STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  Ruanek cleared his throat uneasily. “Your Majesty, may I present . . .” the smallest of awkward pauses, “the Academician Symakhos, a distant kinsman of . . . of the Noble Born Commander Charvanek and Admiral Narviat.”

  “And thus, kin to myself, eh?” The ancient eyes studied Spock shrewdly: the gaze of a scholar used to searching out the most obscure data. “Very distant, perhaps,” Shiarkiek murmured after a moment. “Akhh, but the subcommander is weary from his wounds.” A casual wave of a hand brought several servants running. “Summon my physician. Make this officer comfortable. Go with them, Ruanek.”

  Not exactly subtle, are we? You do wish to question me, Shiarkiek. But then, I wish to question you as well. Can you, I wonder, sense the Fires burning in me?

  Seemingly not. They stood in silence for a time, gazing after Ruanek. Then the emperor murmured, “That is a dangerous man.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “How so, Your Majesty?”

  “Why, he is honest! Honest, honorable, and, no doubt, absolutely incorruptible.” A hint of sardonic humor flashed in Shiarkiek’s eyes. “Definitely dangerous.”

  “Truth often appears dangerous.”

  “Indeed. Walk with me, Symakhos. Or,” the emperor added with a sharp sideways glance, “whoever you truly are.”

  So! “I fail to see—”

  “Come, now. I am old, no denying that, but I am not yet feeble of memory. I can account for each and every honor I have awarded. And I would remember a fellow academician named Symakhos, were there such a one.”

  “Ah.” Time for the greatest gamble yet. As he had told the Underground, Spock said, “I am a Vulcan.”

  “Are you?” It was almost an exclamation of delight. “How fascinating! I have often wondered what genetic and cultural differences might have grown up in the years since—ah, but we can hardly arrange a symposium, now, can we? Or even indulge in a genetic sample.”

  A scholar, Spock thought, bemused by the use of that familiar word “fascinating,” a true scholar.

  Which did not make him any less an emperor—or a danger. Shiarkiek paused by a small pool, deep enough for its water to be dark blue. “Where are they . . . ? Ah, there they are, my beauties. Do you see them?”

  Spock, standing warily back from the edge, saw small, sleek shapes, bluish-gray, fins, dorsal spines. . . . “I do not know the species.”

  “They are called kharah. Observe how quickly they surface! They know I am here with a treat for them.” The emperor removed a small covered bowl from the folds of his robes. “Patience, my pretty ones. Let me but remove the lid . . . there, now, there.”

  What he tossed into the pool was small, red, and squirmingly alive—until it hit the surface of the water. In an instant, two kharah had seized it, torn it apart, and devoured it, leaving a small swirl of greenish blood on the surface. Spock, certain the emperor was testing him, kept his face resolutely blank. No logic in revulsion; these were only animals behaving as they must.

  Not unlike someone in the grasp of Pon farr—no! He would not think such improper thoughts! He needed his wits about him in front of this man who, for all his scholarly mannerisms, was still emperor of all the Romulans.

  “Well done, my pretty ones!” Shiarkiek told the fish, tossing them a second . . . morsel, which met the same fate as the first. The emperor offered the bowl of squirming red creatures to Spock. “Would you like to feed them?”

  “With all due respect, Emperor Shiarkiek—no.”

  It had, indeed, been a test. “Ah, you truly are a Vulcan. So consistent. So very . . . vegetarian.”

  “We follow our beliefs.”

  “As do we all. Or at least as we may delude ourselves we do.” The emperor quickly emptied the contents of the bowl into the pool, then put the bowl aside. “Now,” Shiarkiek began, “knowing of the Vulcan reputation for reasonable honesty—and do not quirk that eyebrow at me; we are all mortal and, therefore, fallible—knowing, as I say, of that honesty, I believe I can ask with a fair expectancy of truthfulness from you:

  “Are you here as a vanguard to Federation attack?”

  That was said with utter sharpness, the ancient eyes suddenly fierce as those of a warrior. Spock met the emperor’s gaze directly. “No. I am not. My word on my honor and the honor of Vulcan, I am not.”

  “And why, then, are you here? I cannot believe you a common spy. You are clearly too civilized an individual for that.” The emperor paused, studying Spock thoughtfully. “Or . . . can you possibly be here without official sanction?”

  “Your pardon, but that is hardly a question I will answer.”

  “Understandable. But . . . yes, I do believe I am correct! How very daring of you! Of course, Vulcans were warriors once. But again, why are you here?”

  So, now! “There is one,” Spock began, picking his way with care, “who imperils us both, the Empire and the Federation. I do not name him.”

  The emperor snorted. “You mean Dralath.”

  Eyebrow raised, Spock countered, “Do you know of the attack in motion against Narendra III?”

  The wise, fierce eyes glanced away, blinking, blinking. And suddenly the keen scholar was gone, replaced by a weary, sad old man. “Oh yes.” It was the harshest of whispers. “I know. I knew. But . . . I . . . could . . . do nothing!”

  He turned sharply back to Spock. “I was a fool, a fool, so seduced by my scholarly research I forgot what I was. Never do that, never forget. For once you do, once you begin trusting others with what should be yours, you never, ever win it back. And that,” Shiarkiek added bitterly, “includes command of the military.

  “Akhh, well, what is, is. You are Narviat’s associate, however you came to be so—and no, I do not wish to know of that, or of who else might be involved. There is a limit to blunt honesty, and I did not live so long by learning what I could not later deny having heard. I can make an extrapolation easily enough as to what you two mean to do.”

  “Then you do support him.”

  “Ah, you, too are a scholar, wary and testing each step of the experiment! Yes. Our Narviat is ambitious, even ruthless, though he thinks I realize it not, but he is, underneath it all, a worthy son of this House and I must respect his honor. And,” the emperor added with Romulan bluntness, “there is no one else. No one who can be trusted not to destroy the Empire. No one who would not be assassinated on the day he took power. If Narviat dies, I see no way to replace Dralath. And now Narviat has been arrested—yes, I have my sources of information. But it is up to you to see that he is set free. However you mean to do that.”

  A casually imperious gesture brought a servant running. “Send word,” Shiarkiek said. “By the usual means, the usual targets. Spread the usual rumors. There must be no stain on Narviat’s honor,” he added to Spock as the servant hurried off again, “so the proper whispers in the proper ears will keep him in the public favor. More than this, however, I cannot do. Yes, again, I wish you both success. But hear me out,” the emperor continued, blinking fiercely, “whatever you do, I pray you, since I may not command you, do it not for honor, do it not for personal pride or political advantage:

  “Do what you must do only for the sake of the people.”

  Utter honesty blazed from the ancient eyes, so strong an emotion that Spock, more shaken than he ever would have admitted, glanced away, saying softly, “We do. We shall.”

  Dralath sat at his work desk in his office, studying the computer screen, not bothering to glance at the guard standing at attention before him. “And . . . ?” the praetor snapped over his shoulder.

  “And there is nothing else to report, my praetor. Yes, the Academician Symakhos did visit with the emperor, but they stayed out near the fish ponds for nearly the entire time, where there is no place for spy eyes or ears. We do not know what was said, though it seemed to simply involve,” the guard added with distaste, “fish.”

  “And Symakhos’ aide?”

  “Ah. That might have been one Subcommander Ruanek, in service to Senator Avrak
but now reported missing.”

  Wasn’t that . . . yes. The officer who’d been poisoned defending Evaste—for all the joy Dralath had had of that whole sorry interlude. What was he doing with Charvanek’s pet academic? “You say ‘might,’ ” Dralath said sharply. “Do you not have confirmation?”

  “I regret, my praetor, that none of our people could get a clear image. And Emperor Shiarkiek’s physician is quite honest and honorable: We cannot reach him.”

  Disgustingly true. “Go on.”

  “Academician Symakhos and his aide left the palace long before nightfall, and took lodgings near the Imperial University of Ki Baratan. There, he filed for permission to use an office in the Bureau of Statistics and Information.”

  “I am aware of that.” The file was on Dralath’s screen right now, together with the research proposal: A comparison of grain consumption by the military versus the civilian population on the Romulan colony worlds, dating from the establishment of those colonies. Just the sort of pedantic rubbish scholars adored. “Permission was granted,” Dralath murmured, reading on. “Of course it was granted. The study might well be genuine, even potentially useful.”

  He glanced up at the guard, who straightened to attention. “I wish a close watch kept on the research. See to it. Now, go. And send in Serik!”

  The little aide scurried inside, blinking nervously. “My praetor?”

  “The emperor is about to be ill. A most lamentable relapse of the condition that caused his recent collapse during Court. His own physician is no longer sufficient. Emperor Shiarkiek will be committed to my guardianship for medical treatment. For his own safety, of course.” Dralath paused, glaring impatiently at the horrified Serik. “Well? See to it—or see to your immediate suicide!”

  Ah, that made the creature scurry out!

  Dralath waited till Serik had closed the door behind him, then permitted himself the smallest of smiles. Security Chief Zerliak had reported far too many innocent meetings lately, between Shiarkiek and Narviat, between Narviat and Symakhos, between Symakhos and Shiarkiek . . .

  Innocent, Dralath thought sardonically.

  He turned back to the console, keyed in certain security codes, then added a whispered code as well. In a few seconds, the image on the screen sharpened from text to visual: a spy eye staring into a prison cell. There was no shadow here, nothing but blazing light. The man who sat on the cell’s cot, a bare shelf extruded from the wall, wore prison garb, a simple tunic and trousers, no belt, no sash, nothing with which a prisoner might attempt suicide. His hair, hanging loose about his face, looked as though he had combed it with his fingers. His eyes were deeply shadowed. The eyes of someone who has been kept from sleep for longer than he would have wished.

  Still attempting to keep up appearances, Narviat? As well as your dignity?

  Dralath’s smile thinned. Narviat was entirely too secure in the knowledge that the praetor dared not torture him in any way that would leave physical marks. Mustn’t show the people a poor, battered martyr; they must be convinced that what they saw was a hardened enemy of the State, a senior officer, an Imperial, no less, who had betrayed their trust.

  Drugs? Too risky with so important a prisoner. Too many chances for an overdose, or a fatal allergic reaction.

  But there were tortures other than physical. So far, Narviat was showing an infuriating ability to escape the double torments of light and noise. He managed to slide into meditation like some cursed Vulcan—presumably a survival trick he’d learned during his military service.

  Dralath flipped open a secure channel. “Add variable-frequency subsonics,” he ordered. “But carefully! If he is reduced to lunacy, you will join him!”

  Narviat, though, Dralath suspected, was too strong—and too stubborn—to go mad.

  Still, meditation could take the place of sleep for only so long. Eventually, Narviat would break, and surrender the details of his treasonous plot.

  And then, of course, during the forthcoming victory celebrations over Narendra III, he would die a traitor’s death—humiliating, protracted, and agonizing.

  TWENTY-TWO

  NARENDRA SYSTEM, STARDATE 21096.4

  As the Enterprise sped toward the Narendra system, Captain Garrett held a final situation-analysis meeting in the small, sparsely furnished briefing room. Senior staff sat tensely around the oval table studded with computer consoles and holographic projectors. We will pretend that we have a chance, Garrett thought.

  The chronometers all told her the same cold fact: Three hours had come and gone, and they were still a ship’s hour from Narendra III.

  Varani’s soft voice came over in-ship communications. “I have attempted to raise the stations along the Neutral Zone. By the time they reply by subspace transmission, Captain . . .”

  The battle will be over one way or another. No help there.

  “Still no word from Narendra III?” The colonists couldn’t already all be dead. Could they?

  “My regrets, Captain,” Science Officer Tholav said. “The system now contains a sizable uncharted anomaly that is putting out bursts of chroniton radiation. It’s enough to make communication difficult and to mask traces of cloaked ships. Commander Varani and I were unable to separate out emissions from the aftermath of the storm.”

  So I am going on the word of a sick woman—and my own instincts, Garrett thought. Well, I’ve always trusted my instincts, and when the woman is Commander Saavik . . . No use delaying this.

  “We can no longer second-guess ourselves,” she said. “We are committed to this fight and, as the admiral said, we cannot expect reinforcement for . . . some time. So we’d better review what kind of assets we have.”

  She nodded to Tholav. “Narendra III is, indeed, unarmed,” he reported in his soft voice.

  “—or at least hasn’t got anything I’d call a serious fighting ship.” The Andorian’s fingers tapped a few keys on his console, bringing up a display of Narendra III’s ships, crew complements, and projected firepower. “As you see: some scouts, a few shuttles, the occasional personnel carrier. Nothing fit to take on a warbird.”

  Garrett frowned at the projection. Helm was going to have to avoid that anomaly; chronitons could play hell with a warp drive. “If we do, somehow, make it in-system before the Romulan fleet,” Garrett continued, “the system’s asteroid belt looks like a promising hideout. What’s the assay on the biggest rocks?”

  Commander Tholav brought up a new projection. “Metallic content is sufficient for us to power down and pass undetected—unless, of course, the Romulans are on the lookout for us.”

  Hiding out in an asteroid belt, with only life-support and scanners active, was a calculated risk in case they had to come up to combat readiness fast. “If the Romulans arrive at the party late,” Garrett said, “we might conceal ourselves there to await reinforcements, then set up a kind of cordon to warn off those warbirds. I’d seed the perimeter with mines, only that would be a sure giveaway of our presence. I want your best estimates on how quickly we can get engines, shields, and weapons systems back on-line. Then, figure out how to cut that time in half.”

  Mutters of “aye, aye” reassured no one.

  “Already working on it,” said Lieutenant Kepler, the tactical officer. A human from the Alpha Centauri systems, she had red hair and a hair-trigger temper—until the fighting started.

  “At least,” Castillo said, clearly trying to look on whatever bright side there might be, “the warbirds can’t shoot while cloaked.”

  “We cannot count on that,” Tholav warned with his customary fatalism, antennae drooping slightly.

  “Yes,” Garrett cut in before the Andorian could add any more discouraging comments, “but at the very least, the cloaking device is a tremendous power drain.” Grant us that much hope, Tholav. She rubbed her eyes, reddened from the ferocious refresher course she’d been giving herself in Klingon and Romulan ordnance. “If it’s worst-case, and these new warbirds can fire from beneath the cloak . . .”
>
  Castillo glanced at the others, then shrugged. “As I see it, worst-case is that we get to Narendra after the Romulans have destroyed it. That gives us not only a massacre to deal with but the Klingons’ reactions. They could be as likely to turn on us as the Empire. We could face war on two fronts.”

  “Nasty, clear-minded way he has of putting things,” Aristide commented to no one in particular. “I don’t see the Romulans responding to a charge of human-rights abuse.”

  “Human?”

  Aristide shrugged. “Intelligent beings. Intelligent unarmed beings.” He met the captain’s gaze, his narrow, elegant dark face expressionless. Aristide, Garrett knew, was a son of a highly political family from Earth’s Caribbean Alliance, specifically from an island that had in the past been tortured by one revolt after another. Garrett suspected that the only reason he’d thrown his support behind the mission to Narendra III was that the Romulans’ hatred of Klingons amounted to race prejudice.

  “Captain!” Lieutenant Commander Varani called from his communications station on the bridge. “Long-range scan’s picking up something now that we’re closer to Narendra system. Before, it was hidden by the star’s energy emissions and the anomaly. I’ve got a fix on them. Two . . . three . . . no, four warbirds.”

  “There’s our confirmation,” Garrett said. “On my way,” she told Communications. “Here we go.”

  “Only four?” Castillo asked as they entered the bridge. “Down from seven? That’s progress!”

  Two ensigns cheered.

  “Shut it down!” Garrett snapped, taking her seat. “They might have left a third of their complement in reserve.”

  “They’re decloaking,” Castillo said in sudden alarm.

  So, Garrett thought, they couldn’t fire while cloaked. Thank heavens for small mercies, which were probably all the mercy anyone was likely to get.

  “Captain.” Tholav’s voice was very soft, his body and antennae rigid with outrage as he stared at his data. “Bad news. Very. The Romulans have begun to fire on Narendra III.” In their ancient past, Andorians had been warriors as savage . . . as Klingons. Now, Garrett’s science officer stood so tense he nearly quivered with the strain, waiting for commands.