STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

Narviat sat down suddenly, all at once drained and hopeless as he hadn’t been while in prison. “With what?” he asked wearily. “What evidence do we have?”

  Amarik stared. “Didn’t anyone tell you? Admiral, we have the tape, the whole blood-burn tape, the truth, you know? About Narendra III—what really happened! I, uh, I think Commander Charvanek taped the whole thing herself during the battle.”

  Charvanek . . . Liviana . . . hold on.

  “Uh . . . Admiral?”

  Maybe his weariness wasn’t that well hidden after all. With a nod of thanks to Amarik, he accepted a grimy cup of what looked like khavas, despite the iridescent sludge floating on its surface. It went down like acid, but at least it was hot.

  “Got this, too,” Kerit said shyly. “Saw this get dropped. You know, when you were arrested. Thought you might need it.”

  She slipped a little package into his hands. Inside . . . Narviat’s breath caught in his throat. Therakith’s marriage bracelet, and with it . . . “Oh Powers . . .” With it were the delicate strands of hair from the scholar’s murdered babies.

  “Admiral . . . ?”

  “We will do it,” he said. “We will bring Dralath down.”

  “All right, then!” Amarik yelped. “Come on, we gotta get started before You Know Who does! Come on, all you dreebs, stop staring at me. ‘Romulus Roars’ is about to do a very special broadcast!”

  * * *

  Dralath had planned his personal appearance very carefully. His hair was elegantly groomed but not too precisely styled, his uniform tailored to be flattering without being totally severe. All in all, he thought, glancing into the mirror held by his fearful dresser, perfect: a living being, not a godlike icon—a paternal figure who would see that all would go very well for his children.

  “Yes,” he said, shooing away the dresser with a wave of his hand and taking his place before the cameras there in the main conference hall. “I am ready.”

  Dralath took a steadying breath, waiting for the technician’s signal: Now!

  Keeping his voice smooth and friendly, Dralath began, “My comrades, my fellow Romulans,” knowing the words were going out over the entire world, over all the planetary data links and viewscreens, “today I come before you with joyous news. A potential threat to the security of our homeworlds has been eradicated. Thanks in part to the heroic deeds of—”

  Frantic activity was going on behind the scenes. Dralath swept his hand brusquely across his chest, signaling a stop and snapped, “What is it?”

  The technicians glanced at him in utter terror. “An override, mmy praetor,” one of them stammered out. “Someone’s sending an illegal broadcast out over our signal.”

  “Then cut him off, idiot! Locate him, cut him off, and I shall have the traitor eliminated!”

  Dralath sat there, fuming, while the technicians worked feverishly, swearing at each other under their breaths as they tried frequency after frequency. Suddenly, the interloper’s voice thundered through the room, calm, reasonable, and persuasive. Dralath sprang to his feet.

  Narviat!

  The children had found Narviat a prop tunic that looked almost like the real thing once it was pinned in place. They had cleared a wall, plain and unornamented, for his backdrop. Good enough, Narviat thought. No theatrical setting needed. What I have to say is dramatic enough.

  He endured while Amarik, behind the camera, and Kerit, at the keyboard, counted down the seconds till: Now!

  “Romulans,” Narviat began gently, “for those of you who may not recognize me, I am Admiral Narviat, retired from the Imperial fleet and now a member-at-liberty of His Imperial Majesty’s government.”

  He glanced at Amarik and the skinny boy who was the sound tech, and got enthusiastic nods from them both: The broadcast was sending perfectly, sliding on top of Dralath’s signal.

  “I trust that some of you do know me,” Narviat continued smoothly, “and know too that I honor our people and our homeworlds.”

  Amarik, with beautiful timing, tightened the focus so that there could be no mistake to anyone watching. Never mind the lack of insignia, the shadows under the eyes: This was no trick; this actually was Narviat.

  “I was reluctant to come before you. Reluctant, since it is always difficult to be the messenger of tragic news. But speak I must.” Surprising himself at the genuine horror that was slipping into his voice, Narviat said into the camera, “For—is not treason always tragic? Particularly when it is treason against the Romulan people—against all of you! It is our praetor who has betrayed us. I do not say this lightly. I would not lie about so serious an issue. But I cannot conceal this truth!

  “Praetor Dralath has acted in a cowardly, dangerous manner. He has attacked, and attacked without provocation not warriors, not those able to defend themselves. He has attacked Narendra III, a Klingon outpost, yes—but a civilian base! I swear to this on my honor as a member of His Imperial Majesty’s House: Our noble praetor has murdered unarmed women, he has murdered children, he has made war on weak, helpless, dishonorable targets!

  “Hear me, my people. It is your gold that went toward this murder, the gold that should have fed and housed Romulan citizens! It is your honor that has been bought and sold!

  “But there is yet another horror to tell. In the process of murdering the helpless, Praetor Dralath has lost no fewer than four warbirds! Four warbirds and all their crews—How many of your children, how many of your husbands or wives will never return from that shameful action?

  “Ask yourself this, my people: How many brave Romulan warriors have died for no reason—no reason, that is, save for the cause of Praetor Dralath’s vanity?” Kerit was signaling to him, We have it! “And, lest you doubt my word,” Narviat continued smoothly, “here is the proof, taken at the very heart of the massacre—taken by one who the praetor dared call traitor, but who you will see is the truest of Romulans! I call her name: Commander Charvanek!”

  So blazing with anger he could not stand still, Dralath paced the conference room. I will kill you, I swear it, Narviat, I will tear you apart myself!

  “Find him!” he shouted. “Find that thrice-damned Narviat and whatever scum of a broadcast pirate is helping him. Find him and silence him!”

  “But . . . my praetor . . .”

  Dralath almost casually backhanded the technician who had dared say even that much across the face. “Be glad that my hand held no knife,” the praetor snarled at him as he cringed. “No excuses! Is that understood, all of you? There can be no excuses!

  “Find me that traitor! Silence him—or by all the twisted fates, I will have you put to death, one by one!

  “Silence Narviat now!”

  Narviat was dimly aware of Kerit, giggling to herself like a manic creature of legend, as she jumped their signal from frequency to frequency, always keeping one step ahead of their pursuers. His head was pounding fiercely by now. But he dared not stop. As long as Amarik was waving to him, Open air, go on, he could not waste this precious chance to get his message across.

  “Do you believe me?” he asked his unseen audience. “Do you believe me now that you have seen the evidence shown to you? Or do you, can you possibly, think the whole tape but a sham? Come now, let me show you more so there can be no doubt at all! Let me pile horror on horror, not out there in the darkness of space, but here at home, here in the very heart of our homeworld! Let me tell you of a scholar, an honest, innocent scholar and his family, tell you how Praetor Dralath decided to degrade this family. He took the wife and children hostage, did Praetor Dralath, with a promise to the scholar: ‘Spy for me, and I shall free your family.’ What could he do, that scholar, but obey? But then, but then . . . then the praetor lied. Then the praetor showed himself of no honor, none! For he murdered those innocents, wife, children.

  “Do you wish proof?” Gently, Narviat took out the strands of fine baby hair he had removed from the belt of the guard who’d done the murders. “Do you see this? See how delicate it is, how silky? Do you see this b
aby hair, torn from the scalp of . . . of . . .”

  It hit him then, that murdered baby, robbed of life almost before it had begun, that loving family destroyed, Therakith and his final, anguished courage . . . To his utter horror, Narviat realized that he was on the verge of weeping, as he had not been during all the years of combat, as he had not been during his time in Dralath’s cell, as he had not been . . . since the day so many years ago . . . when his own wife and heir had died in what had been called an accident, a stupid, senseless transport accident . . .

  Discipline, Narviat told himself. He must continue. Exhaustion and old grief were not excuses for failure.

  “Dralath m-murdered the family.” He must not break; Powers, he must not weep on screen! “The—the scholar, the scholar slew himself . . . h-he died in my arms . . .”

  No. He could not go on. A hand over his eyes, Narviat waved desperately to Amarik with the other, End it!

  “And . . . clear,” he heard the boy say. But for a time Narviat could not move, head bent, both hands, fisted, over his eyes, fiercely willing the tears away.

  You idiot! You weak, timorous idiot! What type of image did you just project to the whole planet?

  At last he dared straighten, thinking, Ah well, it was a good run while it lasted.

  The youngsters were all staring at him. Not surprising, since they could never have dreamed of seeing a military man, a retired admiral no less, break down like this. But Narviat realized with a jolt that they were all wide-eyed not in shock or dismay, but with genuine awe. He heard one of them murmur something about,

  “Such courage . . .”

  Courage!

  Little Kerit was suddenly at his side, looking up at him, her eyes burning. “That was the bravest thing I have ever seen,” she told him earnestly. “I mean, nothing fake there, nothing lying—you let them all see you, how you really felt—you even let them see you weep! Now, that’s really brave: You’re so strong you can even afford to let them see you weep!” Kerit snorted. “Can’t see the stupid praetor ever being half that brave.”

  Ah. Well.

  At least I still have these allies, Narviat thought with heavy irony. An army. Of children.

  As they reentered Ki Baratan, Tal slackened the groundcar’s mad speed to a saner one. Swearing under his breath, he made some quick adjustments to the controls, then pounded the control panel angrily and slowed yet again. “We aren’t going to get much further in this vehicle.”

  “Overheating?” Ruanek asked.

  “To the point of burnout . . . damn. We walk from here.”

  Spock sprang from the groundcar. “We must make haste. Dralath must already have begun his proclamation.”

  Haste, yes. The rescue, all that violent action, might indeed be holding back the Fires, but one could, Spock thought wryly, only fight off Nature so long: The respite this time was going to be far shorter, he could feel that very plainly, and the backlash would be so much the stronger.

  At least I have accomplished this much. At least Charvanek will not die a traitor.

  She held up a hand, demanding, “What about my crew?”

  “We don’t know where they’re being held,” Ruanek began.

  Spock waved him to silence. “If we succeed, they will be freed. You must be content with your own freedom for now.”

  Had that been too curt? Charvanek eyed him strangely as they wove their way through the maze of streets, heading towards the Central Court.

  “What?” Spock asked.

  “I thought, I hoped you had left. Yes, I know, that is a hopelessly illogical thought, but . . .” Charvanek studied him again, bit her lip, then leaned toward him. “Know this.” It was a murmur too soft for Ruanek and Tal to hear. “If it—when it—when you can no longer endure, I—I will give you the last mercy a friend can grant.”

  “Final Honor.”

  “You—” She swallowed dryly. “You shall not suffer madness, exposure, or humiliation.”

  “Charvanek . . .” And then, more softly, “Liviana . . .” But he dared not look at her, and there was nothing else to say but, “Thank you. I do not need that mercy yet.”

  Ruanek frowned, looking around, his hand resting nervously on the hilt of his knife. “Streets are too empty for this time of day. Where is everyone?”

  Spock shrugged. “An illicit broadcast cannot be common. Doubtless, everyone is watching Narviat.”

  “He can be persuasive,” Charvanek murmured. “But where is he?”

  Ruanek glanced at her. “ ‘Romulus Roars.’ ”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “An interesting metaphor, but—”

  “It’s a program, one of those, uh, ‘angry young people letting off steam’ types of shows. Borderline legal.”

  “And you listen to it?” Charvanek murmured with the barest touch of weary humor.

  “I,” Ruanek said with immense dignity, “like the music.”

  “I think we’ve found our crowds,” Tal cut in. “Listen.”

  Ahead was a muted roar that could only be a disturbed crowd on the verge of turning into a mob. Spock hurried forward, Charvanek at his side and Ruanek and Tal behind—and found out in one startled moment why no one had been on the streets.

  “What,” Charvanek gasped, “has Narviat done?”

  THIRTY

  KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 9, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, YEAR 2344

  What Narviat had done, Spock thought, was obvious: he had created utter chaos.

  Spock, Charvanek, Ruanek, and Tal fought their way out across the city square through a frenzied crowd and a descending storm of the praetor’s guards. The four of them dodged frantic fists and the guards’ truncheons, working across to the relative safety of an alley. There, panting, Spock glanced up at a viewscreen in time to see a replay of Narviat’s broadcast: Narviat, face anguished, stammering out broken words about Therakith’s murdered babies, the murdered family.

  He weeps. That is not feigned emotion. This once, Narviat is revealing his true, honest inner self. Will he ever forgive himself, I wonder, for exposing it?

  It had been enough, the final spark to ignite the smoldering unrest in the city, possibly over all of Romulus, into mob hysteria. All around him, people were shouting, screaming, crying out in pain or anger. Spock struggled to block the surging waves of emotion from his mind, struggled not to respond, struggled not to join the chaos—

  No! I am not yet mindless! We must tame this wildness, control and shape it. Otherwise, Dralath will deploy his heavy armaments, and there will be a massacre—we cannot allow that! There is no Surak here to keep the Empire from tearing itself and its people apart.

  “There!” Spock snapped at Ruanek. “Is that shopkeeper not one of the Underground? We need him, and as many of the others as we can reach.”

  Ruanek glanced at him, angry at the autocratic tone, then quickly registered the truth: Spock did not mean to command him, but dared not, for the sake of what sanity remained to him, plunge into that chaos himself. “Right,” Ruanek said without argument. “Good idea.”

  He charged off through the crowds, quickly snagged his target by the arm, and nearly dragged the man back with him. This was, Spock remembered, Arket, a merchant with the wiry build of an athlete—and right now, a startled, angry one. “Subcommander! Let go of me, dammit, Ruanek! What in the name of all the fates do you—Symakhos? What is going on?”

  “We cannot allow a bloodbath,” Spock told him tersely. “For the crowd’s sake, for ours, we must direct the mob’s mind.”

  “How—”

  “Do not argue! Can you locate any of the other members of the Underground?”

  Arket nodded. “We were starting to gather to meet with Admiral Narviat when”—he gestured—“all that exploded. Even so,” he added hastily, watching Spock’s face, “I can still collect us all in one place quickly enough.”

  “Excellent. Here, then, is what you must do. . . .”

  Narviat glanced impatiently about at his young admirers. “We have to
know what’s happening out there! Amarik, can’t you get us an outside view?”

  The boy pounced on a keyboard. “Sure can. We have . . . well, let’s just say we can preempt a few cameras. Tricky, but . . .”

  “Tricky’s us,” Kerit said, and pushed Amarik aside, taking over the keyboard. “Here, I’m quicker at this. Wait . . . getting something . . .”

  “Eeee!” Amarik yelped. “Would you look at that! You’ve started a dark-blood riot out there, Admiral! Here,” he added as Narviat rushed to his side. “Look at this screen. View’s focused right on the main square.”

  It took Narviat a few moments to make any sense out of the swirling mass: commoners, merchants, even some of the lesser nobility, and through it all, Dralath’s guards, helmed, their truncheons rising and falling with grim efficiency. But the crowds were growing, and Narviat thought in horror that it was just a matter of time before the guards drew disruptors and the square became a battleground.

  Powers help us all, I didn’t want this! “He’ll kill them all! I’ve got to—”

  But then Narviat froze, staring. “Amarik! Kerit! One of you, get me a close-up!” He stabbed at the screen. “There! Hurry!”

  No mistaking that face: The Vulcan! But he no longer looked even remotely like the solemn academician. For an instant, Narviat stood in speechless astonishment. Such elegant ferocity, such fierce, terrible dignity—

  I could almost believe I watched a noble from the homeworld’s ancient past! What madness is this . . . ?

  But then Narviat recovered and snapped, “Sound, give me—”

  The sudden blare from the speakers made everyone jump. Amarik made some hasty adjustments, and they heard the Vulcan’s voice ring out over the roar of the crowd, cold and clear as the edge of a blade, the voice of one trained to be heard.

  “It is Narviat who shows courage, true courage!”

  He was never in one place for more than a few moments, never long enough for Dralath’s guards to reach him. And each time he paused, the Vulcan shouted anew: