No, you idiot, no time for self-pity!
He began diverting power around trashed systems, thanking the Fates that he knew how to do it. Unfortunately, main life-support was one of those now-useless systems. Even the backup was flickering.
All right, no place for panic. Just find a way to conserve energy, nurse the thing along.
Ruanek reduced ship’s gravity, ship’s temperature, to save on power. He ran diagnostics on the warp engines, heart racing . . . then nodded at the results, almost reassured. There was a chance. Maybe. If some Federation ship did not see a Romulan, one wing down, as it were, emerging from the Neutral Zone and decide to score an easy kill. Fates knew he would have done so in what seemed like another life and exulted in the kill.
He got to his feet, thinking that at least the lighter gravity was keeping his knees from buckling. Crouching beside Spock, he turned him over. In addition to the cut across his forehead, the Vulcan was bleeding from the mouth and nose; but that could have been from the fall he took. Peeling up the Vulcan’s eyelids, Ruanek began to check him for injuries. The head wound was the least serious, merely messy. The worst Spock had suffered seemed to be were deeper cuts on his neck and left shoulder. Any deeper, and he would have bled out by now.
Don’t think of Therakith with his slashed throat. The ambassador needs your help, not your fears. You went into exile to get him home, so, by all the forgotten powers, you will damned well do it.
Ruanek snatched up the medkit and bandaged the wounds deftly, as he had been trained. Spock was beginning to shake, so Ruanek wrapped him in the one thermal blanket that seemed to be the ship’s total emergency supply.
Not enough. He pulled the bedding off the cabin’s bunk, then added his own uniform tunic, already much the worse for wear. Most of his own cuts had opened up again, and his undertunic was sticking to his body. It would have to be soaked off, assuming he lived that long.
“Home . . .” Spock’s eyes met his. To Ruanek’s astonishment, they were almost sane, as if his wounds had drained the madness.
“Ship’s got painkillers,” Ruanek told Spock. Vulcans were close enough in physical type that drugs that helped Romulans would probably help him. Wouldn’t they? Damn all doctrine; he hadn’t been trained for this! Damn again, what he needed now was that Evaste. Saavik. Whatever. She would know what to do.
The incongruity of that idea struck him an instant later, and he laughed.
Spock raised a somewhat battered eyebrow. The familiarity of that gesture tore at Ruanek.
“No painkillers,” Spock muttered. “Need . . . the pain. Need to . . . focus.” He flung up a hand, as if seeking anchorage. Ruanek provided it in a strong handclasp that Spock tried to return.
“Punch in . . .” Spock gasped.
“What’s that?” Ruanek asked. He might respect the Vulcan more than anyone except perhaps the emperor and his dead father, but this was his ship! His first independent command—even if it was also his last.
“Distress codes. Recognition symbols,” Spock whispered. His voice was going weak, and the shivering had started again.
“Can I get you something hot to drink?” Ruanek asked.
“You can obey!”
That had the authentic bridge commander’s snap. Ruanek didn’t even try to argue, simply entered the codes and coordinates Spock dictated.
“There will be Federation ships on patrol,” Spock said. “By now, I may have been missed. Or Saavik.” His voice softened on the woman’s name. “Do not let . . . them know,” Spock whispered.
That you and she both were on Romulus illegally? “Let them know what?” Ruanek asked and forced a grin.
You are a Romulan, he told himself. Invent a satisfying lie. The day you can’t fool a bunch of Vulcans . . .
But Vulcans abhorred lies and liars. He would not willingly earn Spock’s distaste.
“I’ll tell them I’m from the Romulan Underground. That I have information about the recent overthrow of the praetor. And that I claim political asylum on Vulcan in return for my information.”
All of that, strictly speaking, was quite true.
“What about you?” Ruanek mused. “I can say you are my brother. It . . . is a lie, of course.”
“Not . . . not substantially . . .”
“Oh.” Spock had probably meant only that the two races were related, but it still felt amazingly comforting. “Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll get you home, Ambassador,” Ruanek promised too frantically for his age and rank. His . . . new rank. “Or die trying.”
“That is indeed the logical alternative. This . . .” He coughed. Ruanek dabbed gently at the blood on Spock’s face. At least he wasn’t bleeding from the mouth like a dying man.
“If you are hailed by a Federation ship, repeat this. . . .” Spock recited words and code groups that meant nothing to Ruanek. He managed to get his tongue and teeth around the strange terms on which their lives might depend, but, with the best will in the worlds, they came out accented.
Spock sighed. “Practice. But now . . . must try . . .” His breathing rasped, fought to steady itself, then grew more and more rhythmic. It grew deeper, steadier, and then softened until Ruanek set fingers to the pulse in Spock’s throat and bent over his face with a piece of shiny metal.
“Do not fear,” Spock rasped, the barest whisper, his eyes shut. “It is a Vulcan discipline. Another of the gifts the Empire has been denied.”
If Ruanek lived, he realized, he might have a chance to observe such disciplines, perhaps even study them himself. If he lived . . .
Instruments showed that the scout had entered the Neutral Zone. Alone and uncloaked. Broadcasting Federation distress signals. Might as well open the ship to hard vacuum while I’m at it, Ruanek thought.
Instead, he jury-rigged a fan to keep the air reasonably breathable and nursed his ship along; he practiced the codes Spock had taught him before lapsing into the trance that was keeping him alive; and he thought, begging Fate in a way unworthy of a child, let alone a warrior.
They were almost out of the Neutral Zone when the warp engines gave out. Impulse power now; not enough power left, though, to actually get anywhere. Except, maybe, toward the ships that Spock claimed were out there.
Maybe. For the first time in his life, he knew total helplessness. Warriors knew better than to invoke “fair,” but Ruanek remembered what he knew of Spock’s life: how he had fought Sered, the cool nerve with which he had dared the Empire’s heart, the countless lessons he had given, from loyalty to sheer viciousness in the face of overwhelming odds. And he knew it would be neither fair nor right for Spock to die thus.
Should I try waking him? How? Besides, what would I wake him to? Pain and death?
Instead, Ruanek reached for communications and, real time, frantically called for help on any hailing frequency he could access.
And—yes! A ship was forming on the flickering viewscreen—
A ship coming after him. Out of the Neutral Zone. Ruanek recognized the predatory curves and deadly green of a warbird and sank back in his chair with a bitter laugh.
Now I know what happened to him. And now we die. At least we’ll go up in a burst of glory.
THIRTY-TWO
U.S.S. STARGAZER, STARDATE 21191.0
Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Stargazer, glanced about the bridge. It all looked perfectly, utterly normal. As though, he thought, they had never received the news of Narendra III. As though the Enterprise had never died, and all those Klingon civilians had never been massacred . . . But he knew that even at maximum warp, the Stargazer, posted on the far edge of the Neutral Zone, would never have made it to Narendra III in time to make a difference.
So what else can I do but continue as is? I have my orders. Maddening though they might be.
At least Melville Colony was still safe; there was that much. And if the politicians did their work, there would be no war, either.
At her communications station, fresh-faced young Tricia Cadwallader w
as pretending to be very busy with minute adjustments. Beside her, Science Officer Lisuni’s narrow, gray-skinned face showed no emotion at all—but then, Ochati faces weren’t suited to human expressions.
Beyond him, Gerda Asmund, Helm, and her twin sister, Idun, Navigation, exchanged quick, unreadable glances. Deceptively calm, those two; but Picard remembered their grief and rage when they’d heard the of the loss of Narendra III and Enterprise.
I could almost howl with you. We should have been there at Narendra III. Instead . . . we endlessly, uselessly, patrol the Neutral Zone. And . . . we . . . wait.
Walker, Picard thought yet again, you should have called me in.
Surely he could have gotten in-system in time to at least divert one warbird. It might have sufficed to turn the tide. And he might have done more.
Cadwallader suddenly straightened at her station. “Message coming in, sir. Encrypted, but not eyes only.”
“I’ll take it here. On screen,” Picard ordered. He exchanged a quick, wry glance with his first officer, tall, dark Gilaad ben Zoma. Even an admiral’s face would be a welcome sight by now.
“Message decrypted, sir,” Cadwallader said. “On screen now.”
It was Walker Keel’s image, barely degraded by the light-years the signal had traveled. His eyes were deeply shadowed, his face that of someone who’s gone without sleep for far too long. “We’ve received word from Vulcan,” he said without any words of greeting. “Your objective has been retrieved.”
Picard sat forward in his chair, just barely biting back an oath. “By whom?”
“By Enterprise, ironically, and then transferred away from Enterprise by a shuttle crew. Four out of seven hundred,” Keel added wearily. “They missed the battle. So as far as you’re concerned, Jean-Luc, this mission’s over. New orders are attached to this signal packet, but in brief, the Stargazer is to go on to Narendra III. Help them assay the damage. Keel out.”
“Confirm receipt,” Picard ordered Cadwallader.
“Confirmed, sir.”
All that waiting. For nothing.
Indeed . . . ?
“Lay in a course for Narendra III, sir?” Helm asked. Picard could feel the emotional temperature on the bridge drop about thirty degrees.
Of course. Neither Gerda Idun nor Asmund would want to leave without vengeance.
Picard held up a hand. “Make it . . .”
“Captain,” Cadwallader interrupted suddenly, “I’m getting a distress signal from a . . .” She turned sharply about to face him, her freckled face gone pale. “Captain, it’s a Romulan scoutcraft.”
“Red alert!” Picard ordered. Sirens howled and red lights pulsed over the bridge. Where there was one Romulan visible, there were likely to be cloaked warbirds, just waiting for some unwary Federation officer, God help him, to snap at the bait. “On screen. Magnify.”
Yes, you could see it now, a small, badly battered vessel struggling into range.
“It doesn’t look like even impulse power’s fully on-line,” Picard thought aloud. A . . . Romulan horse? Dead in space was a game both sides had played before.
“Shields up,” Idun Asmund reported tersely. “Phasers on-line.”
Red alert first; questions second. And phasers a distant third, if you didn’t want to start a war. Another war.
At least they might see action now. Such as it was.
Helm and Weapons exchanged swift, savage smiles. They would be happy to take out even a small Romulan ship.
“Steady,” Picard cautioned them.
“Captain,” Cadwallader cut in, “I’m getting something. . . . It’s a distress signal, sir!”
Underestimating Romulans was a damn good way to start a war. Or lose one.
“Commander Lisuni!” Picard snapped. “Real or feigned distress?”
The science officer studied his instruments intently, narrow gray Ochati face furrowed with concentration, then glanced up in alarm. “It’s real, all right. That scout’s been badly damaged. It’s rapidly losing life-support. Rapidly losing structural integrity, for that matter.”
“Life signs?”
“Two. One’s very, very shaky.”
“Lieutenant Cadwallader,” Picard ordered, “open a hailing frequency and patch me through.”
“Hailing frequency open. Go ahead, Captain.”
“This is Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Federation star cruiser Stargazer, to the master of the Romulan scout. Are you aware you are in Federation space?”
A burst of static answered. And then came a response that made Cadwallader gasp. “That’s a Federation recognition code! Patching it through to your station, sir.”
Good work, Picard thought. It was Federation, all right, and high-level enough that you didn’t want it blurted all over even a starship’s bridge.
In fact, he quickly realized, it was the highest-level security known to Federation civilians—one that the Romulans should not have known.
Probably Romulan. The voice repeating it had such a heavy accent that Picard could barely understand him. And the static breaking up the transmission didn’t help it at all.
“It’s the correct recognition code,” Cadwallader confirmed, “but that’s definitely a native Romulan speaker.”
Ben Zoma moved to Picard’s side, murmuring, “And where do you suppose he got that code?”
Meaning, of course, just how bad is the Federation’s security leak? “Suggestions, Number One?” Picard asked.
“I’d say blast that ship out of space, but that’s just a gut reaction. Captain, the Romulans could have set up a crippled scout with an injured crew as a decoy.”
“Let’s hear what this one has to say. Lieutenant Cadwallader, raise the scout again.”
“I’m trying, sir. . . .”
With a sudden crackle of static, the channel came alive. “. . . need of immediate assistance,” the heavily accented voice said. “We were damaged as we left the homeworld.”
“We? Who’s we?”
Idun Asmund said, “Photon torpedoes on-line, sir,” and glanced Picard’s way hopefully. Picard got her thought easily enough: Just one good shot.
“Belay that,” he told her.
The Romulan continued wearily, “I am . . . was . . . Subcommander Ruanek . . . House Minor Strevon . . . We are—my brother and I—are, you would say, dissidents. Refugees.” He broke off, coughing rackingly, then continued, voice hoarse, “My brother’s unconscious. We . . . we claim political asylum. On Vulcan.”
“Vulcan!”
“Captain,” Lisuni cut in, “I’m picking up gravity fluctuations from the scout.”
Had gravity gone on Enterprise-C along with light and life-support before the ship blew? Had its people had time to fear? Had they feared, yet fought for life just as this Romulan did?
Dammit, no, you don’t condemn even a Romulan without a fair trial.
“It doesn’t matter for me,” the Romulan continued. “But my brother . . . He is older than I and wiser. He knows . . . he understands. They can heal him on Vulcan.”
The Vulcans would hardly be likely to take in this scout crew—or . . . would they?
“Cadwallader,” Picard ordered quickly, “raise Starbase 9. Report to Admiral Lynn on our status. Commander Lisuni, start a scan for any other ships out there.” Romulan warbirds would run cloaked, but Lisuni knew enough to check for emissions signatures as well.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Meanwhile, Stargazer was left holding the bag. Or the crippled Romulan scout.
Ben Zoma glanced at his captain. “The way our luck’s been running lately, the minute we beam those two aboard, three warbirds decloak. Romulans wouldn’t hesitate to blow up a spy.”
Subcommander Ruanek caught that. In a heavily accented, most frustrated tone, he exploded, “If I were a spy, would I be this—this damned incompetent?”
Picard took a deep breath, tried not to laugh, then failed. “We’re not Romulans, Gilaad. And if we let these two die, we’re no better tha
n they. Besides, no Romulan is that good at making himself ridiculous on purpose!
“All right, Subcommander. Prepare to beam over, you and your brother. Unarmed.”
“Understood,” the Romulan rasped.
“Gilaad,” Picard ordered in an undertone, “get down to the Transporter Room. Now.”
As the turbolift doors whooshed shut behind ben Zoma, Gerda Asmund implored Picard with her eyes, Me, too! He shook his head. The last thing he wanted was a human with a grudge down there.
“Transporter Chief, make no move until Commander ben Zoma and Security Chief Joseph arrive. Security to Transporter Room. Attention. Now hear this: Security to transporter room. I will give you the order to beam over the Romulans. As soon as you have them, signal, and I will raise shields.”
“Ben Zoma in the transporter room,” came the report over inship communications.
“Excellent,” said Picard. “Ready to gamble?”
“Biggest bluff of my life. I’ll raise you two Romulans, and I’ll call.”
“No, Cadwallader will do that. Lieutenant, tell the scout crew to prepare to beam over.”
“No reply, sir. Their communications are off-line.”
“Life-support off-line as well,” Lisuni cut in.
“Transporter room,” Picard snapped. “Energize.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Picard winced as violent light erupted from what had been the Romulan scout. Had he waited a few moments too long? “Transporter Room!”
“Got them, Captain.”
“Shields up!” Picard ordered. “Helm, take us out of here. Maximum warp.” That should catch any pursuing warbirds off guard—he hoped.
Over the audio, he could hear the Security chief snapping an order, then another.
“Captain.” Ben Zoma’s voice was as controlled as if he were in ship-to-ship action. “We have a situation. Can you get down here?”
Just what Picard needed: another damn crisis.
“On my way,” said Jean-Luc Picard.
THIRTY-THREE
U.S.S. STARGAZER, STARDATE 21203.6
STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART Page 31