STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  But the way Spock is now . . . how can he ever hope to escape?

  Ruanek’s mind answered him, unbidden, Would you trust him with a ship?

  No, of course not. Spock was very clearly not fit.

  So, Ruanek’s mind continued with relentless logic, someone has to go with him. No, you must go with him. Get him home to Vulcan where they can help . . . where he has his only chance for life—

  Leave the Empire? Defect? Ruanek thought in shock, No Romulan has ever defected!

  But it wouldn’t be a defection . . . would it?

  “Sir,” Ruanek said softly to Narviat before he could talk himself out of it, “please hear me.” Ignoring the praetor’s impatient glare, he hurried on, “We both know that, ah, Symakhos cannot remain here. But he—I—” Desperately, Ruanek continued, “I will not stain my honor with his death, nor will I allow you to stain your own.”

  For an instant, staring into Narviat’s suddenly chill eyes, he was sure he’d gone too far. Stupid, unbelievably stupid, to lecture the new praetor not once but twice, and the Empire punished stupidity almost as ruthlessly as treachery.

  But to his surprise, it was Narviat’s gaze that dropped. “Do you know what you say?”

  Ruanek’s wounds ached just enough to be nagging. In fact his whole body and even his mind ached. Just then he would have liked nothing more than to hide in some safe corner where he could collapse. Where he could avoid agonizing decisions.

  Instead, Ruanek forced his reluctant body to military attention. “Yes, sir, I do. I mean to get him home.”

  “But you—Ruanek, the law is as it is, and I—I cannot make an exception: If you leave the Empire, if you land on some Federation world, you can never return.”

  Oh Fates. He’d forgotten about that law. To give it up, everything . . .

  Such as what? A chance for promotion, weighted against the betrayal of a friend? “Who better to go?” Ruanek countered. “I have no immediate family, sir. I am of a very minor house and have no personal ties. Not now.” How can you sound so calm about this? his mind screamed at him. You are destroying all your life! Frantically trying to convince himself as well as Narviat, Ruanek burst out, “Would you not give your life for your people?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “Well then, so would I give my life for a friend!”

  For a long moment Narviat was silent. But other voices were calling for their new praetor, military and politicians alike in urgent need of direction, and he spat out an oath and turned away. “I don’t have time for this now! Charvanek, would you kindly see that our gallant commander fully understands what he’s volunteered for?”

  Ruanek almost corrected the praetor yet again, almost reminded him, That’s “subcommander,” sir. But Narviat had known exactly what he’d said: Commander. Instant promotion. Instant shift of patronage, too.

  Narviat knew how to turn the knife in the wound.

  Oh no, don’t do this to me. Don’t make the choice even more painful. I always swore, my life for the Empire, but this is hardly what I had in mind.

  And Commander Charvanek—akhh, so recently freed from sentence of death herself, she hardly needed to be burdened with his troubles!

  But Charvanek, after a quick, startled glance at Narviat, gently detached His Imperial Majesty’s hand from her arm, murmuring soothingly to him, and entrusted him, still weaving from the drugs Dralath had fed him, to the medical officer now standing at her shoulder. She saluted the emperor as if he possessed all his faculties and all his power. Then she moved to Ruanek’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  It was a warrior’s grip. “You come with me,” she hissed.

  Come or be dragged. Experience told him the commander was running on combat reserves, wit, and the sheer audacity that had always been her best weapon. If I had had a patron like her . . .

  You’d probably be dead already.

  “You,” she snapped at Ruanek, “will you stop and think, truly think, for once in your impulsive life?”

  “This once, I have! Do you want him dead?” he demanded. “Do you want to give him Final Honor yourself? No? Neither do I.”

  “The law states—”

  “I know! Once made, the choice can’t be recalled.”

  “That law was passed because of me, Ruanek!” It was a cry of anguish. “Do you understand me? Because I made one too-quick decision that landed me in Federation hands, you must suffer.”

  “Because of that decision, he came here! Commander, lady—”

  “I was repatriated—but you won’t be, you can’t be! If he starts his administration by breaking the law, he violates everything he’s always stood for. Ruanek, listen to me,” she said, tightening her grasp. “Spock might not even survive. And then what? His life gone; your life wasted when you could have had . . . Are you ready to live in exile?”

  “No, Commander,” Ruanek said with bitter honesty, “I am not. But I’m not ready to live with his death on my conscience, either.”

  “So be it!” she exploded. “A scoutcraft is already fueled and ready. It was,” Charvanek added ironically, seeing his surprise, “the first thing I had done after returning here, just in case. I’ll have the ship cleared for takeoff. But I must warn you: It was the only ship I could find, and it is barely worthy of the name ‘Romulan.’ ”

  “Understood.”

  But all at once Charvanek’s fierce gaze softened. “I know you are not a defector,” she murmured. “No one who knows you could think you a traitor. And . . . your loss need not be fatal. It was not so for me.”

  Ruanek, blinking fiercely, saluted her.

  Acting with wonderfully feigned casualness, Charvanek moved to Spock’s side, spoke to him quietly and with even greater gentleness than she had used with the emperor. They did not touch, and Ruanek managed not to flinch at the storm of emotions he sensed. When Charvanek returned to Ruanek, the Vulcan followed her, his breathing ragged, his face pale.

  “Centurion Tomalak will take you to the port, Commander,” she said.

  Commander. She gives me what honor she can.

  Ruanek saluted again, then gestured for Spock to come with him. For an instant, the Vulcan’s eyes focused on him, and he managed not to flinch from the madness in the dark eyes. Charvanek nodded, then shrugged and went to stand beside Narviat. He smiled as though he had noticed nothing of what had just occurred, and held out his hand to her. Charvanek smiled as well, and clasped it. And turned her back on the past.

  Spock’s eyes rolled up in his head until he really did look like the Eater of Souls.

  “Come on, sir!” Ruanek urged.

  No motion. Ruanek summoned all his courage and touched Spock’s arm. The Vulcan slapped his hand away, but followed.

  If the Fates were kind, perhaps Spock could restrain himself from battle madness long enough for them to get offworld.

  Safer for both of us if I keep him locked in the scout’s cabin till we reach Vulcan. Assuming that we have even a chance of getting there.

  Centurion Tomalak had commandeered a groundcar to take them to the port. “You’re really going to go through with this?” he asked Ruanek.

  “Yes.”

  “Better you than me . . .” The word he did not say but let Ruanek sense was “renegade.”

  I need him, dammit. I have to let him live.

  Besides, Ruanek added with weary honesty, right now, I’m not sure I could take him.

  Tomalak laughed silently. At the port, he watched with curiosity and a good deal of cynicism as Ruanek leapt out of the car, then tried to extricate Spock. He did not offer to assist.

  “We have to go, sir,” Ruanek told Spock as if he were sane enough to understand. “Let me help you.”

  As the Vulcan emerged from the groundcar, his knees buckled. In what was either the bravest act of his life or the stupidest—there was plenty of recent competition for that, Ruanek thought—he wedged his shoulder under Spock’s and half-carried him to the landing slip and the wait
ing scoutship.

  “Must not . . . kill,” Spock rasped as if wandering in nightmare.

  “Not if you want to get home, sir,” Ruanek agreed. “You don’t like to kill. We both know that. You didn’t even kill that traitor back on Obsidian. So you won’t kill me.”

  There might be some who’d say he was a traitor—no, he wouldn’t think about that.

  “You do not understand!” Spock’s words came out in a rush, savagely edged.

  “Just a few more steps, sir,” Ruanek kept his voice cheerful, if low. “I understand that you’re sick and that they can help you on Vulcan. So I’m going to need your cooperation to get you there. I can’t pilot if you break my neck.”

  To his astonishment, the madman actually chuckled. “Logical,” he said and gave no further opposition.

  Fates. Ruanek stared at the scout in utter disbelief. Commander Charvanek hadn’t been exaggerating: The damned ugly, antiquated thing should have been cut into scrap years ago. But if she thought it was still spaceworthy . . .

  Cuts and muscles aching, Ruanek heaved Spock into the decrepit ship, secured him in the copilot’s chair—which creaked alarmingly—and demanded final clearance from the port. Tomalak’s sardonic voice—how had the aggravating bastard gotten to ground control so fast?—gave it.

  Speed, Charvanek had urged, and Ruanek had promised to obey. The engines whined in protest, but they did start, and assuming that the cracked instrument panel could be trusted, power was building properly.

  Now! High-G restraints engaged as the full thrust of takeoff pushed them back into their seats. All around them, the ship groaned and wheezed, but the cursed thing flew.

  “Safe voyage!” Centurion Tomalak wished in a voice that made Ruanek want to turn the ship around and teach him manners.

  He accelerated, not even putting on screen a visual of the setting sun, the moons’ rise, or the homeworld he was abandoning. He would have faced down executioners, but a final sight of the homeworld would have broken him.

  Once out of atmosphere, Ruanek, very carefully not thinking about what he was doing, engaged the standard preset course out of the homeworlds’ system, then turned to Spock.

  The Vulcan had bitten his lip. Green blood trickled down his face.

  “Let’s settle you more comfortably, sir,” Ruanek said, and bent to release the Vulcan’s safety gear.

  Spock struck at him. Damn good thing, Ruanek thought, that the Vulcan had been weakened by whatever his condition was, or the move might have ripped out his throat. “You don’t want to do that, sir,” he told Spock. “I’m a friend, remember?”

  “No . . .” Spock muttered. “I will not kill!”

  Better lock him up right now, Ruanek decided.

  He had pulled Spock out of the copilot’s seat, one arm over his shoulder, and was half-walking, half-dragging him toward the cabin when a savage impact hurled Ruanek and Spock to the deck. The ship yawed wildly for a heartrending few moments before autopilot regained control.

  To Erebus with the robots, Ruanek thought, struggling up; nothing matched a living pilot for skill. Damn whoever was shooting at them, he wasn’t going down without a fight!

  Damn this junkpile of a ship, he corrected after a few tense moments. There hadn’t been an attack. A scout this size had only rudimentary shields—but they should have been enough to ward off whatever debris they’d just hit. Or rather, they should have stayed up, not faded without so much as a warning! Ruanek brought them up and accessed damage control simultaneously.

  Damn, again. A bad hit. The hull hadn’t been breached, but the sensors showed, as much as they showed anything, that a plate was badly damaged. If the angle of impact had been only slightly different, he and Spock would already be subatomic particles.

  The viewscreen’s image flickered and faded. Ruanek fought with the instruments for a time. Then, with a snarl, he hit the screen with the flat of his hand and got a clear visual long enough for him to grunt in irony.

  What they’d hit had been a fragment from one of Volskiar’s wounded warbirds.

  Where there was one fragment, he suddenly realized, there might well be another!

  And Fires take it, there was! Ruanek, cursing instruments that weren’t giving him accurate readings, banked the ship sharply away from new danger, only to be shocked by another impact. At least the shields stayed up this time, deflecting the worst of it. Still, Ruanek felt the whole ship shudder until he wondered if was going to shake itself apart. The lights dimmed, and for one horrifying moment, so did life-support.

  But then the lights brightened and the antiquated air pumps started up again. Ruanek let out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. Something somewhere in the engines groaned like a living being, then the ship resumed course.

  Ruanek checked navigational readings. He groaned, too. More bad news: already out of the homeworld system, he would be entering the Neutral Zone in one point twenty-five veraks. At that point, his problems would promptly increase: he would be facing both a ship that wanted to die and Federation enemies who’d want to see him die.

  The ship’s responses were sluggish, but after three tries, Ruanek managed to activate the arms computer. Not much fire-power, but you could do damage with even a child’s blade.

  Whose ship was this? Klingon manufacture, presumably; no one else’s handiwork would be so shoddy. He refused to be paranoid enough to think it part of a convoluted plot on the part of the praetor—the former praetor. Or—and the thought made his blood run cold—had Narviat used his kinswoman and consort to set up one rival and one inconvenience for an easy kill? After all, Ruanek had contradicted him not once but twice, and been right both times—did Narviat see him as a potential rival, too?

  Dammit, that really was paranoid.

  But, live or die, Ruanek realized, he would never know the truth.

  “Emissions . . .”

  To Ruanek’s astonishment, Spock was dragging himself over to the copilot’s seat. “Faulty instruments . . . you cannot trust the readings. Check for emissions . . . sign of hairline cracks . . .” His eyes rolled back in his head, then focused again on Ruanek. There was no sanity in them, nothing but blood madness. But it was not aimed at Ruanek.

  “Give me weapons control!” Spock rasped out.

  Fates! “Sir, no sir, there’s no enemy out there. Just this damned ship. I’m a warrior, not a technician. Can you, uh, help me with it? What can be fixed, I mean?”

  “Yes . . . I . . . yes.”

  That sounded reassuringly normal. If Spock was sane and capable, their chances of survival had just risen—akhh, he was no Vulcan to reduce his life to probability statistics.

  He started when warning lights suddenly flashed from the life-support monitors and alarm buzzers sounded. Ruanek swore. Now what?

  Spock toppled back into the copilot’s seat, his hands shaking so badly he could not manage the restraints. In the greenish lights of the instrument panels, he looked like something risen from the dead.

  “Can you manage that?” Ruanek let the doubt echo in his voice, hoping to provoke the Vulcan into at least a hint of fighting strength.

  “There is no . . . logical alternative. You are, as you say . . . no technician.”

  Dead if he did and dead if he didn’t, as the saying went. Ruanek released instrument control to the madman beside him.

  “Emissions . . . yes! Ruanek, there is a hairline breach—seal off sector fifty-five by five, now!”

  Ruanek stabbed at the appropriate buttons. Some didn’t light, and he wondered—

  The ship lurched! “Shields down,” Spock read as calmly as though announcing the time.

  Damn this ship to Erebus! Buzzers sounded on the life-support systems as the cabin slowly filled with acrid smoke.

  I’m not ready to go to Erebus with it, Ruanek thought, and kept the ship as steady as he could.

  “Got . . . it,” Spock muttered. “Hold steady. Hold it . . . hold it . . .”

  The long fingers did
not tremble in the slightest as they danced over the control panel. Maybe concentration would help him, Ruanek thought wildly, burn whatever fever rode him out of his system. Or perhaps he would go irretrievably mad this time.

  Suddenly the weakened hull plate exploded out. Spock’s hand shot out, slamming down on the controls. Ruanek had time for a quick thought: Either he sealed off the breach or we’re both dead.

  Then the scout erupted into a storm of warning lights, smoke, and debris, and Ruanek shouted with shock and pain as his wounded arm was slammed against the control panel. He heard real agony in Spock’s voice as the Vulcan was hurled from his chair.

  No time to look. Ruanek, clenching his teeth against the pain, bent to engines and life-support. No cloak for this ship: that was certain. Cloaking devices consumed power, and right now he needed all the power he could get.

  Ha, yes. The engines were stable as they were going to get, and clearly the breach had been successfully sealed off. Life-support: nothing he could do about that.

  Ruanek turned toward Spock, terrified of what he was going to find. The Vulcan lay facedown upon the bridge. Green blood pooled beneath his head and shoulders, and Ruanek unfastened himself from his chair and knelt at Spock’s side. Most of the blood, to his immense relief, seemed to be coming not from some mortal wound but from a slash across the Vulcan’s forehead: those always bled spectacularly. But what internal damage there might be—no way of knowing that. And when you factored in whatever was already wrong with Spock . . .

  It wouldn’t matter. There would be nothing left for either of them, Ruanek knew, unless he could coax his ship and his Vulcan charge into a safe haven.

  No time for more than a cursory exam. Back to the pilot’s seat. Start running diagnostics, see what was left. A vision of that day-dream—the peaceful desert at dawn—flashed into Ruanek’s consciousness, then flickered out, as unattainable as everything else he had ever wanted.