STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  Charvanek stared at him in utter astonishment. “Are you insane?” she exploded at last.

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Do you realize—Spock, if you are taken, I cannot protect you.”

  “Then, obviously, I must not be taken. Charvanek, we must know anything that Dralath says.”

  “And which ‘we’ is that?” she demanded. “Be logical, curse it! Your objectivity is compromised—how could it not be compromised under the circumstances? Spock, I would not have expected this of you!”

  On Vulcan, that would have been grave insult, but a reluctant little smile flickered across Charvanek’s face as she finished. Romulans valued loyalty, Spock recalled—and Romulans certainly appreciated a dangerous gamble.

  He waited.

  And with a sharp sigh, it was Charvanek who yielded. “It may prove well for me after all. I have only rarely been able to place spies in Dralath’s house—unfortunately short-lived spies. Perhaps Evaste—Saavik, rather—will prove more effective. Didn’t you train her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then! All you Starfleet officers are half spy.”

  “Charvanek—”

  “I know. The past is the past. In this case, however,” she added, almost gently, “Starfleet connections or not: Fortune attend you.”

  Not just fortune, but a wholly illogical jealousy and fear attended Spock as he slipped through the shadows toward the praetor’s compound, the night darkening around him. Nor was it logical that he blamed himself for his mate’s decision, yet so he did. He had permitted his mate to expose herself to danger.

  “Permitted”? Spock questioned himself. She is not my property! Or . . . my mate . . . yet.

  Faint lights showed a guard station up ahead. Spock crept forward till he was close enough to see and hear the two Romulans inside, then went utterly still. He might be long retired from Starfleet, but he could still kill, logically and efficiently.

  Kill? You are Vulcan, not Romulan. Do not let their emotions affect you.

  But if his mate—if Saavik were in danger—

  You will do what is logically necessary. No more than that.

  A guard chuckled. “I’ll wager a five he breaks down her defenses, or anything else tonight.” He held out his hand so that green light could shine upon the crystals he rattled enticingly: high stakes at a guard’s pay.

  A second guard snickered. “What makes you think he hasn’t already?”

  “Maybe he’ll keep this one. Especially if she has the drugs she says.”

  “Not likely he’ll share with the likes of us.”

  “The drugs or the woman?”

  Both guards laughed. Spock, hands clenched, reminded himself that he was a man of peace, and crept closer.

  “Don’t be so gloomy. We’ve come in for our share before. But this one—if he discards her, she’s the type who would choose the Final Honor. They raise them strict on the frontier.”

  “Side bet on that? How about two? It doesn’t seem quite honorable to raise the stakes any higher.”

  “Done.”

  Crystals spilled from the guards’ hands onto a table.

  “Did you hear anything?” one asked his comrade, then toppled as Spock’s hand squeezed the nerve plexus between neck and shoulder. His companion leapt forward, reaching for his sidearm, then fell as Spock applied the nerve pinch to him, too, with perhaps more force than was absolutely necessary.

  Would the guards report this assault? The odds were logically low, perhaps 78,836 . . . no, that was not right, 93,465.66666 . . . no matter, no matter.

  With a great effort, Spock forced his mind back onto the proper path of Vulcan logic. No, the guards would not report this. Admitting that they had been incapacitated by an unknown foe or foes who had then gained access to the praetor’s compound would be as good as cutting their own throats.

  Slipping past the unconscious Romulans, Spock warily hunted for electronic sensors . . . yes, and yes again. A quick study showed that they operated on relatively uncomplex mathematical codes. Easy to bypass. The softest of hums, barely audible even to Vulcan hearing, warned him of yet another trap—yes. Light beams, possibly from an old-fashioned but still potentially deadly laser. A handful of dust lightly tossed at them made the invisible beams temporarily visible, long enough for Spock to safely duck under and step over them, and enter the gardens surrounding the praetor’s mansion.

  Spock paused, listening, looking . . .

  No. He was alone in the middle of lush greenery that rustled in the soft breeze. Ahead, Spock saw fountains plashing in the moonlight. A stream, its banks too regular to be natural, ran swiftly down from the fountains beneath the night sky, the water where it passed through shadow turned as dark as his mate’s hair. . . .

  That is illogical.

  All this greenery. He could not help but find it . . . extravagant, a waste of precious water—then, bemused to realize just how much of a desert dweller he still was at heart, reminded himself that this more temperate world was hardly Vulcan.

  And what of the Romulans? Is the desert still in their hearts after so many years? Or has so much water made them all as drunk on their appetites as the praetor?

  Lights glowed on the terrace he sought, marked by an arcade of slender uprights carved from translucent white stone. Spock took cover behind a tall block of lava, whorled and hollowed by time and some craftsman’s skill into something as aesthetically pleasing as it just now was tactically useful.

  No sign of danger. He risked stealing closer, catching the scent of wine and the pungency of burning fat. His nostrils flared with disgust.

  “You do not eat enough!” came Dralath’s too-hearty voice, followed by a sizzle as if he had just set a skewer of meat into a pot of bubbling oil. “Here. Come, to please me.”

  Spock knew that Saavik had grown up eating meat—that, and anything else a half-starved child could find. And even now, what would sicken a Vulcan would not distress her in the slightest.

  “I have already eaten, my lord—oh, very well, I can refuse you nothing.”

  Her voice was soft with an implied surrender. And without warning, a sudden hot fire blazed up within Spock. How dare she sit out there with the praetor, lingering over a late-night supper, eating meat, of all barbarities, and murmuring so provocatively? A fierce, jealous little voice whispered in his mind that she had never used that tone on him.

  All at once there was no logic to the world. All at once he ached to vault onto that terrace, to kill this other male! Hunter-instinct narrowed his sight, and his blood roared in his temples—

  No! I must not—must not . . .

  He had not felt this disoriented, this outraged since . . .

  . . . since his last attack of Pon farr.

  The realization stunned him back to sanity. Illogical to deny fact. Not even Vulcans had been able to compensate for what warp speeds did to their systems. Not even a mathematician as accomplished as Spock could accurately calculate how much “real” time had elapsed since he had last entered the Fires—particularly with the added complication of his human genes. And the chaos of Romulan emotions all around him had completely disguised the first warning symptoms.

  Relativity has turned deadly on me.

  Drawing a deep, sobbing breath, Spock sought the inner stillness, but found only leaping fire.

  No! I am not a mindless beast! I . . . will . . . be . . . logical!

  He leaned his brow against the coolness of the standing stone. In what felt like a totally different space-time continuum, Spock had taken all but the last vows of Kolinahr. He should have—he must have—sufficient discipline to keep the blood madness at bay, at least until his work was done.

  Yes, but if he sank into meditation, he would be left defenseless before any patrolling guards—

  And if I do not, the Fires claim me and I attack Dralath—

  Overhead, the second moon had joined the first, casting silver and faintly green light over the garden, double shad
ows forming and mingling like spectral guards. Spock gripped the standing stone with desperate force, barely aware of the roughness of the rock. Sink into Pon farr, and he threw his life away. Worse, he would be throwing Saavik’s life away.

  There was no choice. Fingers steepled, Spock turned his mind and will inward, seeking the center, seeking control . . . down through levels of flame . . . down to the center . . . cool, logic at the center . . .

  The outer world was not important.

  The outer world did not concern him.

  The outer world did not exist.

  “You found my gift, I see,” Dralath purred.

  “There was no need for it, my lord.” Saavik touched the silver pendant at her neck. “But I do thank you.” And I will melt this collar down as soon as I may. “I only regret you did not wake me.”

  “Ah no. You are very lovely when you sleep.”

  She had been calming the Fires through deepest meditation when Dralath had entered her room. He had seen her defenseless, open to his view—

  Only Spock has that right! Only he!

  Control, Saavik commanded herself, repeating her personal mantra: Logic is the cornerstone, logic, not emotion. I . . . cling . . . to . . . logic.

  Her hands were shaking. Let Dralath think it was because of him.

  “I hope to further remedy any omissions tonight,” Dralath was continuing. “Come, lady, what would you have of me?”

  A pause. Then Saavik said, as though having just thought of it, “A story, perhaps. A true story. Tell me of the Empire and—and how you will restore it.”

  Dralath chuckled. “What a charming picture you make. Can I believe it?”

  “My lord, can you doubt? All my life, I have longed to be precisely where I am now.”

  “With me?”

  With Spock! “With a man able to shape the destinies of worlds! You are such a one, are you not?”

  Dralath chuckled again, and poured some more of the blood-green, faintly sweet wine into their glasses. “My dear, have you ever met any Klingons? No? Just as well. A lovely thing like you should not be exposed to such creatures.”

  “But, my lord, are they not our shipwrights?”

  “That,” Dralath said shortly, “is about to end.”

  She nearly spilled her wine. “How fascinating! The day I landed on Romulus,” Saavik all but babbled, “I heard you speak against the Klingons. How could I have known that I would actually listen to you telling me these things? And so, do you reclaim our economy from the Klingons?”

  “Evaste, my clever Evaste, I am minded to teach the Klingons a lesson.”

  “Indeed?” Saavik asked. “Oh, but your glass is empty! Let me serve you.”

  Dralath covered his glass with a hand. “Not far from the Boundary between the Empire and those Klingons, even closer to those interfering fools that call themselves a Federation, there is a Klingon base called Narendra III. It menaces our trade routes.”

  “Why, I’ve heard of it! Is that not the only civilian outpost in the entire Klingon Empire?”

  “No Klingon is truly a civilian,” Dralath said flatly. “Even the children are savages. They build nothing, are worth nothing, live for nothing but violence. If we attack, quickly and with no warning, we can destroy this base and eliminate a security risk to the Empire.”

  Saavik put down her glass with such force that the fragile crystal nearly cracked. The annihilation of a base, a dishonorable surprise attack on civilians—the children slain or abandoned . . . as she had once been abandoned, left to struggle on as best she could on a world laid waste . . .

  “Evaste?”

  Steady. He must not suspect. “I—I was merely overwhelmed by the astounding daring of your plan! To destroy all of Narendra III in one bold strike . . .”

  He nodded, pleased. “And there is more to it than the elimination of one potential threat. Think of the game of khariat, my dear, wherein the removal of one piece can cause a cascade of others, till nothing is left of what was a carefully balanced pattern but chaos.”

  “The Federation . . .” It was the barest gasp from Saavik.

  “From an easy victory at Narendra III to a quick strike at Melville Colony. They call that a colony world, but it is, of course, a secret Federation military base. And from there . . .”

  There was, Saavik thought, more blood lust in Dralath’s smile than desire.

  Spock came back from the inner world of cool tranquillity to the reality of the Romulan night with such a sudden jolt that he nearly cried aloud. What—

  Guards! Some primal instinct had warned him of danger. He dove into shadow, willing his racing heart to calm, too stunned by the sudden transition to think clearly. The Fires were banked, but as the two guards stalked by, Spock could feel the embers stirring, urging him, Strike. Kill.

  No, he told himself. These men were merely doing their job. And yes, he was in control . . . he was in control . . .

  But then Spock heard Dralath boast to Saavik about Narendra III, about the massacre he had already set in motion. And that it would be followed by a stealth attack on a Federation colony as well—

  We have just run out of time!

  Spock clenched his teeth to keep from what would have been a totally illogical, utterly suicidal shout of rage. Did that—creature not see? Narendra III’s destruction might indeed be the spark to turn the Klingons not only against the Romulan Empire but against the Federation—and none would prosper, all would lose.

  And Dralath called it a game. A triumph. The potential for sundering the intricate web of civilization that was the Federation—a game! Here was the treachery Charvanek had suspected, only exponentially worse. And Saavik had been right: It had taken her own cleverness and courage to expose it.

  Dralath was boasting freely now, figuratively marking Saavik for death with every word.

  Why should he not boast? His fleet is away, and he no longer needs to be discreet in her presence.

  “I have prepared no less a fleet than seven of our new-model warbirds,” he told her.

  Only seven ships in the newly configured fleet? Spock wondered. Fascinating. It would seem that seven of the new craft are all the Empire can afford.

  But seven ships were more than enough to take out a civilian outpost.

  Excellent, Saavik told herself. You’ve found precisely the information you were apparently sent here to find. Your objective now is simply to escape with Spock.

  Oh, easy.

  She forced a laugh, looking up into Dralath’s eyes, hoping he could not read her expression clearly. “I could almost wish you had not told me this.”

  He chuckled. “Why not?”

  “My lord, I may be from an outlying world, but did you truly think me naïve? After this night, what need would you have of me?”

  “Have you looked into a mirror lately, lady?”

  “You flatter me, my lord. One disposes of liabilities.”

  “I would never—” Dralath protested. He reached out as if to pull her back against him.

  “Do you not think, my lord,” Saavik purred, evading him, “we must . . . bargain a bit? I would not wish to sell my . . . secrets for too little.”

  “No fear,” Dralath retorted. “I always pay for what I want.”

  She pretended not to understand him, watching his smile broaden. But of course she understood only too well what a dangerous game this was. Let Dralath cease to be amused—or let arousal overpower his humor—and she was in deadly trouble. She—and Spock.

  Spock is out there, listening.

  Saavik shivered. Instantly, Dralath moved between her and the wind. The warmth of his body eased her trembling . . . he wasn’t all that unpleasant to the eye, not really . . . something to be said about the attraction of power and—

  Saavik stiffened with horror. In a moment, she was going to find him attractive, and he was anything but that! She could see finality in Dralath’s eyes: Why not, he was plainly thinking, enjoy her before he killed her? In celebratio
n of his triumph.

  Killing him would be my quickest escape, but my odds of getting offworld would drop . . . I do not have time for these repulsive games!

  She must, above all, remain calm. If Spock was out there, he was fighting the Fires himself by now. Any fear or rage of hers might well plunge him into the all-out combat rage of Plak-tow, and that would be fatal for them both.

  It should not be this way, a wistful little thought whispered. If only she could run to Spock, disappear with him into the shadows . . .

  No retreat for you, she told herself.

  But then, there never had been.

  Praetor Dralath held out his hand, two fingers extended. She made herself touch his outstretched hand, but could not quite manage not to flinch.

  “Are you still shy, my pretty Evaste?” he asked. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he coaxed. “No lady has ever complained of me.”

  More likely, none of them survived.

  Saavik made herself laugh softly, as though aware of nothing but the way Dralath’s fingers caressed her palm. She looked down to hide the fury building in her mind. Or . . . was it just fury? Rage, jealousy, desire . . . She heard herself cry out in sheer, maddened frustration.

  “Ah, Evaste,” Dralath crooned, “do you know how exciting you are now? Did no one ever tell you? What you feel is a condition some women of our race fall prey to. Atavistic, yes, but it need not prove unpleasant. Come, let me show you.”

  Now Dralath was stroking the fingers and palm of Saavik’s other hand. He bent forward, pressing his cheek against her hair, pulling her into his arms, and she wasn’t sure how to get free, or even if she—

  No! Oh, no! Why hadn’t she considered this before? Dralath was of approximately the correct age—what if he had been there on the planet of her birth? She moaned in genuine loathing as Dralath pulled her closer, but desire still burned within her, not for him, never for him—

  Spock!

  No, no, she could not endanger him as well. But—

  Let them fight, some ancient shadows in her brain whispered. How else will you know to choose the stronger?

  No! It is only Spock I wish!

  “Stay here with me,” Dralath murmured against her shoulder, nuzzling her neck. “Stay. You shall have everything you want, and I shall protect you. You truly are in no danger, my dear—because it is already too late for any betrayal. The orders have already gone out, and the fleet is away. Three hours after it crosses the accursed Barrier, it will hunt Klingons. And kill them.”