If Spock were dead, surely Saavik would not survive, Sarek told himself. Saavik has always been so strong, so determined. . . .
Illogical or not, he could not endure to think of that. Of course he should not go anywhere near his son’s betrothed at such a moment, but, with Spock still missing, he was the closest thing Saavik had to a “next of kin.” It was therefore his duty to arrange for her care.
This could be the last contact I will ever have with my child. With my children.
A tactful cough made him turn. Aram Korel, Sarek’s stocky young human chief of staff, had just emerged from his private office.
“Ambassador, Starfleet Sector Admiral Lynn is on a secured line and wishes to speak with you.”
This level of security in Sarek’s own home was unwelcome, but logical under the circumstances and therefore to be endured. Stifling an admittedly emotional but very heartfelt sigh, Sarek went to take the admiral’s call.
Admiral Lynn sat in the position Spock had identified for Sarek long ago as “at attention,” an indication of great respect. Respect notwithstanding, the admiral attacked without waiting for the civilities of formal greeting.
“How is Commander Saavik, Ambassador?”
“Very ill,” Sarek said, and left it at that.
“Do you think she’d be up to answering a few questions vital to our investigation?”
Did the human understand why that question was such a breach of good taste—no, of course he did not. “Commander Saavik cannot answer questions now, Admiral.”
“I see. Ambassador, would you like to know the progress of Starfleet’s investigation of Commander Saavik’s unauthorized foray into Romulan space?”
“Only if you are able to tell me,” Sarek countered. Humans could not understand the clarity of Vulcan logic: If Saavik was innocent, she would be cleared. If she was guilty, the truth must be known. Whether she . . . lived or died.
Lynn smiled ever so slightly. “The news media are screaming that the Enterprise reached Narendra in time—in time, they call it!—because ‘one gallant officer penetrated the Romulan Neutral Zone, learned of the assault, and escaped, carrying a warning at the risk of her life.’ What do you think of that story?”
“I find it,” Sarek said, “overly dramatic.”
“It’s spectacular public relations,” Lynn said, as though disappointed at Sarek’s calmness. “Thought you might want in on it.” He paused, smile fading. “Ambassador, are you all right?”
No, human, I am not. My son is missing, my daughter lies near death—“ I ask forgiveness,” Sarek murmured. “So many different tasks . . .”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take on another one. One of my most reliable captains has pulled two Romulans out of a wrecked scout. They—the one of them who’s conscious—call themselves part of their underground.”
“The one who is conscious?”
“The elder Romulan is comatose, apparently injured in a shipboard accident. The younger wants asylum on Vulcan for himself and his brother.”
Sarek raised an eyebrow.
“I see a certain logic to this.” Admiral Lynn drove his point home with a certain relish. “Who can tell better than a Vulcan if a Romulan is lying? Or provide tighter security?”
“I assume that your questions are rhetorical, Admiral.”
“Also, Vulcan is probably the safest place in the Federation if we are to protect these Romulans against reprisals. The port admiral concurs.”
“Logical,” Sarek conceded.
But underneath the logic, the smallest flame of hope would not be denied.
Oh my son, my son, may it be you!
Without breaking eye contact with Admiral Lynn, Sarek coded messages for security to meet him at the Medical Center. “I will assume responsibility for these Romulan refugees.”
Admiral Lynn all but beamed his relief. “That’s fine, Ambassador. The ship will approach Vulcan, beam them down, and then leave. You won’t even have to know its name.”
No. Of course I do not need to know that it is the U.S.S. Stargazer.
“Ambassador? Have we got a deal?”
“Your terms are satisfactory,” Sarek said, and broke contact.
T’Selis, the Healer Sarek had brought to attend Saavik, intercepted him on his way to the transporter room.
“Thy daughter has had another seizure,” she stated. A tiny woman in Healer’s brown, highly talented despite her undeniable youth, she was as much priestess as physician. “They grow in intensity. If we are to preserve her mind undamaged, I should undertake the katra ritual now. I calculate that, at this point, it has a three in five chance of success. Those odds drop to one in one hundred and fifty if she suffers another seizure, and fall further with each one.”
Lacking her katra, will Saavik have the will to fight? Sarek thought. Her grasp on life is already so fragile. “You will not perform the ritual,” he ordered.
T’Selis raised an imperious eyebrow. “Ambassador, you risk losing all that she is.”
And you point out the obvious. “I am convinced,” Sarek said, consciously exercising discipline to keep his voice calm before a woman who looked as if she had never lost a night’s sleep, let alone anyone she valued, “that, were my daughter capable of choice, she would choose to continue fighting.”
Security Chief Osmanski, a tall, sturdy human from Vulcan’s Starfleet base, glanced at Sarek. “Vulcan Space Central reports UFP ship within transporter range. Passengers are ready for transport. Shall I . . . ?”
“If you would,” said Sarek.
“Energizing.”
As the familiar transporter shimmer began, the Starfleet security guards tensed, drawing their phasers.
Sarek raised an eyebrow. “I trust that those weapons are set only to ‘stun’?”
Some quick, nervous alterations assured him that now they were.
Two figures materialized on the small platform. A tall Romulan in a very battered, stained military tunic braced a lean figure against his shoulder, one arm flung about him protectively to keep him upright.
The Romulan stood motionless, staring at the guards.
Taking in his first sight of Vulcan, Sarek thought. It is regrettable that it need be so militant a view. Welcome, Ruanek. That is who you, logically, must be. And is that . . . is that . . . my son you hold with a true friend’s care?
Except for the disrepair of his uniform, the Romulan carried himself well. His features, somewhat closer to the Vulcan than to the hawklike Romulan norm, had hardened into the tense, arrogant mask Romulan officers assumed among enemies or outsiders. Lines much like those etched into Sarek’s face were starting to show around his eyes and mouth. This man is too young, Sarek thought, to have spent that much time under that much stress.
“Subcommander Ruanek?” Sarek began in Romulan before any of the starbase personnel could intervene. “I am—”
But Ruanek, judging by that quickly suppressed gasp of relief, had already identified him. “My Lord Ambassador.”
It was said in shaky but credible Vulcan. The subcommander forced himself to attention. He attempted to bring up his free hand in a Romulan salute, but his arm was clearly paining him, and his hand shook. He clenched his fist, as if angered at how his body betrayed him, and a guard tensed. “Sir,” Ruanek continued in his careful Vulcan, “I have brought your son home.”
Can it be, can it be . . . ? The odds against it . . .
As the guards moved in, the refugee staggered down from the transporter platform, bearing his unconscious companion with him. Gently, he lowered him to the padded floor, kneeling beside him, hand still clasped on the figure’s shoulder.
Deliberately so, Sarek thought. Even in healing trance, one preserves some knowledge of the waking world—but how has Ruanek deduced this?
The Romulan was looking up at him not like a hardened warrior but almost like a child willing Sarek to make things right. Rigidly self-controlled as he had not needed to be since his wife�
�s death, Sarek gazed down at his son.
Spock’s face was even more drawn than Ruanek’s, and greenish scars raked his throat.
But he is alive. My son is alive.
“We’ve had a rough flight, sir,” Ruanek said, as though trying to spare Sarek’s feelings. “A defective ship nearly took us with it, but your son saved us. But . . . he is very ill.” He met Sarek’s eyes fully for an instant, then quickly glanced away.
So he knows. Or suspects.
But Ruanek, clearly suddenly dizzy, swayed, eyes half-closing. Sarek hastily knelt beside him, catching his arm with what to the Starbase guards must look like no more than a steadying hand—and felt, as he’d expected, the rush of the Romulan’s emotions. This was not a mind-meld, of course; Sarek was not about to risk that, or the immense breach of propriety.
But, forgive me, Ruanek, I must know about you, and swiftly.
And there was in one quick flash . . . utter weariness . . . shock to the point of trauma . . . a mind on the edge of collapse from too much change come too swiftly . . . but there was also, first and foremost, a sense of honor like a blaze of light, honor and honesty both . . . and sharp, clear worry, friend for friend, yes, and of course for himself, lost and utterly alone . . .
So, now, Sarek thought in that flash of time, this one is worth the saving.
In the next instant, Ruanek had recovered, and Sarek lowered his hand.
“Your pardon, sir,” the Romulan said. “I, uh . . . as I said, it’s been a . . . rough trip.”
“Indeed.”
“But you should have seen him fight to keep us alive. Even after he could barely talk—” Ruanek shook his head. “After Captain—I mean, Ambassador Spock was injured, he entered what he called . . .” His Vulcan abruptly abandoned him.
“A healing trance,” Sarek supplied. “Yes. You may release him.”
The reluctance with which the younger man did so spoke well for him.
With a gentleness he had never shown Spock awake, Sarek put out his hands to touch his son’s temples. He knew he would sense the elevated temperature and deranged metabolism characteristic of the last stages of Plak-tow.
Spock suddenly tensed, then struggled against his hands, and Sarek slapped him. Slapped him again, all his love, his fear, his exasperation in the blows. They were not hard enough.
“Sir, what are you doing?” Ruanek cried in alarm, reaching out to stop him.
Instantly, suspicious guards surrounded them. Sarek waved them away.
I will be the judge of Ruanek’s trustworthiness, not Starfleet Security!
“Pain helped him enter the trance,” Sarek explained. “It will help him focus now that he struggles to wake.”
Sarek gestured at a guard to signal Healer T’Selis to attend him now.
My son has a chance. I would calculate the odds at . . . But Sarek’s mathematics, like his logic, were uncertain where his son was concerned.
If he can be waked and brought to Saavik . . . it is improper to think of such things . . . but . . . my son has a chance to live!
Ruanek glanced from Spock to Sarek almost fearfully. “If he feels himself under attack, he will strike out. And he—”
“Sir?” The security guard nearest to Ruanek gestured with his sidearm. The Romulan turned to Sarek, sudden despair in his eyes.
“There is no need for alarm,” Sarek told both the guard and the Romulan. “I will debrief our guest myself. Later. After he is rested and refreshed. I name thee guestfriend,” he told Ruanek in Romulan.
Ruanek drew in a sharp breath of relief. He began to sag—How long since he has truly been able to rest?—then forced himself back to desperate attention.
“Ambassador Spock,” Ruanek said. “I should stay . . . I promised . . .”
“You will only be in the way here,” Sarek told him. “And you require medical assistance yourself.” Impatience was illogical—but where was that Healer?
“I am sure you have someplace secure where the subcommander can rest,” Sarek added to the guards. No guestfriend of Sarek’s House would be thrown into a Starfleet brig. “Perhaps,” he added after the most delicate of pauses, quickly considering the problems of a Romulan amid all those officials in the town house, “away from ShiKahr with all its security constraints. Perhaps . . . yes, within my own estate.”
Sarek’s statement provoked the storm of human outrage he had expected. Inwardly begrudging the time, he waited till the humans paused to draw breath, then asked, “Do you believe I am not capable of dealing with the situation?”
“But Ambassador!” Osmanski protested. “The man is a Romulan!”
“Indeed?” Sarek raised his eyebrow disdainfully. “One injured man. Alone and weary. Ah, perhaps you think me unable to keep one weary Romulan secure! Or perhaps you credit the Sundered with supernatural powers?”
“But—you can’t—”
“ ‘Can’t’?” Sarek asked very mildly. “I was under the impression that Vulcan was a sovereign world. Am I, then, mistaken?”
Osmanski opened his mouth, closed it again, grudging appreciation in his eyes, his slight nod saying without words, I yield to a master. Sarek returned the nod, serenely opened the personal communicator he generally carried—an ambassador never knowing when or where a message might need to be sent or received—pressed the proper code, and said into the sudden waiting silence:
“Aram Korel.”
The human, competent as ever, had been expecting the summons. “Sir?”
“Return to my estate, if you would. You will be receiving company there shortly. One . . . distant cousin. Provide my guest, please, with fresh clothing. Give him water, as if it came from me. Offer him the services of my physician.”
The human must have been bursting with curiosity, but all he said was “Understood, sir.”
Sarek closed the communicator and glanced at Ruanek, who was staring at him as though expecting him to sprout wings. “Subcommander, I will speak with you soon.”
“I’ll have to post guards, sir,” Osmanski said desperately. “And report this.”
“By all means,” Sarek agreed. “For my guest’s protection.” He snapped open the communicator again, added smoothly to Aram Korel, “One thing more. My guest will be accompanied by Starfleet guards. See that they are treated with proper courtesy, too—and that they do not intrude upon my guest’s privacy unless it becomes necessary.”
Was that the faintest hiss of indrawn breath? But the unflappable human replied with only a second “Understood, sir.”
Sarek closed the communicator, glancing mildly about at the others.
“Worry not,” Ruanek said in his shaky Vulcan. “I pledge you my word to remain.”
He started to bring up his fist in salute, then remembered where he was, and bowed instead. Managing a nod at the guards, he allowed them to lead him away.
T’Selis’ light footsteps in the corridor caused another eruption of security guards. In the confusion, no one was looking at Sarek. He took this second of privacy to shut his eyes and let out his breath in a silent sigh of unbearable relief.
My son, my daughter are both here now. Let them live. They must live. It is illogical that after having come so far, my children would not have a chance at life!
THIRTY-FIVE
KI BARATAN, DAY 13, THIRD WEEK OF TASMEEN, YEAR 2344
Charvanek linked her hands behind her back, stretching at her desk in her makeshift office there in the bureaucratic complex, trying to work a stiff spot out of her muscles.
It was . . . what . . . five days since Narviat had become praetor, and here she was, still busy overseeing the sorting out of political prisoners—and her crew, her freed eaglets—from genuine criminals. Most of the latter had either been scheduled for more accurate retrial or efficiently eliminated.
Charvanek let out her breath in a silent hiss, glancing over the piles of printouts, court accounts, and various holographic documents. She had also spent far longer than she wished going over former Sec
urity Chief Zerliak’s records, witnessing his interrogation under drugs, or questioning him herself.
She had a terrible premonition that she might have to take over his job.
If I become a tenth as twisted as Zerliak, I will merit assassination.
Someone was at the door. Charvanek’s hand shot, almost of its own accord, for the weapon that—
Wasn’t needed, she reminded herself. But just in case, she let that hand stay within easy reach of the sidearm. “Who?”
“Serik, my lady. I, uh, have a message from Praetor Narviat. He, uh, asks to see you.” She raised an eyebrow at that “asks,” and Serik rushed on, “As soon as is convenient.”
Which, of course, meant now.
Not that I won’t welcome an excuse to get away from this aftermath of “the Glorious Revolution,” or whatever the reporters are calling it today. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
With a quick bow, Serik scurried out. Now, there was a survivor, Charvanek thought: Dralath’s personal aide, who’d also been an utterly loyal spy for the emperor. He would, of course, be sent back to the emperor very shortly, since Praetor Narviat was hardly going to allow even an Imperial spy near him.
The Fates only know who has placed what on my staff. When affairs become a bit less chaotic, I shall do some careful private research.
Odd thought. For the first time since Charvanek could remember, she would go to an audience with the praetor without fear or disgust.
Charvanek found Narviat in what had been Dralath’s private study, sitting at that massive desk and going over his own mountains of printouts. He glanced up at her, eyes brightening.
“Ah, Charvanek.”
He looks so weary! Illogical thought: Of course he was weary! Hunting for something neutral to say, Charvanek glanced about the room. “You’ve gotten rid of all the mirrors.”
He snorted. “I had to get rid of them. It was like living in a room full of clones. Charvanek . . . Liviana . . .”
Oh.
“. . . please be seated.”
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