STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  “It is Narviat who should be praetor! Narviat!”

  Stopping here, there, even leaping up onto a low column for a daring moment, the Vulcan all but forced the crowd through sheer willpower into a chant of:

  “Down with Dralath! Narviat for praetor! Narviat! Narviat!”

  Yes, yes, and there were some of the Underground in that crowd: Arket and Ruanek and—oh, Fates guide her, that was surely Charvanek, free, but in the heart of all that new peril! Yes, and there were who knew how many of the others, helping the Vulcan, leading the shouts:

  “Narviat! Narviat! Narviat!”

  Narviat’s first thought was Damn him, he’s going to get himself killed. His second was Damn him indeed: He’s stealing my moment! “I must get out there! Don’t argue! What have you got for a disguise? A cloak, a blanket—curse it, there must be something—yes!”

  The cloak was old and reeked of developing fluids, but Narviat didn’t care. Flanked by his youthful army, he plunged out into the mob.

  Dralath caught an attendant by the throat, dragged the man to him. “Get this damned studio makeup off me! Hurry, curse you! And you—yes, curse it, you! Get my advisors in here if you have to drag them in, yes, and Zerliak, too—Watch it, you idiot,” he snarled at the trembling attendant trying to remove the makeup, “that’s my eye! I don’t want to look like that weepy traitor.”

  He shoved the man away as the advisors scurried in. “There you are, you miserable excuses for aides: What do you make of that, eh? Eh? That’s a mob out there, if you hadn’t noticed, and it’s chanting Narviat’s name! What now, idiots?”

  “You, uh, you must make a public announcement, my Praetor,” one of them began.

  “An announcement? Do you think I’m going to make that traitor’s words and that cursed tape go away with a pretty little announcement? Assuming, of course, that whoever’s sending that illegal broadcast actually lets my signal through—dammit, why hasn’t someone tracked down that broadcast source yet?”

  “It, uh, keeps changing, my Praetor. It . . . even was, uh, routed through your own offices at one point.”

  “The fires burn you all!” As Dralath stalked about the room, advisors stumbled over each other to get out of his way. “Have I not one competent aide on the entire planet? That’s enough,” he added to the attendant who was frantically trailing him, dabbing at his face with a makeup sponge. “I said, enough! Zerliak!”

  The head of Security saluted with crisp I, at least, am a professional perfection. “My Praetor.”

  “Get the emperor here, now!”

  “Ah, my Praetor, the doctor has just, uh, given him his medication. He may not be in any condition to—”

  “I don’t care if he has to be carried here and propped up against a stake! I need him! I am going to make an announcement, all right, but it is going to be a public appearance, out there on the Praetor’s Balcony.”

  “But is that safe?”

  Dralath whirled on the advisor who’d dared ask that, staring at him with such cold, calculating rage that the advisor sagged, knowing he’d just destroyed himself.

  “Safe?” Dralath spat. “Those are my people out there, rioting with another man’s name on their lips, and you’re worried about safe? I am going to make that public appearance to show the populous that yes, I am alive, and yes, I am well, and yes, damn them all, I am still very much the head of this government! And Emperor Shiarkiek will be at my side to prove it!”

  Sanity was but one thin, shimmering ribbon of light almost lost amid the flames, but Spock held fast to that ribbon, telling the Underground clustering around him in the mob, “Dralath must make an appearance. It is only logical. But where?”

  “There,” Ruanek cut in. “That’s the Praetor’s Balcony, over-looking the Square of Heroes, where he makes all his personal appearances.”

  Spock studied it as best he could while the crowds swirled about him, their emotions a hot blaze engulfing him, tempting him with mindless, illogical, satisfying violence—

  No, I will not surrender! No, I will not strike out every time they jostle me! I will hold on, just this short, short while longer. And then . . . then if need be, Liviana can find me and give me the Final Honor, and I will be at peace. . . .

  Just a little longer.

  “Can you get us through?” he asked Ruanek.

  “Not easily, but yes.”

  But where is Narviat? I felt certain this would draw him. But if he is not here, all this is for nothing!

  “What in the name of all the fates are you doing?” a voice said in his ear, and after the first startled instant, he recognized the voice: Narviat, after all.

  “Ah, you are here. Perfect.”

  But Narviat’s attention was all on the slender figure at Spock’s side. “Charvanek . . .” he breathed. “I did see you. They did get you out. You’re safe.”

  Her raised eyebrow paid tribute to his worn and stained disguise. “Safe as possible under the circumstances,” she said after a long moment.

  “Which,” Spock cut in, “are not likely to improve—”

  “Unless I act,” Narviat finished, pulling the hood of his disreputable cloak further forward to hide his face. “Agreed. The Praetor’s Balcony, I take it?”

  Ruanek nodded. “We need a diversion.”

  Arket grinned. “Leave that to us. You’ll have one!”

  The route Ruanek followed took Spock, Narviat, Charvanek, with Tal in wary attendance, as well as several members of the Underground, through a convoluted new maze of bureaucratic corridors.

  Necessarily convoluted, Spock told himself sternly. The fewer guards we encounter, the better.

  His head was pounding painfully, and he could not seem to find the control to will the pain away. The wild blood surged in his ears, distorting his hearing, and the Fires blazed within him, confusing his vision.

  Keep going, Spock thought, simply keep going. There is an end to everything.

  There was a time of no thought at all, only vague snatches of having fought this guard or that, and he was—

  —clear-minded again, with a shocking suddenness, knowing only that he had not lost awareness for very long. But what had happened in that time? Where were they?

  And . . . what have I done? Spock consoled himself, It could not have been anything so terrible, or the others would surely still be reacting. I—we—disabled some guards, then, no more.

  I did not kill.

  I trust I did not.

  The others . . . he could not be sure. A knife glinted in Narviat’s hand, others in Ruanek’s and Tal’s. None of them were under the restraints of Vulcan morality. Ruanek’s face was pale; his wounded arm must be paining him. But his eyes were grimly determined.

  If he can hold out, Spock thought with the weariest flash of irony, so can I.

  Ah. They were in a wider corridor, and Spock could see the bright glare of daylight at its far end. “Up ahead,” Ruanek mouthed. “Dralath.”

  Sure enough, there he was, trailed by an entourage of guards and attendants, two of whom were virtually carrying a tall, lean figure who sagged in their arms.

  “The emperor!” Charvanek breathed.

  “He looks drugged,” Ruanek added in horror.

  “He is,” Narviat snapped. “And I will see their blood for it!”

  Dralath was stepping out onto the wide balcony.

  We need that distraction!

  And they got it. As Dralath appeared, he was greeted by the rest of the Underground, infiltrating the crowd, and by what sounded like the entire crew of “Romulus Roars,” their shrill young voices rising above the others.

  “Down with Dralath!”

  “Dralath Child-Killer!”

  “Narviat for Praetor!”

  “Narviat! Narviat! Narviat!”

  “Now,” Spock snapped, and charged.

  The guards, Dralath in their midst, were all watching the commotion below—a fatal mistake as the Underground rushed them from behind. Knives flashed, men
and women fell, and Spock smelled the coppery tang of blood, saw the deaths, ached to killkillkill—

  “No!” he gasped, and hurled a guard aside hard enough to stun but not, he hoped, break bones. “I . . . will . . . not . . . kill!”

  A second guard rushed him, and Spock hit him sharply on the side of the head with the flat of his hand, felling the man. A third guard—but Ruanek cut this one down, hissing to Spock, “Stay back! I know you are ill—shouldn’t fight—stay back!”

  How could he stay out of this battle? The guards—

  But the guards were already overcome, and Dralath bowed his head in seeming surrender . . .

  Only to straighten, smiling fiercely, a disruptor pistol aimed at point-blank range directly at Narviat.

  Everyone on the balcony froze. Down in the square, the wild turmoil continued, but it seemed a light-year removed; here, there was only intense silence. Narviat very carefully raised his hands, smiling as if to say, Ah well, at least I tried. Dralath’s finger began to tighten. . . .

  A sudden sharp giggle rang out: the emperor. Dralath’s startled glance shifted—and Spock lunged, shouting at Narviat, “Down!” As Spock grappled with Dralath, trying to tear the disruptor from him without lashing out in a lethal move from tal-shaya, the praetor fired. Spock forced his arm up, and the blast raked the far wall, sending hot stone splinters flying. Narviat, who’d dropped to hands and knees, lunged up from the floor, crushing Dralath back against the near wall, beating his hand against the stone till Dralath, cursing, lost his grip on the weapon.

  “Someone hold on to this filth,” Narviat said shortly, and stepped back as the Underground rushed in to engulf Dralath. “Thank you,” he added to Spock, who dipped his head. Dropping the disreputable cloak and straightening his clothes and hair with hasty hands, Narviat told everyone, “Now, excuse me. I have work to do.”

  Face carefully composed, he stepped to the front of the balcony, and a roar went up from the crowd below, from the guards—who were not averse to suddenly changing sides—as well as the civilians.

  Now it is his moment, Spock thought, and I can finally—

  But Dralath was watching him intently. “Who are you?” Dralath asked, and again, more urgently, “Who are you?”

  Who, indeed? “The Eater of Souls,” Spock said, and withdrew into the shadows. A Vulcan must not be seen by the people, for here on Romulus, except to a very few, he could not exist except as an enemy. Tal noted—but Tal, face impassive, turned away: His loyalty now lay utterly with Charvanek again, and he would do nothing that might harm her in any way.

  Meanwhile, Narviat had slipped easily back into the politician’s role, his voice, Spock thought, smooth as rich cream, his face that of a loving father.

  “You all know me by now.”

  “Narviat!” they obligingly shouted back. Some of them added, “Praetor Narviat!”

  “That is as may be. But you know only part of why I am here. I have already told you of Dralath’s crimes, of his most terrible treason. There is nothing I could add to that; his crimes of murder, of corruption, of greed and utter disregard for all things a Romulan holds honorable speak for themselves.

  “But I do not wish you to think I am alone in making these charges. Commander Charvanek, if you would?”

  She moved to his side, as dignified in her prison garb as though she still wore her uniform. “I was there,” Charvanek said. “At the cowardly attack on Narendra III. Listen, and I shall tell you of a Klingon elder—yes, a Klingon, a grandfather, who proved far more honorable than any Romulan that day. Listen, too, and I shall tell you of the Federation’s gallant Enterprise, of hundreds who died that day in the effort to stave off that massacre.

  “Listen, and I shall tell you of Romulans who laughed at the very mention of honor!”

  As Charvanek continued to tell her side of the Narendra III story, Spock silently congratulated her. How delicately she avoided the fact that she had attacked Romulan ships!

  “Do you hear the words of this brave woman?” Narviat demanded. “Do you hear them?”

  He waited just long enough for the predictable shouts of “Yes!” and “Glory to Commander Charvanek!”

  “And do you know how treacherous Dralath rewarded her for her bravery?” Narviat continued. “With prison!”

  “No!” the crowd roared.

  “With accusations of treason!”

  “No!

  “Does that seem terrible enough? But there is more, my friends. Dralath, treacherous Dralath, rewarded this brave commander with a sentence of death!”

  “No!” It was a collective scream this time.

  “Dralath is the traitor!”

  “Kill Dralath!”

  “She is a traitor!” Dralath shouted, struggling in his captors’ grips. “Listen to me, you idiots! This woman you revere fired on our own warbirds!”

  But no one save those on the balcony heard him.

  “And as further proof, were proof needed, of Dralath’s crimes,” Narviat continued in a voice that shook ever so slightly, “see what he has done to our beloved emperor!”

  With the help of Charvanek and two assistants, the old man was gently brought forward, head lolling, clearly unable to speak.

  “Drugged . . .” The murmur swept the crowd. “Dralath drugged him . . . Dralath tried to kill the emperor! Dralath tried to kill the emperor!”

  Narviat threw up both arms in a deliberately theatrical gesture, glorying in his control over the crowd. “No!” he commanded, and the crowd, startled, fell silence. “We are not beasts, my friends, we are not madmen. We are Romulans, people of honor. We do not descend to mob frenzy.”

  That was clearly the signal the “Romulus Roars” crew had been awaiting. “Praetor Narviat!” they began. “Praetor Narviat!”

  Others in the crowd took it up. “Praetor Narviat!”

  Now they were all shouting it. “Praetor Narviat! Praetor Narviat! Praetor—”

  They fell silent as he threw up his arms again. “If such is truly the will of the people.”

  “It is!”

  “Praetor Narviat!”

  “Yes!”

  Narviat slowly lowered his arms. “Then—I accept.”

  He waited for the cheers to die down, then added, “I hereby decree a new regime not of terror and shame but of honor! And as my first act as your praetor, my friends, I place under arrest that traitor known as Dralath!”

  This time the cheers had a bloodthirsty edge to them. Narviat let them continue just long enough, then said, “I declare today a day of holiday! Go, my friends, enjoy yourself. But forgive me for not joining you just yet. There is much to be done in this our bright new order!”

  Well done, Spock thought, oh, most well done. But how much of that do you actually believe?

  Clearly more than Dralath did. Narviat paused before the former praetor, studying him.

  “So,” Dralath spat. “Am I to be sent a sword? Or will I take my place in your cell? I warn you, I will be avenged. Your life will never be safe.”

  Narviat shrugged. “At least I will not have you to bother me. Commander Jarok.” He turned to a stocky officer with a bruise on one jowl. “Will you kindly lend me a disruptor?”

  But Ruanek moved to block Narviat’s path. Voice soft but urgent, he said, “Sir, no. Forgive me, but you cannot start your reign with murder. That—that is Dralath’s way.”

  “Damn you.” Narviat’s growl was almost too soft even for Vulcan ears. “Damn you, you’re right.” Raising his voice, instantly all politic smoothness, Narviat proclaimed, “I shall not stain my administration with cold-blooded murder. There shall be an honorable trial of criminal Dralath in accordance with our sacred customs.”

  There was a suddenly flurry of alarm, cries of, “Watch out! He’s got a disruptor!”

  Dralath! He’d taken advantage of the few moments of inatten-ion to kick and bite his way free, then grab a weapon. He fired, fired again, filling the air with shards of stone and the reek of vaporize
d flesh. Amid the screams and smoke, Dralath shouted, “Code Four Five One—now!”

  He was suddenly surrounded by the shimmering of a transporter effect—and in the next moment, was gone.

  Narviat spat an oath. “We should have expected this. He was devious enough to have made contingency plans. Much harm may they do him!”

  With a savage sigh, he turned to Charvanek. “Take charge of our kinsman the emperor until we can get a surgeon we trust for him, will you, my cousin?”

  She cast a glance at the wavering old man, another at Spock, and set two fingers on Narviat’s wrist. He covered them gently with his hand, but shook his head.

  “Must I ask you twice?”

  Whatever else Narviat might be to her, he was now her commanding officer. Charvanek turned obediently to support the emperor, Tal in attendance.

  Spock tried to rouse at that, tried to summon the strength to manage his own escape. But he had done too much, fought too hard. Now Narviat could rid himself of the Vulcan who should never have been there at all.

  At least I have helped in Dralath’s defeat, Spock thought. Even though no one will ever know the entire role I played, the Federation and the Empire both are free from his plots.

  At least I have that much satisfaction.

  Then Plak-tow, the blood fever, engulfed him, and Spock felt himself sag against the nearest wall.

  And then he thought and felt nothing more.

  THIRTY-ONE

  ROMULUS, THE NEUTRAL ZONE AND FEDERATION SPACE, STAR DATE 21163.4

  Ruanek followed Narviat’s glance to where Spock stood . . .

  No. Not stood. What he saw turned Ruanek’s spine to ice. In the shuddering figure who leaned against a wall, his fingers steepled, no one would ever have recognized the Vulcan ambassador, the Romulan academician, the Starfleet veteran whose life was still forfeit to the Empire on charges of espionage—or the brave man who helped the Empire regain its honor. Some of its honor.

  He can’t stay here! Ruanek thought with a surge of near panic.

  Narviat was a man of honor—but honor could be stretched too far. It would be dangerous for a new praetor to admit he’d been aided by a Vulcan, and downright fatal to admit that said Vulcan had helped him to his office. What easier way to be rid of the danger than to claim that Spock carried some deadly, highly communicable disease?