scale, and any Romulan settling on Earth of their own free will was bound to be hunted down by … well … her … and dragged back to die in a prison on the homeworld while the sun expanded and destroyed all life for light years.
This was her way out. Her path to security. And Laris was smart enough to take it. “Understood.”
The Ambassador nodded and a tall man came over to the table. He was thin, lanky, and his ears were just a bit big for his head. Laris knew better than to ask names or even speak beyond what would be necessary. She nodded her thanks to the Ambassador, knowing the woman was risking everything, including war with the Federation, to get agents to safety. She also knew how lucky she truly was. There were only so many staff requests that could be made, and someone back on Romulus had to be helping, but she knew she would never know who. So, she did what was expected. She followed the tall, bald human with large ears out of the cafe and to a waiting transport.
For the ride, she sat silently, staring out at the ocean below them. It is so blue, so vibrant. Did Romulus look like this once? Before the air currents changed and the water heated up? Before what the government claimed was natural climate shifts tainted the rivers and ruined planting seasons. How long had they known? How long had they just allowed Romulans to carry on? How many Romulans still did? So few of her people seemed even worried about the expanding sun and the end of their civilization.
As the shuttle came to a sloping curve on an island so bright with green that she was sure it's a hologram, Laris' stomach flopped. Just a bit. She isn’t welcome on Earth. Not really. And no relocation program like this worth its salt would stick people close together. They would be too easily tracked by a government who, the moment she stepped into the shuttle, wanted her dead.
Later, much later, after the relief mission fell apart and she’d taken the last job ever asked of her by the woman who saved her, looking after someone who truly needed her, she found herself wondering how many of her fellow agents were placed on Earth like she was. How many simply walked off the job as things grew dire? How many stayed loyal, even to the end, as things completely fell apart in the star Empire? How many operatives were still working on Earth? After all, somewhere, the Romulan Government was still operating. Somehow. It had to be. Secrets were, after all, eternal.
Her proof that the supernova was real had less to do with science and more to the fact that her shuttle driver didn’t kill her the minute she accepted the orders to walk away. No one came after her. In that moment, she realized, no one cared. Not about someone like her, after all. In the end, Romulus was still going to be destroyed. She was now at the tender mercies of the Terrans who were making noise to open their arms to Romulan refugees.
Refugees.
Funny, how they shied away from the Bajoran situation. Just too politically dicey. Of course, when a wandering Bajoran wanted to enroll in Starfleet and prove themselves, that was different. But, now with the Federation’s oldest foe on the brink of collapse, well, of course if a Romulan family wanted to settle on their precious Terra, they’d be there for them. Never doubt the benighted Federation’s ability to be magnanimous when they need to be. Picard’s foolhardy mission was proof of that.
Oh, they said the right thing. The Federation always did. Earth always did. It was actually one of the things she truly admired about her people’s most tenacious enemy. They said the right thing, their hearts were always in the right place, they paid lip service to the ideals of transparency and equity. As an agent of the secret police, she knew better. She knew that it wasn’t completely the Federation’s fault. The harsh truth was that the larger an empire became, the harder it was to manage it. Section 31 might not spy on its own people (much) but damn if they didn’t do a good job spying on others. You couldn't have transparency and equity within and not take some liberties outside the reach of your borders.
Still, she did have to give Earth credit for trying. It was more than Romulus would do.
“You’ll be comfortable here,” said the tall man, in perfect Southern Peninsula dialect. Laris snapped to attention, her eyebrow raised. There was no way this man was human. Still, she knew better than to reveal his cover. Instead, she stared at the rolling green hills and the small cottage where she was standing.
“How do I …?” she shook her head, suddenly overwhelmed.
“You will be cared for. Protected. There is a replicator inside. A garden should you want to cultivate your own harvest.”
Again, her stomach flopped. Her apartment on Romulus had been functional. The gardens of her youth long since made toxic by spoiled water. Her cottage had a gate and a vine climbing a trellis near the front door.
“Where am I?” She opted to ask, risking that. She needed to know her place in the world, after all.
“A small town outside of the city of Dublin,” the man said. “Ireland.” And then he smiled, so softly. “It will remind you of the home you dream of.”
And with that, he was gone, before she could ask his name. She knew better than to ask his name. She picked up her bag, walked inside her new home, and before she even explored, stripped off her uniform, and placed it in the matter reclimator in the small bathroom. The replicator obeyed her request and presented a perfectly functional set of loose pants and a green tunic. A look that ran completely opposite to the severe cut of her hair. For the first time in her life, she realized, she could grow it out. She placed her bag in the small closet by the front door, removing only her weapons, which she placed strategically around the home while she explored.
The cottage was one floor, containing a living space that expanded to a kitchen that, in addition to the food replicator, had a wood burning stove and a faucet that ran clean water. Below her now-sandaled feet the tiles were smooth and she already imagined a woven rug under the window that overlooked the garden.
Each room had shelves built into the walls, and there was a panel provided to access news and entertainment and communications. She’d introduce herself to her new computer later. On the low Romulan-style sofa, she found a book of poetry and a note.
“Welcome home.”
Tears touched her eyes as she wandered back to the bedroom and opened the windows, throwing off the chains of Romulan secrecy. Secrecy gave her nothing at all save a dying planet and no path in life. So, she took a breath and looked through the thin curtains at the bright pink flowers that climbed the fence she seemed to share with another cottage. Why hide? They weren’t coming for her. She’d lived this long.
For a moment, just a moment, it felt wrong to stand in the middle of her small bedroom, feeling the breeze through an open window. But that feeling faded quickly. Who was she reporting back to save a government that wanted them all to die?
Still, her spy senses didn’t let her wander beyond her cottage. Not at first. She lived on their replicated version of Romulan cuisine, and waited to decorate her home. Her nights were long and she waited to turn on her communications console. What if they were watching? Waiting? Who would come for her?
Eventually though, two of their weeks in - two weeks in - she had to get out. The solitude was getting to her and no one was coming to kill her in the middle of the night. She needed to see an economy that ran without money, how credits were used, how to survive in this brave, new world. Still, two weeks wasn’t enough for her hair to grow completely out and she wasn’t blind to the second glances across the cafe,to the way mothers subtly placed themselves between her and their children. The woman who prepared her perfectly decadent “Americano” coffee shook with nerves when she took the order.
Laris found a quiet table outside, away from the bustle, and sipped her coffee and nibbled at the too-sweet cookie. Were they scared of her because she was Romulan or because of what she represented? Maybe it was better to be the spook, the first of a wave, the reminder that just in the next quadrant over, billions of people are going to die because a government refused to take action and by the time they needed help, no one really trusted they needed it.
Oh, Earth was a paradise, she came to realize quickly. No wonder they were all saints. A world where the hoarding of money was replaced by the celebration of existence. One did not not have to come from a wealthy family to open a restaurant or even run for office. Oh, it helped. But even her limited knowledge beforehand and what she learned when she finally dared to turn on her console, was just how many of their leaders come not from the storied families of Federation lore but from those who, on Romulus and in Romulan society, would never rise above their station. Farmers and cooks do not become leaders. She learned quickly the history of Earth, and marveled that they used to be like the creatures her people became. What led her to sit up at night, staring into the Irish darkness, was that her people never had the chance to make the necessary changes to save themselves. What made her sad was that no one will ever know the beauty of Romulus, of their mythologies, of who they were as people. No one will know and, even worse, no one cared to know. The scattered remnants of Romulan society were now left to the winds, seeking ways to start over and she wasn’t sure if thousands of years of programming could ever be completely eradicated.
But, more than that, she knew something that no one else did. Which meant everyone knew and they all had to pretend that the secret was their to carry alone.
She knew the supernova was not natural.
Before she’d packed her bags for her last assignment, before the Ambassador had sent her off to this cottage outside Dublin, before Picard had even taken command of the Verity, she had been told. She’d been monitoring the civilian reaction to the crisis. Helping to maintain the disinformation.
Although, some nights, years later, when standing on the balcony of the ancient manor home that on Romulus would only be reserved for those of the highest political leadership, she wonders if she was sent away with the secrets not to track her targets to the end, but instead to carry the mysteries of Romulus.
Some had to live to see what came next, after all.
Author: vegawriters
Series: The Secret Knowledge of Water (eventually tied to Imzadi)
Fandom: Star Trek: Picard
Timeframe: Pre-Series
A/N: This directly references theories and events from The Last Best Hope by Una McCormack. Also, as a reminder, I don’t really write in order, but all of my stuff tends to tie together, so I hope you can follow. The title for the piece comes from the Irish poem, Figol’s Prophesy
Disclaimer: Picard belongs to, you know, the powers that be. But, many of the powers that be got their start in fic. Think about that ... But, until then ... I make no money from this.
Summary: Still, she did have to give Earth credit for trying. It was more than Romulus would do.
Earth, 2381
Laris knew the minute that she stepped into the Ambassador’s office that this assignment truly was different and that the situation on Romulus was in fact as dire as she suspected. She was, after all, a Tal Shiar agent, with a head on her shoulders and two eyes in the back of her head.
As ordered, she beamed down, went through the proper diplomatic channels, reported to the Ambassador’s office. As ordered, she followed her to a cafe outside the grounds of the embassy. As ordered, she took a seat and looked into her new commander’s eyes. However, it takes more than a few minutes to wrap her mind around the instructions being given to her.
“You will remain on staff here in name only,” the Ambassador said, her voice low but still catching the not so subtle attention of the Section 31 agents around them. When they did not flinch, Laris realized this was intentional. “You will take your documents, keep your name. Find somewhere to live and try to start over.” The Ambassador paused. “I’m trying to get as many people out as I can. I’ll never lose face with the Federation, but …” she sighed.
Understanding hit Laris’ stomach like a disruptor blast. Secretive order to secretive order, Section 31 was allowing Romulans passage to Earth. Romulus hadn’t asked for help yet, not on that scale, and any Romulan settling on Earth of their own free will was bound to be hunted down by … well … her … and dragged back to die in a prison on the homeworld while the sun expanded and destroyed all life for light years.
This was her way out. Her path to security. And Laris was smart enough to take it. “Understood.”
The Ambassador nodded and a tall man came over to the table. He was thin, lanky, and his ears were just a bit big for his head. Laris knew better than to ask names or even speak beyond what would be necessary. She nodded her thanks to the Ambassador, knowing the woman was risking everything, including war with the Federation, to get agents to safety. She also knew how lucky she truly was. There were only so many staff requests that could be made, and someone back on Romulus had to be helping, but she knew she would never know who. So, she did what was expected. She followed the tall, bald human with large ears out of the cafe and to a waiting transport.
For the ride, she sat silently, staring out at the ocean below them. It is so blue, so vibrant. Did Romulus look like this once? Before the air currents changed and the water heated up? Before what the government claimed was natural climate shifts tainted the rivers and ruined planting seasons. How long had they known? How long had they just allowed Romulans to carry on? How many Romulans still did? So few of her people seemed even worried about the expanding sun and the end of their civilization.
As the shuttle came to a sloping curve on an island so bright with green that she was sure it's a hologram, Laris' stomach flopped. Just a bit. She isn’t welcome on Earth. Not really. And no relocation program like this worth its salt would stick people close together. They would be too easily tracked by a government who, the moment she stepped into the shuttle, wanted her dead.
Later, much later, after the relief mission fell apart and she’d taken the last job ever asked of her by the woman who saved her, looking after someone who truly needed her, she found herself wondering how many of her fellow agents were placed on Earth like she was. How many simply walked off the job as things grew dire? How many stayed loyal, even to the end, as things completely fell apart in the star Empire? How many operatives were still working on Earth? After all, somewhere, the Romulan Government was still operating. Somehow. It had to be. Secrets were, after all, eternal.
Her proof that the supernova was real had less to do with science and more to the fact that her shuttle driver didn’t kill her the minute she accepted the orders to walk away. No one came after her. In that moment, she realized, no one cared. Not about someone like her, after all. In the end, Romulus was still going to be destroyed. She was now at the tender mercies of the Terrans who were making noise to open their arms to Romulan refugees.
Refugees.
Funny, how they shied away from the Bajoran situation. Just too politically dicey. Of course, when a wandering Bajoran wanted to enroll in Starfleet and prove themselves, that was different. But, now with the Federation’s oldest foe on the brink of collapse, well, of course if a Romulan family wanted to settle on their precious Terra, they’d be there for them. Never doubt the benighted Federation’s ability to be magnanimous when they need to be. Picard’s foolhardy mission was proof of that.
Oh, they said the right thing. The Federation always did. Earth always did. It was actually one of the things she truly admired about her people’s most tenacious enemy. They said the right thing, their hearts were always in the right place, they paid lip service to the ideals of transparency and equity. As an agent of the secret police, she knew better. She knew that it wasn’t completely the Federation’s fault. The harsh truth was that the larger an empire became, the harder it was to manage it. Section 31 might not spy on its own people (much) but damn if they didn’t do a good job spying on others. You couldn't have transparency and equity within and not take some liberties outside the reach of your borders.
Still, she did have to give Earth credit for trying. It was more than Romulus would do.
“You’ll be comfortable here,” said the tall man, in perfect Southern Peninsula dialect. Laris snapped to attention, her eyebrow raised. There was no way this man was human. Still, she knew better than to reveal his cover. Instead, she stared at the rolling green hills and the small cottage where she was standing.
“How do I …?” she shook her head, suddenly overwhelmed.
“You will be cared for. Protected. There is a replicator inside. A garden should you want to cultivate your own harvest.”
Again, her stomach flopped. Her apartment on Romulus had been functional. The gardens of her youth long since made toxic by spoiled water. Her cottage had a gate and a vine climbing a trellis near the front door.
“Where am I?” She opted to ask, risking that. She needed to know her place in the world, after all.
“A small town outside of the city of Dublin,” the man said. “Ireland.” And then he smiled, so softly. “It will remind you of the home you dream of.”
And with that, he was gone, before she could ask his name. She knew better than to ask his name. She picked up her bag, walked inside her new home, and before she even explored, stripped off her uniform, and placed it in the matter reclimator in the small bathroom. The replicator obeyed her request and presented a perfectly functional set of loose pants and a green tunic. A look that ran completely opposite to the severe cut of her hair. For the first time in her life, she realized, she could grow it out. She placed her bag in the small closet by the front door, removing only her weapons, which she placed strategically around the home while she explored.
The cottage was one floor, containing a living space that expanded to a kitchen that, in addition to the food replicator, had a wood burning stove and a faucet that ran clean water. Below her now-sandaled feet the tiles were smooth and she already imagined a woven rug under the window that overlooked the garden.
Each room had shelves built into the walls, and there was a panel provided to access news and entertainment and communications. She’d introduce herself to her new computer later. On the low Romulan-style sofa, she found a book of poetry and a note.
“Welcome home.”
Tears touched her eyes as she wandered back to the bedroom and opened the windows, throwing off the chains of Romulan secrecy. Secrecy gave her nothing at all save a dying planet and no path in life. So, she took a breath and looked through the thin curtains at the bright pink flowers that climbed the fence she seemed to share with another cottage. Why hide? They weren’t coming for her. She’d lived this long.
For a moment, just a moment, it felt wrong to stand in the middle of her small bedroom, feeling the breeze through an open window. But that feeling faded quickly. Who was she reporting back to save a government that wanted them all to die?
Still, her spy senses didn’t let her wander beyond her cottage. Not at first. She lived on their replicated version of Romulan cuisine, and waited to decorate her home. Her nights were long and she waited to turn on her communications console. What if they were watching? Waiting? Who would come for her?
Eventually though, two of their weeks in - two weeks in - she had to get out. The solitude was getting to her and no one was coming to kill her in the middle of the night. She needed to see an economy that ran without money, how credits were used, how to survive in this brave, new world. Still, two weeks wasn’t enough for her hair to grow completely out and she wasn’t blind to the second glances across the cafe,to the way mothers subtly placed themselves between her and their children. The woman who prepared her perfectly decadent “Americano” coffee shook with nerves when she took the order.
Laris found a quiet table outside, away from the bustle, and sipped her coffee and nibbled at the too-sweet cookie. Were they scared of her because she was Romulan or because of what she represented? Maybe it was better to be the spook, the first of a wave, the reminder that just in the next quadrant over, billions of people are going to die because a government refused to take action and by the time they needed help, no one really trusted they needed it.
Oh, Earth was a paradise, she came to realize quickly. No wonder they were all saints. A world where the hoarding of money was replaced by the celebration of existence. One did not not have to come from a wealthy family to open a restaurant or even run for office. Oh, it helped. But even her limited knowledge beforehand and what she learned when she finally dared to turn on her console, was just how many of their leaders come not from the storied families of Federation lore but from those who, on Romulus and in Romulan society, would never rise above their station. Farmers and cooks do not become leaders. She learned quickly the history of Earth, and marveled that they used to be like the creatures her people became. What led her to sit up at night, staring into the Irish darkness, was that her people never had the chance to make the necessary changes to save themselves. What made her sad was that no one will ever know the beauty of Romulus, of their mythologies, of who they were as people. No one will know and, even worse, no one cared to know. The scattered remnants of Romulan society were now left to the winds, seeking ways to start over and she wasn’t sure if thousands of years of programming could ever be completely eradicated.
But, more than that, she knew something that no one else did. Which meant everyone knew and they all had to pretend that the secret was their to carry alone.
She knew the supernova was not natural.
Before she’d packed her bags for her last assignment, before the Ambassador had sent her off to this cottage outside Dublin, before Picard had even taken command of the Verity, she had been told. She’d been monitoring the civilian reaction to the crisis. Helping to maintain the disinformation.
Although, some nights, years later, when standing on the balcony of the ancient manor home that on Romulus would only be reserved for those of the highest political leadership, she wonders if she was sent away with the secrets not to track her targets to the end, but instead to carry the mysteries of Romulus.
Some had to live to see what came next, after all.