“Ruanek,” Spock repeated more softly in entreaty.
The Romulan straightened slowly, warily releasing the pressure on his arm, his glance unreadable. “I’ll be all right.”
“I did not mean—it was my—my condition, not me.”
“I know.” A pause. Ruanek met Spock’s eyes. “I do know.”
The guards, Spock realized, sprawled limply on the floor. Blood pooled beneath the helm of one; the other’s leg jutted at a physiologically impossible angle. “Did I . . . ?”
“Kill them? No. Not,” Ruanek added shortly, “for want of trying. I don’t think any of them had time to get off a warning before you attacked. And you—you tore the gadgetry right out of the walls—no more noise or damned subsonics, hear?” He shook his head in amazement. “Never saw anything like that outside of the vidshows. One against four, and they were the ones outnumbered.”
“Ruanek, my mind may be clear again, but the clarity will not last long. And we have certainly triggered alarms somewhere.”
One of the guards bore a tiny keypad—and had lazily left a code accessible. For the cell door? Or an alarm straight to Dralath’s office? There was no logical alternative but to try. Spock keyed in the code, his fingers reassuringly steady, for once, and pressed the correct button. . . .
Yes! The cell door slid soundlessly open. Within was a blaze of light, and a figure—
Narviat’s worn, weary face was a study in quick contrasts: first, a flash of anger and cold pride, then astonishment, then sheer disbelief and the dawning of hope.
But he had not risen to the rank of admiral by wasting time. Springing to his feet, staggering only slightly, he said, “I have to speak to the people . . . tell them . . .”
Spock all but shoved him toward Ruanek. “Get him to Kerit. Safely. She’ll have the commander’s testimony. The sooner you can break in on the broadcasts . . .” He faced Narviat, trying to see him as “ally,” not “male” and “rival.” “There is something you must know.”
Narviat’s quick glance was wary. “What?”
“Charvanek,” Spock said brusquely. “She has been taken. You will give her rescue the diversion it needs. Now, go!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 9, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, YEAR 2344
Workers lounged in the courtyard outside the office complex, drinking khavas and trying hard not to look as if they were waiting for someone. They almost succeeded, Spock thought, as he emerged.
Recognizing him by his by-now-dusty and disheveled scholarly robes, they came alert, then damped it down. After all, there was nothing unusual about a scholar’s stopping to ask for directions from workers.
“Well?” Jarrin demanded, more sharply than a worker would ask such a man.
“He has been freed.” They hardly needed to know who “he” might be. They might not be warriors, but Romulans had discipline, and they were all too well schooled in the ways of rebellion to shout. But their eyes blazed with relief that Spock found . . . gratifying.
“Now,” Spock continued, “we must be able to say the same for Commander Charvanek. Have any of you been able to confirm her status?”
“In transit,” a woman said tersely. “One of our people just reported a small convoy of vehicles, including a closed groundcar bearing the insignia of General Volskiar, leaving his estate, heading directly to Ki Baratan.”
Obvious, Spock thought. Logically, too obvious. “How many vehicles in the convoy?”
“Three. A military vehicle leading the way, then the closed groundcar, and then a second military vehicle.”
“Were either of the other two vehicles also closed?”
The woman blinked, confused. “Yes, the last one, no windows at all. The driver would have to operate strictly on instruments. But you wouldn’t transport a state prisoner in a wreck like . . . oh. Right.” She grinned, showing teeth but no humor at all.
“Exactly,” Spock said.
A sudden blare of noise brought their heads up, their hands reaching for weapons no one would expect workers to be carrying. Announcements resonated from speakers set all about the courtyard, stating—warning—that Dralath, Praetor of the Romulans, would shortly be making a proclamation, “One to stir the blood and cheer the heart of every true Romulan. All shall make ready to hear!”
“All shall make ready to clog traffic,” Jarrin muttered.
Spock wasn’t really listening. Someone was following them. He subtly waved the others to one side and drew back into the mouth of an alley, waiting—
“It’s me,” a wary voice said.
Ruanek! Yes, and dressed in a remarkably ill-fitting uniform. Spock moved back out of shadow. “I thought you were to accompany Narviat.”
A shrug. “I did, up to a point. We ran into Kerit and some of the others, so I handed him over to her, saw them safely off to their broadcast facilities—such as they are—and decided I’d be more useful here, instead. Caught a soldier off-guard, even if he wasn’t quite my size. At least, now, I’m in uniform. They can’t say I’m a spy.”
“You do not trust me?”
“Hells, no,” Ruanek said bluntly, “not the way you are right now!” But a quick flash of a grin took the sting from the words.
“There is no time for discussion.” Drawing the others into the alley with himself and Ruanek, Spock said, “We need a vehicle. . . .”
As a sleek black groundcar came their way, Spock stepped out in front of it, facing it, coldly rigid as a figure out of myth. He had time for a surge of not-quite-suppressed alarm that the driver, being Romulan and evidently in the service of someone of importance, might speed right over him—
But Spock’s luck—illogical though such a concept might be—held. The startled driver did stop, so suddenly the vehicle nearly slewed sideways. The rebels swarmed over the driver before he could draw a weapon, tearing him from the groundcar. Spock hurried to the passenger side—
And found himself looking into the mouth of a disruptor. “Not you,” said Commander Tal. “Not again.”
A wave of Spock’s hand held back the others. “We cannot waste time. I say only this: We go to free the Noble Born Charvanek from a shameful death. To do it, we need this groundcar. Leave, or be ejected.”
“Tell me your plan,” Tal countered, just as tersely, “or die right now.”
Quickly and concisely, Spock told him, then watched the emotions storm across that narrow, hungry face: Commander Charvanek . . . her betrayal and all the long years of shame . . . Commander Charvanek . . . her life against his . . .
Suddenly the cold eyes blazed. “I must be as mad as you! I’m letting you destroy my life a second time—but damn you, damn you, I—I cannot see my commander die a traitor’s death.”
He hurled himself into the driver’s compartment and seized the controls. Spock and Ruanek barely had time to scramble into the back before Tal sent the groundcar hurtling forward. They sped through the city by the back ways, careening left, right, dodging other vehicles, scraping their sides in showers of sparks. Tal, his lips drawn back in a savage, humorless grin, never once braked. Jim Kirk had driven this recklessly. But recklessness had been part of Jim’s nature. Tal was letting out years of frustration with this madness!
Pedestrians scattered for their lives, shouting curses that penetrated the car’s soundproofing. Ruanek, slammed against Spock and trying to shield his injured arm, did a fair amount of cursing as well. But as they blazed out of Ki Baratan, Spock saw that Ruanek’s lips were peeled back in the same desperate grin as Tal.
They are Romulans, he reminded himself. “Our lives may be ruined, but at least we die in a blaze of glory!”
But not just yet!
Charvanek sat alone in the darkness of the closed ground transport’s back compartment. She refused to continue looking for some means of escape. She already knew there weren’t any. There hadn’t been any when Volskiar’s ship had returned to Romulus. There hadn’t been any when she’d been hustled from the ship to
what she’d guessed from her one brief glimpse of land and sunlight was his estate. And there certainly weren’t any now that she was headed off . . . wherever.
At least, Charvanek thought dourly as they left the estate behind, the transport jouncing a little over potholes, she hadn’t been molested. Charvanek had quite coolly steeled herself for the indignities likely to be inflicted on a woman prisoner, but aside from some malicious whispers the guards had meant for her to overhear, there had been nothing. She was as untouchable as she was invisible.
Of course I am. Dralath doesn’t want his prize damaged in any way.
Logically, it had to be Dralath who now had control over her: It would hardly be politic of him to allow Volskiar a victory procession. Dralath, then, or that cold-blooded head of security, Zerliak, would be sure to interrogate her.
Let them come! This would be her one and only chance to say what she really thought of the praetor and his reign. A small satisfaction before what would, she knew, be an exceedingly unpleasant death. But, Charvanek thought grimly, one took whatever satisfaction one could.
Narviat, do you know what’s become of me? Is your information network that good? A little shiver raced through her. I know how you feel about me, my kinsman. But don’t try anything foolish. Romulus needs you alive.
Do only this, Narviat, my . . . friend: Say the Rites. Remember me.
If she had no escape, at least she had one consolation.
My crew, my eaglets . . . at least you will not face a traitor’s death. You were, they will say, only following orders. You will, at the very worst, be granted swift execution. While I . . .
Akhh, she had another. Her execution would be finite. No matter how agonizing, no matter how drawn out and humiliating, it would, at last, be over.
She would, one way or another, die free.
The road toward Volskiar’s estate ran through a narrow cut between low ridges of rock stripped of ground cover. Where, Spock wondered, was the air support? Were he the one bringing a valuable captive to Ki Baratan, he would have at least one surveillance ship overhead. But Volskiar was impulsive, even for a Romulan. His arrogance, his certainty that no one would dare attack him, was about to recoil on him, Spock thought with a satisfaction too fierce to be strictly logical.
“There,” Spock said suddenly. “Directly ahead: Volskiar’s convoy.”
“I see it,” Tal snapped. “Hells, I approved the route. Get down, both of you.”
The groundcar roared forward at top speed. Whether or not the guards recognized it for Tal’s, they knew themselves to be under attack. Disruptor fire raged about it, scorching it, nearly overturning it, but Tal, eyes like cold flame, kept the vehicle steady.
Outmatched by his determination, the convoy broke apart as, the drivers of all three vehicles fought to avoid a collision with this maniac who was going far, far too fast to be attacked—
The third transport skidded as they raced past it. It struck the rocks edging the road and overturned in a shriek of metal crashing against stone. Finally, it skidded to a stop on one battered side. Tal braked so fiercely that the groundcar nearly flipped over as well, slewing around in a circle, sparks flying.
“Charvanek! Commander!”
The impact had broken the lock and twisted the hinges of the wrecked groundcar’s passenger compartment. They heard a kick from inside, and the door parted. A hand, undeniably feminine, pushed it open the rest of the way. Disheveled but unhurt, Charvanek began to scramble out, already searching for cover. Tal started the groundcar toward her. She stared, recognized her rescuers, laughed, and leaped. Spock caught one arm, Ruanek the other, and they pulled her safely into the car. Charvanek sprawled ignominiously across Ruanek for an instant. As he flushed dark green and Spock fought down a surge of fire at her touch, she managed to squirm into a more dignified position, crowded in next to him on the one seat.
“Get us to Ki Baratan!” Spock snapped.
Tal accelerated with a roar of the groundcar’s overworked engines.
And, in a wild storm of dust and small stones, they were away.
“You three,” Charvanek said, panting, “have talents that I never suspected. No, I am not mocking you! Believe me, I never thought to see freedom again. But . . . what now? Where is Narviat?”
“If all goes as it should,” Spock said, “he is doing what humans call ‘making broadcast history.’ ”
The way Ruanek and the commander raised their eyebrows was, he thought, almost Vulcan.
TWENTY-NINE
KI BARATAN
Narviat, following little Kerit, looked covertly around the featureless corridor in this shabby building in this . . . less refined sector. His mind and body ached with weariness, but damned if he was going to show it. Damned, too, if he was going to show that he knew his mission, no, no, his life lay in the hands of one scrawny, unsocialized little girl-child.
Ruanek, on whom he’d expected to be able to depend, had deposited him unceremoniously into her keeping, then vanished. Narviat did not think Kerit would deliberately betray him. She had too little respect for he’d heard her call “the Authorities” for that. And as far as she was concerned, he, Noble Born admiral or not, was the ultimate rebel.
But what if she just grew bored, or was overwhelmed by the sheer joy of rebellion? What if she—
“We’re here,” Kerit said, and rapped lightly on the rusty door at the corridor’s end.
“Where is ‘here’?”
“Told you. This corridor’s Tech Crew’s, so they can get equipment to and from the studio, you know, without tripping up everyone. No one but the crew knows about this, crew and me, of course.”
“Of course.”
The door opened a crack. A male face, just as skinny and young as Kerit’s own, peeked out.
“Amarik,” she said, “ ’s us. Let us in.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Eyah, fancy! Double-shine! You made it!”
Wonderful. My life is in the hands of slang-talking children.
As Narviat stepped warily into a singularly crowded and downright shabby room—a broadcast studio, by all the Powers—a swarm of curious young people engulfed him. Most of them had lanky hair just this side of Imperial long and wore mismatched clothing that looked old and baggy enough to have belonged to their grandparents. Odd bits of jewelry glinted here and there: an earring made from a disruptor safety clip, a necklace of old computer parts.
My constituents.
Ah well, the young of every generation had to find some way to prove their nonconformity! At least, Narviat thought, the children did seem genuinely delighted to see him. The boy who had opened the door, Amarik, was staring at him in open awe.
“You are Admiral Narviat? I mean, really?”
“Course he is,” Kerit muttered. “Don’t be stupid, Amarik.”
Amarik ran a hand nervously through stringy black hair that badly needed washing. “You gotta understand, uh, sir, this is just too—like—you know, double-shine! You—I mean, I’ve been tracking you, what you’ve done, been doing—”
“And that is . . . ?” Narviat asked, very carefully.
“Surviving.” The boy flushed, but continued, “Can’t be easy for you, being who and what you are, you know? A real balancing act. Especially with You Know Who in charge. And yet you not only stay alive, you, you know, speak up for us, the nobodies. Not easy, sir. And we—well, uh, we appreciate it. Honor to you, and—and all that.”
So-o! Narviat thought, seeing the sharp intelligence in the young eyes. Serves me right for judging by exteriors alone. This child is no fool. He dipped his head in courtesy. “One does what one can.”
“Right, and—and—well, look, we’ve got a broadcast setup here, just a small one, licensed program, though: ‘Romulus Roars,’ that’s us. You’ve . . . heard of us?”
“I rarely have the time to watch broadcasts of any sort,” Narviat told him solemnly.
“Right. Stupid of me. Well, anyway, the Powers That Be let us live, we’re
too small to bother them. We, uh, kind of tiptoe ’round subversive with our stuff, try to plant the seeds, you know?”
“Stuff,” Narviat repeated.
Amarik’s grin was quick and sharp. “Take a look. They toss out new gear all the time. Top of the line we’ve got here, even if it’s put together from other stuff.”
Narviat admitted to himself that he was hardly a technician. But from what little he did know, the hybrid network of equipment there amid the clutter did look amazingly advanced and, unlike anything else in the room, meticulously maintained. “Has Kerit told you what I need?” he asked. “What we need?”
“Needs a break-in,” Kerit said with a grin. “Into the middle of You Know Who’s broadcast.”
Amarik blinked, staring. “Eeee. You don’t think small. No, damn, course you wouldn’t.”
Narviat eyed him skeptically. “Can you do it?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Or,” Narviat prodded, “are you capable only of pornographic stunts?”
Amarik flushed, looking accusingly at Kerit. “He knows it was us?”
She shrugged. The boy licked his lips nervously, glanced at Narviat, glanced at the studio equipment, glanced at Narviat again. And all at once the nervousness was gone. All at once Amarik was as deadly serious as a man twice his age.
“This is it, then? This is when it begins.”
“This is when it begins,” Narviat agreed. “And, I hope, where. Can you do this? You will be going up against the most sophisticated equipment at the praetor’s command.”
Amarik ran a hand absently through his hair again. “Eeee. I—”
“Think of it as a challenge,” Narviat goaded.
“Yes!” Kerit cut in impatiently. “We can. Trick of it is, you don’t go face-to-face with the big stuff, you just slide under or around it! I know how, honest.”
“She does,” Amarik agreed. “Kerit here’s the best.”
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