STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  She clearly wasn’t going to specify details. But Saavik had never known Uhura to fail to follow through on a mission before.

  “And my identity, and reason for being on the Romulan homeworld?”

  “We’ve arranged cover for you,” Uhura said. “Here’s your briefing.”

  Lights flickered on Saavik’s computer. It hummed briefly, and she raised an eyebrow: Any data taking so long to transmit must represent a satisfactorily thorough briefing.

  “Intelligence has learned,” Uhura told her, “that Praetor Dralath has a condition known as T’Shevat’s syndrome. It involves green blood cell deterioration, increasingly debilitating pain, and a considerably shortened life span.”

  “Interesting . . .” Saavik said thoughtfully.

  “Quite. There’s a VSA paper on the subject: Healers on Vulcan are using RNA splicing and ribosome transfusions to force the syndrome into remission.”

  Saavik raised an eyebrow. Once again, Uhura’s range of interests impressed her. “Am I to assume that the Romulans do not have these techniques?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And that the Praetor has granted special privileges to those who might have his cure?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then I am to pass as a medic and purvey these techniques on the homeworld until I can find Spock and . . .” bring him home, bring him home safely! “And ascertain his mission, then help him to withdraw. Is that correct?”

  “That, and keep your eyes and ears open. There’s something big brewing on the homeworld, I’m not sure what. And I can’t think of a better woman to find out, can you?” Uhura all but purred.

  Gratitude might be an emotion, but Saavik felt it heat the back of her eyes, her cheeks. “Indeed, Captain. I quite agree.” Something in her voice made Saavik add, “I assume you wish plausible deniability?”

  Uhura grinned at her. It took a good thirty years off her age. “You got it. We know nothing about your mission, we don’t know where you’re going, we don’t even know that there is a mission.”

  “Understood.”

  “But I don’t like sending you in there cold. I think I may be able to scrounge you some backup.”

  “I do not wish you to risk . . .”

  “Hey, risk is my business.” Uhura smiled. “It’s like old times, working with you, Saavik. In the thirty-three years since Tomed, information about the Empire’s been at a premium. Keep your eyes open, and we’ll be glad of anything you can bring us—but if you are apprehended, we’ll never have heard of you. And if you run afoul of other Federation offices, or Vulcan officials, for that matter—we never even had this conversation.

  “In short: Foul up, and you are either dishonored or dead. Still want the assignment?”

  “I presume that is a rhetorical question.”

  “My God, Saavik, do you know how much you sound like him?” Uhura leaned forward in her office chair half the quadrant away. “Bring him home, Saavik. Please.”

  I will not stand watch, Spock, while you sacrifice yourself again. I will not be left holding a burial robe as the one thing I have left of you.

  “If it is even remotely possible.” Saavik paused, because in another moment, her voice would have most unforgivably shaken. “And I do promise this,” she added in the Romulan language. “Neither Spock nor I will be the cause of another war between the Romulan Empire and the Federation.”

  Uhura blinked. “Lord. You sound so Romulan it’s almost alarming.”

  “I merely meant to show the adequacy of my cover.”

  “Adequacy!” Uhura snorted in a manner unsuitable for a senior Starfleet officer. “I’m going to sign off now. I don’t have to tell you to erase all traces of this communication.”

  She paused, looking intensely into the screen as if attempting to fathom Saavik’s thoughts. “All my hopes, Saavik. I still intend to dance at your wedding.”

  Uhura ended transmission before Saavik had a chance to salute.

  Saavik swung around—and caught sight of herself in her cabin’s small mirror. She had flushed olive, and her eyes flashed: She really did look as fiercely Romulan as she had sounded.

  Embarrassment was illogical.

  So, for that matter, were other emotions. Saavik sat motionless, willing herself to take slow, regular breaths . . . think of nothing but breathing . . . slow . . . calming breaths . . . calming . . . calm . . .

  Saavik saved her data, then delicately deleted the records of her conversation with Uhura from the Armstrong’s main system. Ship’s time indicated that Captain Howes would have come off-watch and would logically be found in his quarters. Very well.

  “Commander Saavik to Captain Howes.”

  The captain responded almost instantly. “What’s wrong, Commander?” Surprise flickered across his face at the sight of her, so fierce and disheveled, and with the surprise was a hint of quickly suppressed appreciation. “Commander . . . Saavik, are you well?”

  “My level of health is satisfactory.” That meant, she thought, precisely nothing. “But I wish to request immediate and extended personal leave.” She looked down, as though suddenly unable to bear his gaze. “If you consent, I can leave the ship at Starbase 6, one light-day hence at warp factor three.”

  Glancing slyly up, Saavik saw the captain’s eyebrows rise and his fair skin redden. He had, after all, attended her betrothal; he must certainly be wondering if . . . “You . . . ah . . . do not wish to request that we divert to Vulcan?”

  “No, sir. Unnecessary. Is personal leave granted, sir?”

  “Certainly, Commander! God knows, you’ve got leave coming.” She watched him suppress his questions with almost Vulcan control. On him, the effort looked painful. “I’ll get someone to take over your watch.”

  “Unnecessary, sir,” Saavik repeated more gently. She allowed herself to lower her gaze again, as if in relief.

  “Saavik, you’ve been pushing yourself, even for a Vulcan. Consider that an order.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Saavik said. “And thank you.”

  She cut the connection. It might be considered shameful to mislead her captain like that.

  But shame was a human emotion.

  SEVEN

  UTOPIA PLANITIA FLEET YARDS, MARS, STARDATE 21018.6

  “It’s shot-rolling time,” Jean-Luc Picard muttered to himself. During the Napoleonic wars, a disgruntled ship’s crew would roll cannonballs belowdecks to indicate dissatisfaction. At least, in the British navy: he was certain no one on board his ancestor’s ship ever would have done a thing like that.

  Stargazer should have been overhauled and returned to its mission as a deep-space explorer three weeks ago. Granted, his crew was comfortable, if bored, taking turns on too-short shore leaves planetside on Mars since no one was sure how long they’d be here. By this point, though, Picard and his chief engineering officer were both ready to mutiny.

  What was the point of being the youngest captain in Starfleet, with a neat, nimble ship, if he couldn’t get her out of spacedock?

  “I’ll snake-charm them,” promised Phigus Simenon, his engineering officer. He was a Gnalish, therefore of reptilian ancestry, and he would probably try.

  Leaving the engineer to fight the good fight, which, from what he heard behind him, was rapidly escalating into a holy war, Picard stormed off down the corridors. Had his ancestor who had nailed his colors to the mast at Trafalgar felt so frustrated and defeated? Even if Picard lacked the resources available in a Napoleonic dockyard—bullying, bribery, and the lash, ah, the Good Old Days—he had no intentions of losing the battle with Refit.

  “Jean-Luc!” a familiar voice called from a side corridor where full-spectrum lights and artificial winds stirred a carefully balanced small garden. “Come on over here. There’s someone I want you to meet!”

  Captain Walker Keel might be an old friend, but he was also senior to Picard. His “come on over here” could have been interpreted as a direct order—if the sight of the tall young woman who stood
beside Walker wasn’t enough to draw him. Entranced, Picard stood for an instant enjoying the sight of full-spectrum light turning the woman’s long red hair to blazing copper. But it was more than mere beauty: the woman with Walker, that lucky, lucky man who would no doubt introduce him, possessed such a delectable poise and graciousness—

  He could hardly stand here staring at her from across the corridor. “Walker!” There, that sounded almost convincingly hearty. “Good to see you.” As the two men shook hand vigorously, Picard added, “What’s Horatio doing in port?”

  “Refit.” It came out as a snarl, and Picard hastily stifled a laugh.

  “At least I’m not the only one. Stargazer’s in refit too. They say they’ve got other ships ahead of it in the queue, Horatio being one of them, I daresay. Rank hath its privileges.”

  “Ah, well, I want to talk with you about that, Jean-Luc,” Keel said. “In my office. I—”

  Smiling at Picard—a charming sight, he thought—the woman coughed once, meaningfully.

  “I did promise you an introduction, didn’t I?” Keel asked ruefully. “Then I start fuming about my ship again. . . .”

  “Come between a captain and his ship?” The woman laughed. “I know better than to even try.”

  “Still, I swear, my manners went out an airlock somewhere. Beverly, permit me to present my dear, not-so-old friend, Jean-Luc Picard of the Stargazer. Jean-Luc, this is Beverly Howard, who is in medical school on Earth.”

  Picard bowed stiffly from the waist in full, old-fashioned courtesy. “Jack Crusher’s fianceé? Enchanté, Mademoiselle.”

  She laughed delightedly. Despite her engagement to his best friend, Picard instantly tried to think of a way to make her laugh again. Her mouth was generous, and the artificial sunlight turned her eyes to a rich, tawny gold.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Captain,” she said. “I have heard much about you.”

  “And I’ve heard a lot about you from Jack.”

  Jack was a lucky man. Beverly had beauty, brains, charm, and poise.

  “I’m planning to be a Starfleet physician,” she added. “Perhaps we’ll all be assigned to the same ship.”

  “Starfleet doesn’t hand out that sort of luck,” Walker cut in. “Beverly, I hate to sound rude, but I really need to talk with Jean-Luc.”

  She smiled at Picard, happily certain of his regard. “Captain—”

  “Jean-Luc, please.”

  “Jean-Luc, then. I . . . don’t suppose Jack is off duty?”

  Picard wryly returned the smile. “Feel free to tell him to meet you. In fact, tell him this is captain’s orders.”

  Picard’s communicator suddenly beeped.

  “Captain!” Phigus Simenon’s voice held an unusual note of excitement. “They’ve moved us to the head of the queue!”

  Picard frowned inwardly. Luck that good didn’t just happen, save at a high price.

  “Jean-Luc?” Walker gestured. “This way. I may not be able to pry my ship out of spacedock, but they gave me a suite of offices fit for an admiral.”

  Keel hadn’t exaggerated about that suite. Settling Picard in the surprisingly luxurious hospitality area, its chairs upholstered in Starfleet blue, Keel poured tea for them both, Earl Grey served in fine Admiralty china.

  He’s waiting for the stress to build up. One of us will have to ask the first question. And, Picard decided, it is not going to be me.

  “Right about now,” said Walker Keel, “I imagine you’re getting ready to count your blessings.”

  “Blessings wearing the name Walker Keel?”

  “Exactly. I ordered the shipwrights to give you priority.” Keel grinned at him.

  “I know you, Walk. You hate delays in port as much as I do. Maybe more. You wouldn’t stand down in my favor unless you needed something. So, with all due respect, what is it?”

  “Jean-Luc, I need your help,” Keel began, forthrightly enough. “Starfleet needs it. I could have shouted for joy when I saw you come in. We need a small ship, a fast runner, captained by a discreet officer, and you’re the best I know.”

  I’m also your friend, Jean-Luc thought. “Trading on my sense of obligation?” he asked wryly.

  “I’m counting on your sense of duty,” Keel retorted. “When you see this, you’ll know why.” Turning on his computer terminal, he said over his shoulder, “The admiral got a call from a . . . certain lady in Starfleet. In a certain branch of Starfleet that doesn’t need to be named.”

  “Ah. No doubt, the . . . certain lady’s wish is our command. Or, rather, my command. Which is . . . ?”

  “We need someone to back up a Starfleet officer who’s gone undercover.”

  “On the surface, I’ve had worse assignments.”

  Walker grimaced. “Don’t fool yourself, Jean-Luc. If this operative’s caught, it could compromise topflight Starfleet officers and officials from here to Vulcan. And, quite probably, start a war with the Romulans.”

  “The Romulans!” Picard echoed in surprise. “You can practically hear them seething from across the Neutral Zone, but—”

  “Just because the Romulans happen to be quiet just now doesn’t mean that they’re not out for someone’s blood. Ours or the Klingons. Or possibly both . . . two birds-of-prey, as it were, with one disruptor. We’ve got a couple colonies exposed . . . Four Corners and Melville, over here on the border near the Klingon Empire . . .

  “But never mind that.” Keel tapped his screen. “Look at this.” An image materialized: a tall figure striding through a crowded spaceport, a traveling cloak flowing about it. “Magnify,” Keel said.

  The image enlarged. The figure moved with an efficient grace that teased at Picard’s memory. Then it turned and the hood of the cloak fell back. Picard started. He recognized that face. He simply didn’t believe he was seeing it again.

  “Three days ago,” he heard Keel continue, “Commander Saavik of Vulcan, apparently under instruction from our lady friend, took possession of a Barolian freighter bound for the Empire’s homeworlds.” Keel stopped short, eyeing Picard. “You know her?”

  Picard was studying the cool Vulcan features. A certain smoldering quality around the eyes turned the routine Starfleet ID into a challenge. Glancing up at Keel, he said, “I was at her betrothal to Ambassador Spock about fifteen years back.”

  “Memorable, I take it?”

  Picard smiled faintly. “The sort of thing you remember when you’re a young officer. Particularly since, in my case, it entailed making my bows to both Spock of Vulcan and his father.”

  “Ah yes, Sarek,” Keel said thoughtfully. “Apparently, it was Sarek who made this match for his son. With, one assumes, the full agreement of both parties, since they were hardly children at the time.”

  “Has anyone said anything to Ambassador Spock about this?”

  “Unfortunately, the ambassador has dropped out of sight. He does that from time to time. He’d make a fine spy,” Keel added with a wry twist of a smile.

  “And Commander Saavik’s captain?”

  “Captain Howes? Describes her as an ‘outstanding officer,’ but he’s not in on this. All Howes knows is that Commander Saavik took leave for, shall we say, personal Vulcan reasons. Needless to say, he wasn’t about to question her.”

  “And Commander Saavik?” Picard asked. “What’s her cover?”

  “The lady I mentioned didn’t share that data.”

  “What is it you want of me, Walk?”

  “Simply put, I want you to provide backup. Help her if she needs it, get her out of there if and when it becomes necessary. And keep your head down and your nose clean.”

  “Understood.”

  It was going to be hard on Jack, parted unexpectedly from his Beverly. At least, unlike Spock, he wouldn’t return from leave or whatever to be confronted by the news that his betrothed was missing—or dead.

  Picard beamed back up to the Stargazer without delay, and strode onto the reconfigured bridge to find that the ship’s refitting had been
completed in record time.

  “Surprise, surprise,” he murmured wryly.

  He was very well aware of what Walker had not said: Succeed, and he would be officially ignored. Fail, and he’d be damned lucky if he and his crew were the only ones to die.

  But then, you didn’t join Starfleet for a pleasure cruise.

  Taking his seat, Picard broadcast, “This is the captain. All leaves are hereby canceled. All personnel are to return to ship immediately. I repeat, all personnel are to return immediately.”

  He hadn’t long to wait. In just under a shipboard hour, his yeoman announced, “All crew present and accounted for, sir.”

  So be it. Here we go.

  “Set in a course for the Romulan Neutral Zone,” Picard ordered. Over the involuntary gasps of the bridge crew, he added firmly, “Make it so.”

  EIGHT

  KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 3, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, YEAR 2344

  Praetor Dralath glanced up from where he sat at his work desk, looking about his private study there in the Central Court. The room was large and pleasantly opulent, smooth stone walls of green-veined ruatinite gleaming, a perfect background for the war insignia and honors—some of them, he thought wryly, even earned—and the ritual weapons, none of which, for security’s sake, actually were charged or bore a usable edge any longer; everyone remembered how Praetor Aratenik, not too many years back, had been dispatched by an ambitious underling who’d snatched a weapon from that fool of a praetor’s collection.

  Ambitious, yes . . .

  Dralath had no intention of following in Aratenik’s path.

  The room was also brightly, almost blindingly, lit. Succession to the praetor’s rank often did occur with the aid of a convenient assassination, and Dralath was not about to risk letting anyone hide in shadow. In addition, cleverly placed mirrors let him scan the entire room without seeming to look up from his work.

  His life’s work. Such as his life had become.

  I am beset by traitors, within and without!