STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  Someone snickered. “Next time he will be under ours.”

  All the Romulans laughed at that, softly but, Spock thought, with a great deal of venom.

  All, that was, save for a stocky man in the dark robes of a scholar—the same scholar, surely, who had accused Spock of not being Symakhos. Narviat frowned slightly.

  “Therakith? Is something wrong?”

  “I . . . merely think it less than wise to celebrate before the battle is begun, let alone won.”

  Narviat studied him a moment longer, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Wisdom. Come, let us begin our, as you put it, battle.”

  But Spock continued to watch the scholar, wondering. Therakith met his gaze for an instant, then frowned and looked away. Nothing there to arouse suspicion, nothing overt, at any rate. And yet . . . something about the man’s demeanor failed to ring true. Were it not a breach of courtesy, he would already have a hand on Therakith’s temple; peril or no, he would insist on knowing something of Therakith’s thoughts—

  What had courtesy to do with it? Even now, he could easily force a mind-meld—

  You are a Vulcan, Spock reminded himself sharply, refusing to consider the mental invasion he’d inflicted on Dralath, not a savage. Even now.

  “Are you with us?” Narviat asked, and Spock turned his attention to the table and the unrolled charts.

  Tried to attend. Tried to focus on what seemed the same plans, the same useless, endless debates—

  There is no logic to anger. . . .

  The cave was cool, unpleasantly cool, and close. He had never before been bothered by the phobia humans called claustrophobia. Why now? Why was this cave so shadowy, distorted, dark, dark flame—he glanced at the smooth walls and saw himself reflected, distorted by distortions in the stone. His face was wild and pale, his eyes, his eyes were flame—

  This was more than the Fires. The realization struck Spock with the force of a savage blow. What bothered him had nothing to do with some suddenly acquired phobia. The fierce surge of emotion blazing through his mind was not from him alone, but from all around him, and he shouted out:

  “A trap! We have been betrayed!”

  He had destroyed the element of surprise. Members of the praetor’s guards rushed forward as he shouted the warning, storming in from both entrances with disruptor rifles ready and knives drawn, blocking escape, and Spock—

  —suddenly saw nothing but enemy males, felt nothing but flame, hot flame within him, his mind, his eyes, flame, and he—

  —fought. He fought with bare hands and ferocity, sent a warrior flying, twisted and pulled two more crashing into each other, hurled another against a wall with stunning force, moving with the quick efficiency learned in his Starfleet days. At the heart of him a cold, utterly rational core reminded him, They cannot fire their disruptors in such close quarters, not without killing their fellows. Knives or bare hands only. Illogical, terribly illogical, to be feeling such undeniable joy in violence, in triumph, but just now, it was most wonderfully satisfying to see enemy after enemy fall.

  But I have not killed. I . . . will . . . not . . . kill.

  The Romulans were under no such constraint. They fought with the sheer ferocity of those who know that death in combat is far preferable to death by slow, humiliating pain. Ruanek hesitated for a moment, and again, that small, rational fragment of Spock’s mind produced the reason: This was the first time the subcommander had ever fought against his own. But then, with the air of someone cutting his last tie to reality, Ruanek hurled himself into the battle. Knives flashed, men and women fell, and the reek of blood . . . the reek of blood . . .

  I am not a savage! I will not kill!

  But all at once there were no more foes to fight. As Spock stood panting, Narviat’s allies moved from fallen body to fallen body, hunting remaining signs of life. The wounded guards received no mercy, only the flash of knives falling with quick, deadly efficiency. Those of the Underground who were too badly wounded to stand were granted the Final Honor. Spock dared not watch, dared not see hot blood gushing forth, filling his mind with renewed fire—

  There! One foe remained, backing away: Therakith! Spock lunged at the scholar, caught him, the Fires blazing up so fiercely he could barely see, barely think—

  “Symakhos.” Then, more cautiously, “Spock!”

  He was Spock. He was Spock, not some mad thing, not some mindless beast, and he—

  —collapsed back into himself, his mind clear enough to recognize Ruanek’s voice—and to realize that he had Therakith by the throat and was nearly strangling him. Spock loosened his grip just enough for the scholar to catch a ragged breath, and Narviat, leaning over Spock’s shoulder, hissed one word:

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?” Despair blazed from Therakith’s eyes and voice. “Dralath has my family—had them. He . . . I . . . once I . . . I betrayed you, curse me for a fool, for worse than a fool—I trusted Dralath to keep his word just once. But once he had all the data I could give him . . .” Therakith’s voice broke. “He has betrayed me. He has murdered my sweet Katara, my poor little babes. . . .”

  Spock, shocked back into total sanity, released him, asking as gently as he could, “How could you know that?”

  “How? How? Did you see that guard, the monster who lies there? I have never killed a man before, but that one, akhh, that one I took great delight in killing! He is Dralath’s living message:He wears my wife’s marriage bracelet on his belt! It could not be removed while Katara lived: See? I wear its mate, welded shut about my wrist. And . . . that is . . . those are . . . that is the most terrible, the most terrible . . . those are locks of baby hair, my babies’ soft young hair, twisted into the belt as well. . . .”

  There was stunned silence. Then Narviat said, “I must ask you this: How long have you been his spy? How much have you revealed?”

  Blinking fiercely, Therakith said harshly, “Not that much, nor that long. Long enough. The tunnels . . . he knows we meet down here. But I did not betray you by name! I swear this by what is left of our homeworld’s honor. That fact alone he does not have.”

  “For what good it does,” Narviat muttered. “And no, I do not blame you.” He put a hand on Therakith’s shoulder, squeezed gently. “We all have our breaking points. It is no dishonor to admit exhaustion of the heart. But—this place is no longer safe.” He withdrew that hand as though scorched. “Nor, alas, are you, not now that Dralath knows who and what you are.”

  “I am aware of that.” Therakith stiffened proudly. “I shall not be a burden. A scholar I may be, not a warrior, but I have a true Romulan’s honor—and no wish to live further.” A knife flashed in his hand. “Triumph, Narviat. Slay Dralath for me. Send him to burn forever.”

  With that, with quick, academic precision, he slashed open his throat. Narviat, face naked with horror, caught his sagging body, heedless of the spouting blood, and eased the dying man to the ground. Therakith glanced at him, at Spock, saying without words, Avenge us. . . .

  “He is dead,” Spock said softly.

  “I know.” With the smallest of shudders, Narviat let the body go slack, then fumbled in his belt pouch till he had found two crystals and placed them on Therakith’s eyes. The politician murmured a prayer that was, for once, utterly free of artifice.

  Covered with Therakith’s blood, Narviat got to his feet, stalking grim-faced among the others, counting heads, murmuring to his surviving allies. He paused to disentangle the pathetic strands of baby hair from the guard’s belt, his hands gentle as he slipped the hair into his own belt pouch, then turned to rake everyone with his gaze.

  “We cannot linger. Some guards might have escaped, and at any rate, other guards are going to be checking up on their fellows soon enough. All of you, leave! Wait for my signal. We shall meet again.”

  He waited until, judging from the undisturbed silence, the others had gotten safely away, then told Spock curtly, “Follow.”

  Without another word, Na
rviat began climbing the nearest stairway to the surface. He was outlined against the sky for a dramatic moment, the clean lines of his aristocratic face in sharp silhouette. But suddenly his outline was obscured by others. Spock heard a crisp voice say, “Admiral Narviat, you are under arrest.”

  Narviat, wonderfully self-possessed, drew back in apparent astonishment—effectively blocking the entrance to the stairway and hiding Spock and Ruanek as well. Spock motioned to Ruanek: Back! They retreated down the stairs, avoiding the dim green glow from the grimy lighting tubes set into the rock.

  “On what charge?” Narviat’s cool voice was the essence of patrician disdain.

  “Treason, Admiral. High treason against the praetor and the Romulan state.”

  “How utterly ridiculous! But,” Narviat added with a sigh, “I suppose you must do as you are ordered. You will, of course, permit me to send a message to my staff. And to my Imperial kinsman.”

  “We will,” the arresting officer said flatly, “do as we must. If you will come with us, Admiral, we shall forgo restraints.”

  Spock felt rather than heard Ruanek’s horror, and moved ever so slightly to block him from lunging up in any foolish attempt at a rescue. “We can do nothing to help,” he murmured.

  They stood in utter silence as Narviat was marched away. Spock, testing, found his mind remaining mercifully clear. Of course. He had already proved more than once that violent activity—and the fight with the Romulan guards certainly qualified as that—together with emotional shocks, such as Therakith’s death and this sudden arrest of Narviat, temporarily banked the fires of Pon farr.

  Logic told Spock that Narviat would not be executed immediately; the admiral was too important in rank and bloodline, and was too popular with the people. Nor, for the same reasons, would he meet with an “accident.” There must be a trial, undeniable—if forged—proof of treason against the Romulan people. That bought the rebellion a little time. . . .

  “Gather the others,” Spock told Ruanek. “They cannot have gone far.”

  No, they had not. They hurried forward, eyes wild with shock and fury. “What are we—” “How can we—”

  If he let this continue, they would, being Romulans, fall to bloody quarreling, or they would launch some insane attack on Dralath’s guards. And Spock was hardly about to watch a revolution devolve into a massacre.

  “Silence!” he commanded. “You sound like children crying for their nurse!”

  That stunned the rebels into a moment’s silence. Before they could snarl at him, Spock continued, “How long have you been meeting? How much time have you wasted talking without accomplishing anything?”

  A centurion stiffened, eyes blazing with outrage beneath the helm he still wore. “How dare you, outworlder! You cannot know—”

  “I know delay when I witness it. Hear me out, all of you. We can do nothing to help Narviat—not yet. But losing the security of the tunnels is no true obstacle. It is, instead, a goad to action.”

  “Is it, now?” the centurion challenged. “And where, wise general, would you have us meet? In Dralath’s own offices?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why—”

  “Hear me out.” His mind was still working with cold clarity; he must take advantage of the brief respite from Pon farr. “On Earth, on the Terran homeworld—”

  “We have heard of Earth,” a woman in scholar’s robes cut in dryly.

  “Excellent. Then you may even have heard of a rebel named Vladimir Lenin. Lenin was hunted even as you are hunted, but the enemy never found him—because he had cleverly hidden himself in the headquarters of the Secret Police. Now, if a human can do that . . .”

  He heard the Romulans mutter, and thought, I have them. “Some of you, I know, work in the government bureaucracy.” Seeing a few grudging nods, Spock continued, “Being who and what you are, do you not have access to a great many offices?”

  “Yes,” someone muttered, “but . . .”

  “Then here is what we shall need.”

  At first, the Romulans stirred as he told them his plan, some of them murmuring uneasily, others giving him sharp, speculative glances. Then one gray-clad woman straightened. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we could do this. In fact . . . we can do it. And we will. For Narviat’s sake, not yours.”

  And a sardonic smile touched the corners of the centurion’s mouth. “Be glad you are a Vulcan, clever one. Were you a Romulan, we just might have to . . . have you eliminated.”

  Ruanek drew in his breath in an indignant hiss. But Spock met the Romulan stares without flinching. “Believe me, all of you, I do not doubt that for a moment. But we are wasting precious time! Go!”

  And, considerably to his relief, they went. Ruanek, with a gesture to Spock that clearly meant wait, cautiously climbed the stairway, cloak gathered about himself to hide his bloodstained clothing. After a moment, he signaled down to Spock, All safe.

  “Now,” Ruanek muttered, as they left the alley and entered a street busy with groundcars and other transports, “we have a new problem. You can hardly return to Commander Charvanek’s empty house, and you can certainly not go on to Admiral Narviat’s estate.” Ruanek’s eyes widened as it struck him that he, too, no longer had anyplace to go. “I can’t bring you to my . . . to my former quarters, either.”

  “Indeed,” Spock said with an ambassador’s soothing calm. “However, I have a better site in mind.”

  “And that is . . . ?”

  “The Imperial Palace.”

  Ruanek stopped short, openmouthed with surprise. “You are—damn, you are—that is the most—you are—”

  “Audacious?” Spock suggested serenely.

  “Audacious, hells, yes! But how in the name of all those hells are you going to get in? Just walk right up and order the gates to open?”

  “Precisely.” Spock showed him the forged Imperial medallion that was part of Symakhos’ disguise. The gold glinted as a narrow shaft of sunlight caught it.

  Ruanek’s laugh was almost a gasp. “And yet, and yet, why not?” he said wildly. “What better place to hide? Who would think of looking for us in the Imperial Palace? And here we Romulans believe we are gamblers!”

  “Come,” Spock said before Ruanek’s burst of humor could overwhelm him into hysterics or utter collapse. “Let us see if the emperor will receive us.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  KI BARATAN

  Dralath’s guards, predictably, were still patrolling outside the Imperial Palace. And, predictably, they tried to block the way. Spock merely . . . looked at them, the aristocratic scholar who had every right to be where he was, and showed them the glittering, seemingly authentic, imperial medallion. Ruanek, playing along in the role of bodyguard, snapped:

  “This is the Academician Symakhos of Bardat, honored by His Imperial Majesty!”

  “Academician,” the guards’ centurion muttered, and gave Spock what might almost have been a salute.

  “Precisely,” Spock said in his most pedantic tone. “Now, kindly step aside. You would not wish the emperor to learn that I had been detained.”

  Logically, the guards will now believe that we have an appointment.

  Of course, the effect would be spoiled if the emperor refused them admittance.

  He did not. The massive gates swung open with a suddenness that clearly surprised Ruanek all over again. “But then,” the Romulan murmured, “Emperor Shiarkiek is renowned as a scholar. New things fascinate him.”

  Not quite certain how that was meant, Spock entered through a gate cut through the massive walls—as thick as those of any fortress of Vulcan’s warrior past—and found himself confronted by a maze of paths that wound through a network of streams and ponds too regular in shape to be natural. The water sparkled in the sunlight, and fish glinted here and there below the surface like so many living green and yellow jewels.

  “Fish,” Ruanek said, “are said to be the emperor’s special study.” He straightened. “That—there—that is the emperor himsel
f.”

  Spock heard the softest gasp of awe from Ruanek as the tall, lean figure approached, long brownish-gray hair flowing unbound about his thin, refined face. Emperor Shiarkiek wore what had once been an elegant blue and gold robe, but the gold threads had faded to dull brass, and the silky blue fabric was close to threadbare, just short of downright shabby. “Comfortable,” Spock suspected, was the word Shiarkiek would have chosen.

  Interesting. The emperor was clearly no young man, but there seemed to be nothing of the decrepit figurehead who had collapsed during the meeting of the Central Court.

  He has been playing a role, Spock realized, fighting for survival. Like Narviat. And Charvanek. And, presumably, most of the Romulan nobility.

  “How interesting,” the emperor said. “I have never given a medallion to you. Who are you?”

  Ruanek, with a second gasp, fell to one knee, head bent, clenched fist over his chest.

  “Akhh, stand,” Shiarkiek told him. “You make me uncomfortable.” As Ruanek straightened, awe shining in his eyes, the emperor frowned. “But you are injured!”

  Ruanek clearly was too exhausted—and too overwhelmed—to Josepha Sherman & Susan Shwartz speak. Spock said for him, “Subcommander Ruanek has been in a duel of honor. And won.”

  But Ruanek had just won the battle over his own awe. This time his salute was less melodramatic, more properly military. “Your Majesty, if I may be more precise?”

  “Please.”

  “I am indeed Subcommander Ruanek, sworn to Commander Avrak, sister-son to Senator Pardek. And . . . the one I slew was also sworn to Commander Avrak, Centurion Kharik.”

  “I see.” Was that the faintest hint of wry amusement on the emperor’s face? “And why, young eagle, did you feel obliged to provide me with so much detail?”

  “Why—you are the emperor! It would not be honorable to hide the truth from you!”

  “I see,” Shiarkiek repeated. “Quite admirable.” He turned to Spock. “And you are . . . ?”