STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  It would be interesting to see the Vulcan Science Academy’s reaction to this! We truly are still the same race genetically.

  “Please move on,” the woman said. Now she sounded only bored: Spock was no longer her problem. “Belongings reclaimed in the baggage area. Life to the Empire.”

  “Indeed.”

  Spock returned her salute, his hand pressed against his chest in a scholar’s vague imitation of the Romulan military salute, then stalked in his best Romulan aristocratic fashion from the Customs area to the sign indicating TRANSPORT TO KI BARATAN in faded blue letters. There, he boarded a rough-riding, unpleasantly crowded, but mercifully swift magtrain, heading for the main terminal in the capital city.

  Spock leaned back against the seat he had appropriated, posture and facial expression carefully projecting the casual arrogance of a provincial aristocrat in not-quite-familiar territory. As a provincial citizen, he would most likely be excused the occasional slip of accent or lack of knowledge of current events.

  It was, however, a touch . . . disconcerting to see so many almost-familiar faces and know that they were not Vulcan but Romulan. Saavik would not approve. In fact, she would doubtless say—

  But it was illogical to once again be thinking of her in unsuitable surroundings—illogical and dangerously distracting.

  Totally illogical, too, were the sudden flashes of—could it actually be anger?—he was beginning to feel whenever he was jostled by the crowd.

  There is, he told himself sternly as the magtrain came to an abrupt halt, such a thing as acting a role too well.

  “Ki Baratan,” a harsh mechanical voice warned. “Obey all laws. Glory to the Empire. All off.”

  The Ki Baratan terminal was constructed of reddish stone. Daylight filtered in from a series of windows set high in the walls. Over each window roosted an image of the bird-of-prey, while one vast portrait of Praetor Dralath glowered down at new arrivals as though challenging them to stay. Here, as in the Customs Building, grim-faced, bored guards prowled, disruptor rifles on their shoulders.

  Spock stalked on to the staging area where he was to be picked up—assuming that all continued according to plan. He would not wait. If no one was there for him, it meant either that Charvanek had not received his last message—or that she had run afoul of Dralath.

  Either way, Spock told himself, he would not yield to the illogic of worry. If he was not met, he had merely to retrace his steps, a scholar whose appointment in Ki Baratan had been unexpectedly canceled, and take the first ship off Romulus.

  In other words, as the humans said, what would be, would be.

  With that less-than-inspiring thought, Spock stepped from the terminal and out onto Romulan soil.

  FOUR

  U.S.S. ARMSTRONG, STARDATE 21012.1

  Commander Saavik, first officer of the U.S.S. Armstrong, sat straight-backed and correct in the command chair, apparently in perfect harmony with herself and the universe around her.

  And all the while, she was quite well aware of the rest of the bridge crew—two humans, a young Andorian, and two feathered I’xati—subtly watching her. Such dependable Vulcan self-control was what they expected—no, what they wanted—from her.

  Anything, she thought with the faintest touch of wry humor, that keeps them at the same time suitably alert and calm is excellent. Her keen hearing had already overheard a few whispered complaints about “boring missions” and “routine patrols.” As I am forever telling the so earnest, so green, and so illogically glory-hungry ensigns to whom I am trying to teach ethics, no patrol is ever routine.

  The door onto the bridge slid open as her watch ended, precisely on time: Captain Howes was courteous of Vulcan sensibilities.

  “Captain on the bridge.” Rising from the command chair, Saavik pivoted to greet Captain Howes and added formally, “The bridge is yours, sir.” There was more than a little relief in her voice. She had been offered a captaincy more than once, but like Spock before her, was more interested in science than command.

  “I relieve you, ma’am.”

  He raised an eyebrow along with that statement, as he always did at her insistence on such formality after so many years. But he knew as well as she, Saavik thought, that aboard a starship, a closed community in a hostile environment, attention to proper order meant survival.

  Seated, Captain Howes studied the pad that Yeoman Ethari, the Andorian, handed him, and asked Saavik without looking up, “Everything shipshape, Commander?”

  “Aye, sir. Now.” She added tranquilly, “I have already canceled the order for sonic toothbrushes.”

  Howes glanced sharply up at that, a split second’s blankness on his face. Saavik could almost see him quickly processing data: Toothbrushes? Archaic means of deck cleaning as punishment! A Vulcan making a joke?

  The captain grinned. “Ah, you’ve been reading Patrick O’Brian novels again, haven’t you, Commander?”

  Yes, in fact, she had been reading those ancient sea novels. But not by the faintest expression did Saavik give away her inner amusement. “The classics, sir. And the decks truly are clean. Now.”

  She swept a subtle glance around the bridge, knowing that Armstrong’s crew usually enjoyed watching their captain’s not-quite-banter with their first officer.

  Howes’ grin widened. “Well, as long as you’re happy . . .”

  Saavik obligingly retorted, “Happiness, sir, is an emotion and, as such, not relevant to my state of mind. Good day, Captain.”

  As the turbolift doors whispered shut behind her, she could hear chuckles on the bridge. Satisfactory. Humor in many species lessened tension, not to mention boredom.

  The turbolift jolted on the way out from the bridge. Eyebrow raised, Saavik notified Engineering—which, to her bemusement, seemed to have already heard about the toothbrushes.

  Her class was waiting: three humans, one stocky Tellarite, and two more of the I’xati, twins from one hatching.

  Today . . . she realized with an inner frown that she would have preferred to cancel the class. Today, illogical though it might be, she suddenly had no patience for mistakes.

  Nonsense.

  “Have you considered the problem posed at our last session?” Saavik asked the class without preamble. “Yes? Then let me hear your solutions.”

  The problem had been based on the quite real, and tragic, Tomed Incident of 2311, in which an encounter between the Federation and the Romulan Empire had accelerated through misunderstanding and hot tempers on both sides into the death of thousands and the latest withdrawal of the Romulans behind their Neutral Zone. (An unexpected flash of memory: A child running from her in terror at the sight of her “Romulan” features; her own loathing at being forced to become the hunter, as once, when she’d been that poor child’s age, she had been hunted. . . .)

  It is counterproductive to dwell on what I saw.

  Ensign Pierce, a fair-haired young man from Weapons Systems, so newly out from Starfleet Academy that his voice had barely stopped cracking, glanced around at the others, then said hesitantly, “I would end hostilities by a quick preemptive strike.”

  Saavik raised a brow. “You would fire against those who had not attacked you?”

  “Uh, well, if it was for the greater good.”

  “And you would know this in advance? Congratulations, Ensign. Your precognitive skills astound me.”

  “But . . . uh . . . I mean, suppose you do know that they’re going to attack you? And maybe kill hundreds of innocent people? Shouldn’t you then, well . . .” His voice faltered under Saavik’s steady, emotionless stare. “Why not simply use something so powerful they can’t strike back?” he asked desperately. “Maybe, I don’t know, protomatter?”

  As a weapon? An unwanted flash of memory from decades ago: the Genesis Planet. And a sudden blaze of purely Romulan fury roused in her, shouting at her to crush this young idiot with a few scathing words.

  But Saavik forced down the illogical fury and merely . . . waited. Ah yes, they
weren’t all fools. The I’xati both had raised their feathery crests in shock, and Ensign Musashi, an intense young human woman from Life Sciences, actually hissed at Pierce, “Protomatter’s unstable!”

  “Ensign Musashi is quite correct,” Saavik said, carefully without the slightest trace of emotion. “Protomatter degrades. This is no doubt useful if you hurl sufficient quantities into a star because you wish to produce a supernova.”

  Ensign Pierce by now was an intriguing shade of red, but he couldn’t quite puzzle out the way to withdraw with grace. “But . . . I mean . . . that would end the war—”

  “By destroying an entire race and its culture. Indeed it would. And possibly, assuming other worlds within the new supernova’s reach, you would also destroy at least one entire planetary system.” Her voice wanted very much to shake with anger; she held it steady. “Quite efficient. But I must observe that I consider that to be a disquieting ambition for a weapons officer.”

  She paused to allow Ensign Pierce time to wish he had never been born. But he looked back at her bravely, horror in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Commander. I, uh, guess I wasn’t thinking.”

  “But now you have begun to think,” Saavik conceded. “We have made at least a tiny advance today.”

  She listened to the other solutions: Musashi and the two I’xati were enthusiastic about sitting down and discussing matters—commendable, but not exactly practical in the Tomed affair—while Gurcha, the Tellarite, insisted that the leaders on both sides should be forced to meet head-to-head. Or hoof-to-hoof.

  At least, Saavik reminded herself sternly, they were beginning to reason. And if they were wildly illogical, they were still very young.

  That didn’t precisely relieve the urge to pick them up by their collective napes and shake some sense into them.

  Sorry, Spock. You and I know I will never, ever, quite have the self-control of one born and raised on Vulcan!

  He had still agreed to their betrothal. Giving the ensigns their assignments in reading and viewing historical data—and adding a remedial study of Earth history, twentieth century—she dismissed them.

  “Grow some brains!” she overheard Musashi whisper to Pierce as they hurried off. “Kill off a whole world—right, and say that to a Vulcan! Are you crazy?”

  Just young.

  Heading off to the ship’s gym, Saavik raced through a tougher workout than usual, letting off in exercise the frustration she would never have shown to the youngsters—or, indeed, to anyone else.

  Except, maybe to Spock. He has seen me at my most . . . ah . . . Romulan.

  Ah, Spock. Why do I keep thinking of you? One thing I am not is a romantic human!

  Chief Medical Officer Rhys, dark and stocky like many from New Caledonia, paused in his rather desultory weights routine to watch Saavik’s workout.

  “All this energy couldn’t possibly be a case of stress reduction, could it, Commander?” Rhys asked slyly.

  “Vulcans do not have stress to reduce,” she replied as serenely as breathlessness would allow. No falsehood, considering that I am not wholly Vulcan.

  She allowed her glance to linger at his midsection, which showed a good ten kilos of superfluous weight, and Rhys laughed ruefully. “Or anything else,” he admitted. “Unless, of course, your observation is a case of the old Earth maxim: ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ ”

  Laughter reduced stress among humans. Therefore, Saavik thought, by the time that she left the gym, the humans there probably had acceptably low stress levels.

  She, however, was still most bewilderingly . . . restless.

  FIVE

  KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 3, FIRST WEEK OF TASMEEN, 2344

  Spock paused just outside the terminal’s main doorway in Ki Baratan, trying to get his bearings. The crowds of arriving passengers parted about him, glaring at the aristocrat who had stopped so abruptly yet not quite daring to touch or snarl at him. He was aware of them, but only dimly in this moment’s sudden revelation: Not only was this the first time that he had ever stood on the streets of a Romulan city, it was almost certainly the first time that anyone from the Federation had done so. At least, he thought, anyone who was not a prisoner facing execution.

  But he could hardly stand here in the middle of all these irate pedestrians. Spock moved to one side with the casual arrogance of someone entitled to expect his driver to appear immediately. Clearly no one in the busy crowds was seeing him as anything but a Romulan noble, not even those stern, rifle-wielding guards who stalked past the entrances and exits, patrolling.

  So. You have a moment before they become suspicious. Observe.

  The air was cooler than that of Vulcan, though not unpleasantly so, the atmosphere more moist and a little thicker (approximately 0.065 percent so, his mind automatically analyzed) than the Vulcan norm, the difference in gravity so slight as to be almost undetectable. That the air here, just outside the terminal, was still tainted with oil, fuel, and other spaceport odors was unpleasant but to be expected.

  The streets were, of course, paved, the buildings, again as was to be expected from those near a spaceport terminal, strictly utilitarian, plain walls, reddish stone or some dark composite material: warehouses, no doubt. Each building carried, predictably, the by-now-overly familiar bird-of-prey emblem, faded by exposure to the elements.

  The people hereabouts were strictly utilitarian, too, men and women in drab brown or gray, those who clearly earned their living loading and unloading cargo, dealing with imports or exports. The only traces of color came from the food stands set up here and there, adding whiffs of slightly stale grease and not-quite-fresh meat to the odors. Spock flinched inwardly at this blatant reminder that Vulcan’s sundered cousins were eaters of meat.

  And over everything loomed yet another portrait of an almost smiling, paternal Praetor Dralath, shielded by the outspread wings of a gigantic bird-of-prey. Green-lettered signs proclaimed GLORY TO THE ROMULAN STAR EMPIRE or LONG LIFE AND PROSPERITY TO THE ROMULAN PEOPLE.

  Could that be a corruption of “Live long and prosper”? I wonder . . . yes, and that cornice design could almost be one from Vulcan’s past—

  Just then, to Spock’s quickly controlled alarm, a familiar figure nearly collided with him: Avrak, Pardek’s sister-son and heir, dark hair slicked severely back from his sharp, handsome face, his silver and red uniform precisely fitted, ornamented sash at just the right angle. He was clearly en route back to Romulus, presumably from one of his colony world estates. Closely following him was his entourage of aides and guards and servants in clothing of dull grays and browns, all of them with the same grim, harried expression. No wonder. Despite his handsome arrogance, Avrak looked as irritable and worried as a noble whose head of house was in trouble dared without showing weakness.

  Spock hastily lowered his head, moving aside, minor nobility acknowledging House Major, and Avrak passed without more than an absent wave of a hand.

  If Avrak is still at liberty, then clearly whatever affected Pardek was of a personal nature.

  It could not, logically, be a matter concerning reunification. That would have created more of a stir, and any praetor worthy of the title would have seized on that as an example of treasonous activity worth a sea of propaganda.

  Someone was calling his assumed name. Fighting an illogical surge of relief, Spock turned to see a dark, wiry young man in a somber silver and blue uniform half-standing in a sleek black groundcar, searching the crowd.

  Ah, then Charvanek did receive my latest message.

  And that not-quite-military uniform could only be Charvanek’s livery for civilian retainers. Spock moved without unseemly haste to the groundcar, dipping a polite head to the youngster, who was barely more than a boy, and who returned the gesture with off-hand courtesy. “First Academician Symakhos?”

  “Indeed.”

  The youngster’s quick, sharp glance had just committed him to memory. Too professional a glance for a mere driver. And why has he given me no name? Obvi
ously, Charvanek means for him to observe me.

  It was hardly surprising, given the distrust and uneasiness he had already noted. Logical, in fact.

  Spock climbed into the groundcar. Seen at such close range, it was still imposing, but plainly well-used, scratched and dented under the slick black enamel, albeit in superb repair. “Belt yourself in,” the young Romulan told him curtly. “I may need to make some abrupt stops before we’re clear of traffic.”

  Their groundcar slowly made its way up from the terminal through streets increasingly crowded with gleaming private groundcars, blocky, ugly commercial carriers, and dead black military vehicles with birds-of-prey engraved on their sides. Pedestrians crossed where and when they could, dodging the vehicles, swearing at the drivers or at each other, occasionally even flashing knives. Spock told himself, Accept. These people were as they were, and it was illogical to flinch.

  As his own driver skillfully wove their way along, slowly extricating them from the congestion and noise, Spock allowed himself a stranger’s prerogative of glancing about. Ki Baratan was clean and elegant in its own grim way, very sleekly modern, with wide streets and smooth-walled buildings of glass and metal or sweeps of reddish stone—igneous?—that was presumably common enough to be economical. A good many of the walls bore the gaudy LONG LIFE AND PROSPERITY propaganda slogans. And here and there, Spock spotted security cameras and viewscreens.

  Interesting. The praetor would seem not to be exactly trustful of his people.

  The groundcar lurched as the young Romulan swerved about a crowd of pedestrians. Muttered curses followed in the car’s wake, and Spock raised a brow: Profanity often did have its roots in antiquity, and those oaths had sounded intriguingly close to ancient Vulcan phrases.

  Phrases, he thought with the barest hint of irony, that no Vulcan today would ever repeat.