STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  Charvanek pounced. “The praetor, indeed! It is he, it is false Praetor Dralath who would turn our Honor Blades into butchers’ knives.” Softly, softly, you rant like Volskiar. “We all know the unrest at home, we all know that Dralath is . . . less than popular, we all know the economy is less secure than it should be. A quick, easy war is so nicely dramatic, such lovely glory—for him! There is no honor in this mission, no brave defense of our race, no advancement or glory—nothing but shame in the name of the praetor’s greed!

  “Understand this now and utterly: I spend no lives without just cause. I will do my best to sway the fleet. I do not want violence against our own. But if talk fails . . .” Charvanek paused just long enough to make her point. Then, quickly, concisely, she told her crew what they must do. They must already have guessed. Still, shock, even horror, flashed from face to face.

  But no one stirred. No one said a word.

  “Will you do this?” Charvanek asked.

  The blood was rushing in her ears. Returning to her command chair, gripping the armrests so fiercely she knew she must be denting them, she heard their answer:

  “Yes!”

  Oh, my brave ones! But some of you have families, aged parents. I must leave you one last escape.

  “Any action that we take will be construed as treason. If any of you have any qualms about following my orders to the letter, you may take a rescue pod and leave the moment we return to sublight speed. No shame, no questions. Just leave.”

  She waited, heart racing.

  No one so much as moved.

  So be it. Deliberately rousing them anew, Charvanek cried, “I ask you now: Do you serve the emperor?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes!”

  “Forever!”

  They were glad of the chance to shout. Charvanek sprang from her chair once more and prowled among them. “And the Empire! Do you serve the Empire?”

  “Of course!”

  “We do!”

  She stopped, staring at them all. “And what of honor? Do you serve the name of Honor?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes!”

  And a chant started up there and then: “Emperor, Honor, Charvanek, Empire, Honor, Charvanek!”

  “And what will you do?” she asked.

  “Whatever we must!” M’ret cried.

  “Whatever we can,” Durnak growled.

  The shouting broke out again. “We will defend the honor of our race!” “We will do whatever we must!”

  She must ask this. “And if you must . . . die?”

  M’ret snapped back without a moment’s hesitation, “Then we die with glory!”

  It was a boy’s fervor. But—no one argued. No one so much as winced. For a moment, Charvanek could not speak, nearly choked with a rush of emotion so strong she had to fight to show nothing. Nothing but pride in this my crew.

  Whom she just might be leading to their deaths.

  Then Navigator Ekenda said, absolutely without tone,

  “Coming out of warp speed in twenty seconds . . . nine-teen . . .”

  “So be it,” Charvanek said softly, and returned to the command chair. Then she added in sharp command, “Subcommander Durnak! At my order: As soon as we drop out of warp, full ahead on sublight engines. Understood?”

  A quick nod.

  “. . . ten . . . nine . . .”

  “. . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one. Sublight.”

  Charvanek had a quick glimpse of this new section of space, sighted the glow that marked the Narendra III colony. No sign yet of the fleet—hei-ya-hai, they had won their race! “And—now! Full ahead!”

  She was, Charvanek realized, clenching her teeth, and forced herself to relax. She had studied the data. The fleet must emerge from warp drive some distance from Narendra III: too many navigational hazards in that sector for anything but sublight flight.

  If the Fates were kinder than they had been, there would not be much time to wait.

  * * *

  Seven ships as one flashed out of warp speed, drawing the suddenly curving light of space about them like a cloak of blazing colors, too many for the eye to interpret. Charvanek allowed herself one quick flash of exultation at the glory of the sight.

  But what use was glory without honor?

  “I think I can tap into fleet communications without being detected, Commander,” Selta said without looking up from his screens.

  “Do so.”

  The bridge’s main viewscreen blurred from a view of space and stars and the vulnerable colony ahead to Volskiar’s face. He glared fiercely out at them from the viewscreen, the very essence of the Noble Warrior. “Romulans, honorable warriors of the Empire . . .”

  Ah yes, the Speech to the Troops, Charvanek thought. We are embarked upon a glorious mission, she predicted.

  Sure enough, Volskiar was continuing, “We are embarked upon a glorious mission, one to bring new honor to the Empire and increased security to our borders.”

  Now we bring in the melodrama, about the colonists in peril of foreign invasion. . . .

  “Think, Romulans, of our colony worlds. Think of the honest, hardworking, loyal men and women who ask nothing but to serve the Empire. Now picture foreigners imperiling those Romulan men, women, yes, Romulan children. And such invaders do threaten, brutish creatures who know nothing of honor, nothing of glory: Klingons! Klingons who know nothing but blood lust!”

  Trite, Volskiar, trite.

  “You ask, how can this be? Have we not dealt peacefully with the Klingons, even purchased warships from them? Yes!” Volskiar’s fist slammed down on the console. “We made that mistake! We let them sell us faulty ships—but no more! That was all part of their plan to weaken us, then overwhelm us.”

  Oh, well done, Charvanek thought. You parrot Dralath’s propaganda flawlessly. Why, I can almost hear his voice.

  “We cannot let our own, our brave Romulan colonists live in peril!” Volskiar roared. “We cannot let them be murdered by these aliens! And we shall not! We strike first, my loyal warriors, we go to destroy the menace to our worlds now! We go to smash the Klingon base, the military base of Narendra III—and we go now! Now!”

  Akhh, listen. Some hot-blooded—or politic—warriors on the other ships were echoing that “Now!”

  “We go to fight not for personal glory,” Volskiar shouted. “We fight for our people, for our homeland, for Romulus! We fight for the heart and honor of the Empire! And we shall return only as victors! Is that understood? We shall return victorious!”

  “Victorious!” the echoes rang from ship to ship. “We return victorious!”

  Victorious over the helpless, Charvanek added darkly.

  For one wistful little moment, she pictured them all, the crew of all the ships save, of course, for Victorious, saying, “No. We will not do this thing.”

  Don’t they know? Don’t they have the data—

  But why should they? Most Romulans, including, she thought, a good percentage of the military, knew nothing of Narendra III beyond the one word: “Klingon.” Why should they know more? The rest of the commanders weren’t struggling to hold on to their lives and ranks; they had no need for serious Intelligence information. And even if they did know that Narendra III would be an unarmed, undefended target, they could afford to be obedient warriors, warriors untroubled—at least publicly—by questions of honor or morality.

  “Commander,” Selta turned toward her, his face pale. “Communication coming in for us from Victorious. From General Volskiar.”

  “Put him on, Selta,” she said. “Shipwide.”

  Let my eaglets all hear this, too.

  “Honor Blade!” Volskiar shouted. “You are in-system without orders!”

  Are we? How clever of you to notice.

  “Honor Blade, you will stand down. Lower shields. Take your weapons systems offline and prepare to be boarded!”

  I think not.

  Charvanek signaled to Durnak: On! Out of firing range, at leas
t for now.

  “All engines stop. Subcommander Selta, open fleetwide hailing frequencies. Visuals on.”

  “Done, Commander.”

  Straightening in her chair, Charvanek broadcast to Volskiar’s fleet, “This is Charvanek, Commander and Noble Born, of Honor Blade. I need not say more; you all know me, or of me.”

  She would, Charvanek knew, have only a few precious moments before Volskiar began jamming her transmission. “Dishonor is being cast upon you, vital data withheld! Know this, warriors: Narendra III is no military base. They are civilians! Do you copy that? They are unarmed civilians!”

  “Frequency’s being jammed, Commander.”

  “Then find a different frequency! Keep a channel open!”

  A few frantic moments, then: “Go ahead, Commander.”

  “Do you hear me, Romulan warriors?” Charvanek continued fervently. “This is truth! Our orders came not from the emperor, not from the Empire—they came straight from Praetor Dralath, and he knew, he knew full well that this is no mission of defense! Yet he sent us out to win nothing but shame!”

  Subcommander Selta’s fingers were flying over the console in a duel with Victorious’ communications officer, struggling to keep a channel open.

  “Wait, Commander, wait . . . yes! Go ahead!”

  “Warriors, hear me!” Charvanek cried, voice sharp and clear as the call of a war trumpet. “If we obey, if we massacre the helpless, then the praetor has, indeed, sold our honor. We will have become only his butchers—and butchers for hire. We will never, we can never, cleanse ourselves or our children of the shame!”

  “Signal coming in,” Selta warned, “overriding ours.”

  Volskiar’s fierce image formed on the screen—laughing. “Now, is this not tragic?” he gibed. “She is still the Federation’s pet! Have you ever heard such a foolish tale? As if we would ever be sent out on such a shameful mission as she claims—Set it to music, Charvanek! Let the street musicians sing it!”

  Behind him, she could hear the others, his favorite officers, laughing, too.

  “Damn you, Volskiar, this is not—”

  “No use, Commander. It’s not getting through.”

  In more ways than one.

  “She is still unstable!” Volskiar was proclaiming. “A danger to us all! Ah, but worry not, warriors of the Empire: When we return in victory, she will no longer inflict her madness or Imperial connections on us!”

  If you return, Charvanek told him silently.

  But the other commanders were chiming in, laughing, mocking her, a hard, almost desperate edge to their jests.

  They will not listen to me.

  And then, the sudden harsh realization struck: They do not want to listen. They want nothing that will spoil the sport! Akhh, my people, my people, what have we become that killing should have become no more than a game?

  Not for all. Someone must—someone would take a stand. Here. Now. She glanced up at the Romulan Eagle insignia, differenced as befit one of the imperial line, there on the bridge, told it silently, Life to the Empire.

  Volskiar’s image vanished from the viewscreens, replaced by a vista of space and the six other Romulan ships.

  So this is what our death looks like, Charvanek thought. Then, suppressing emotions as ruthlessly as any Vulcan, she ordered in a harsh voice she barely recognized, “Attack.”

  No time to think save in the most basic terms. Dive directly at the nearest target, Swift Kill (akhh, ironic name), firing full, blazing blue-white flame:

  “Direct hit!”

  “Hard left!” Charvanek ordered, just as the Swift Kill erupted into a blinding red-yellow-white fireball, just as Durnak, antici-pating—bless his insane heart—banked sharply left, taking them swiftly away from the shock wave.

  Turn, get off a quick shot at Sharp Sword—near-miss, only minimal damage. Another volley, and Sharp Sword careened out of control, tumbling into Battle Helm and joining it on the fiery path to Erebus.

  Three! The Fates had been kind.

  But the element of surprise was gone now, and Volskiar was shouting orders at the fleet:

  “Close ranks—close ranks, damn you!”

  At Charvanek’s signal, Durnak took them zooming in a daring rush between two closing ships, Honor Blade firing at them while they dared not lest they hit each other. Zooming out again from those close, confused quarters, escaping untouched, registering a clean miss to one target, direct hit to the other—

  No, not a kill, curse it, and now the Honor Blade’s own flank was exposed—

  “Deflectors up!” Charvanek shouted.

  Too late! Honor Blade lurched wildly, lurched again, and Charvanek, ears ringing with explosions and cries of pain, thought, At least we bloodied them, at least we die with glory—

  But they weren’t dead. Yet. The main lighting was out, and for one heart-stopping moment, Charvanek was sure that life-support had gone with it. But then the fainter emergency lighting switched on, turning the bridge to a smoky red cave. All around her, the bridge crew were staggering to their feet, some with faces streaked with blood, muddied to greenish-brown by the lighting, some cradling arms or hands.

  “Damage report,” Charvanek snapped.

  “Weapons down three-quarters.”

  “Deflectors at minimum.”

  “Life-support holding at seventy-eight percent.”

  “Engines . . .” A pause, then Takvi’s growl, “Warp out. Sublight engines down.”

  “Casualties?” Charvanek asked sharply.

  Twenty dead, forty-seven more injured.

  Volskiar’s crippled us. Why doesn’t he finish us?

  Because, of course, that wasn’t Volskiar’s way. Arrogant creature, he’d rather run the risk of leaving a foe alive so that there could be more glory for him. If he had the education to match his bloodlust, Charvanek mused bitterly, he would know how greatly he tempted the Fates.

  Sure enough, she suddenly heard a static-filled transmission from the Victorious, Volskiar’s voice, fairly dripping contempt, “Leave the traitor there. She isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Am I not?” Charvanek murmured.

  “We will take the ship in tow on our way back to the homeworld after our glorious victory!”

  “Will you?” It was a snarl.

  She watched the surviving ships of his fleet streak on toward their prey, Honor Blade helpless to stop them.

  Helpless for the moment.

  And then Charvanek began firing off orders to the crew. “Engineering! I want those engines back on-line as quickly as possible.”

  “Commander—”

  “Yes, I know it won’t be easy. Do it! I also want our weapons back in some semblance of order. Don’t waste time on the deflectors. Medic! See to the wounded. Give the worst-off the Final Honor. Your hand is mine.”

  She paused, seeing the tension in all the bridge crew; they knew as well as she that the mercy of a quick death was something they well might not receive.

  “All of you, hear me. We may not see our homes again. You knew that. We may well die reviled as traitors. But—by all the Powers That May Be, if we must die, it shall be as warriors! We shall die with honor!”

  “With honor!” came the answering roar.

  TWENTY

  KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 7, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, 2344

  Kharik’s body had been carried off without any drama at all—almost, Spock thought, as though what had been a living, albeit unpleasant, being just a short while ago had become in death no more than so much rubbish. The only sign that someone had died here were a few green streaks of drying blood on the stone floor. And on the still-shaking Ruanek.

  Spock was hard-put not to tremble as well. The violence of the knife fight still echoed within him, striking ancient chords Spock most firmly refused to hear.

  Control, he told himself, control. Reaching within himself, he sought the inner tranquillity, silently reciting the soothing mantras that almost worked.

  He dared not ev
en consider that he had failed at Kolinahr.

  As calmly as though the cousins’ duel to the death had never happened, Narviat said, “Come. There are plans we must discuss.”

  His glance took in Spock and a few men and women whom he apparently considered more trustworthy than the others. It did not include Ruanek.

  Of course not, Spock thought, blood fever blazing up within him at the realization. The pack shuns the wounded member.

  As he would not. And he would not surrender to the rage! Very deliberately, Spock moved to Ruanek’s side. “Let me see your injuries.”

  Ruanek shrugged, but spoiled the casual effect by an involuntary wince. “Mere cuts. I’ve endured worse.”

  “I am sure.” That was said with utter lack of tone. “Nevertheless even the smallest of wounds may weaken one.”

  Ignoring Ruanek’s protests, Spock stanched the blood with a wad of torn-off tunic, then bound the slashes as best he could, thinking about his handiwork, Dr. McCoy would most certainly not approve.

  Narviat glanced at Spock, then at the subcommander. “You do realize, of course,” he commented almost casually to Ruanek, “that after what has occurred, you cannot possibly return to your patron and your old life.”

  Ruanek nodded stiffly. “No need to tell me, sir. I . . . had no future there.”

  Bravely said. But he had the look about him of someone so fragile he might shatter. Shock, Spock knew, understandable after that deadly duel, and from the wounds that, while not serious, were still injuries. And Spock could not help but sense the blaze of Ruanek’s emotions, strong as a psychic scream to a Vulcan: The Romulan was, under his resolute warrior’s façade, desperately afraid, the foundations of his existence destroyed all too suddenly.

  “Ruanek . . .” Spock began, not certain of what to say.

  “I will not be a liability.”

  “So be it,” Narviat snapped. “Come.”

  He led them through a maze of the tunnels to a cave furnished with a makeshift table and chairs—nothing about them to link them to anything more than, perhaps, some homeless folk. As the other members of the underground, warriors and civilians alike, entered after him in wary ones and twos, Narviat held up a cautioning hand. “Remember where we are this time, namely, practically under our noble praetor’s feet.”