STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  Taken aback by the use of her private name, she . . . sat. Without a word, Narviat pushed a broken bracelet across the desk to her. Charvanek gasped.

  “Akhh, Narviat . . . this is the wedding bracelet of that poor, murdered woman. Therakith’s wife.”

  “Katara. Yes. I thought you . . . as a woman . . .”

  “Of course. I will gladly honor the slain family’s memory with the women’s rites.”

  Silence. Narviat glanced down at his printouts, riffling through them as though impatient.

  Is this all you wanted of me? And am I relieved or disappointed?

  But then Narviat pushed a second bracelet at her, and her heart gave a great start. The bracelet . . . had his and her personal insignias entwined, hastily carved into what had been a plain silver band, but all the more touching, somehow, for the haste.

  Narviat was staring at her, clearly taking her silence for reluctance. He burst out in frustration, “Dralath left affairs in an unbelievable mess! It is going to take years just to get everything straightened out to the point where I know what needs to be corrected. I desperately need someone I can trust at my side.”

  Not very romantic, Charvanek thought dryly. But then, he can’t allow himself the liability of romance. For that matter, can I?

  It didn’t really matter: She knew exactly what he was feeling but didn’t dare express. She’d known for years.

  Without a word, Charvanek took the bracelet and slid it onto her wrist; it would be properly adjusted at the ceremony.

  “It’s . . . not exactly elegant,” Narviat said. “I incised the symbols myself; didn’t have time for a silversmith. You don’t have to—”

  “Oh yes, I do . . . Devoras.”

  It was the first time she’d called him by his private name. Glancing up, she saw, just for an unguarded moment, honest love shining in Narviat’s eyes. He hesitated, then, in one of the few spontaneous actions in his whole carefully planned, meticulously scripted life, leaped up from his chair. As it crashed back against the wall, he reached across the desk to catch her in an awkwardly angled but passionate kiss.

  Just like a man. He could have taken the moment more to go around the desk.

  Then she stopped thinking for a time.

  But the edges of that desk were just too damned sharp for either of them to hold the pose for long, and they were hardly a pair of love-starved youngsters to collapse onto its surface, scattering the cursed printouts. As they let go of each other, not quite meeting each other’s eyes, Charvanek thought ironically, Ah well, there are worse fates than this!

  She always had felt a warmth toward Narviat. That well might yet turn to something stronger. And they needed each other.

  Farewell, Spock. May you live long and prosper with your Saavik.

  “My friends,” Narviat began his latest proclamation from the Praetor’s Balcony. “My fellow Romulans. Today I come before you with news of our continued efforts to root out corruption . . .”

  “. . . to root out corrup . . .”

  “Dark-blood stupid rez!” Amarik exploded, staring at the screen. The image danced, broke up, and went to black. “Get that backup running, now, dreebs, we’re broadcasting, got it?”

  His crew of two swore, fiddling with connections until: “Got it! We’re broadcasting again!”

  “Double-shine!” Amarik grabbed the microphone. “All right, all you wildings out there, here we go: Coverage direct from the Praetor’s Balcony, live, wildings, as only ‘Romulus Roars’ can bring it to you!”

  Kerit giggled.

  “What?” Amarik asked.

  “Our break! I mean, this is it! We were in on the start of it, and here we are—This is our real, double-shine, break!”

  “. . . rebuilding as a people willing and able to defend ourselves, yet wise enough to know which are honorable targets . . .”

  It has all happened so fast, Commander Tal thought, watching Charvanek watching Narviat, so many changes to my life in so short a time—I could almost believe in the Fates. After all those bitter years, I have a career again.

  More than that: I have my honor back as well.

  He glanced sideways at Charvanek’s aide, young M’ret . . . boy no longer. Though there were no visible scars, combat and imprisonment had hardened him; there was a new tightness to the set of his mouth, and a hint of shadow in his eyes.

  But his spirit has not been crushed. Nor his honor.

  And now he and the rest of the younger generation will have a chance to grow up clean.

  “. . . furthermore, repairs to our vital spaceports and customs buildings are already under way . . .”

  Hasmonak, One-Eye, saluted the image of the new praetor. He didn’t need two good eyes to see how the repairs to this Customs Hall were progressing. The inlay on the walls had already been replaced, and the stonework shone. More, a new ventilation system dispelled the smells of damp, of fear, of misery.

  Next, he told himself, looking at the still-fearful crowds, we work on the people.

  Eh, what was this? Someone passing through had left a small box behind—

  A box with his name on it, and . . . Commander Charvanek’s insignia. Hasmonak warily opened it, and heard himself gasp.

  An Honor Blade lay gleaming within, a finer one than the likes of him could ever hope to buy. A piece of paper fluttered from the case, and he caught it up.

  A keepsake, it read. Unsigned, but with a signature glyph he had seen on proclamations.

  Hasmonak straightened proudly. By all the Hells, there still was honor within the Empire after all!

  He put the blade away and braced himself, smiling slightly, for the next onslaught of travelers.

  “. . . and freed the political prisoners who had been arrested for no reason other than standing up to what they knew was wrong . . .”

  Senator Pardek, one of those liberated, sat at his ease in the study he’d never thought to see again, a glass of pale golden vetiris wine in one hand, and ironically saluted Narviat’s image on the viewscreen. The man really was too tall, too handsome, and too fearless to go on living.

  Never mind all the glittering words. We both know what life is all about, don’t we, Narviat? Power. Winning against the odds.

  Surviving.

  “. . . and now, all loyal citizens of the Empire, I bring you splendid news: Our beloved Emperor Shiarkiek has made a full recovery . . .”

  “So I have,” Shiarkiek said to the monitor set over the tank of gleaming red and silver tarak. As he sprinkled feed into the tank and watched the tarak gobble it up, the emperor added slyly to Narviat’s image, “And I am still not naming an heir.”

  “And in conclusion,” Narviat told the citizens of the Romulan Star Empire, “the corrupt and cruel former Security Department has been, this very day, eliminated! In its place will be a shining new force for justice, incorruptible and forever honest.

  “I hereby make this proclamation, my friends. In honor of Emperor Shiarkiek, let this new force for justice bring naught but glory to his name.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  VULCAN, DAY 6, SECOND WEEK OF HAVAREEN, YEAR 2344

  Despite what he had heard Ambassador Sarek command, Ruanek had half-expected to be cast into a prison cell, or at best to be ushered into a minimum-comfort, high-security “guest room.” His expectations had sunk even lower when his guards hustled him into a closed vehicle as though they held him personably responsible for Narendra III. The ambassador must have been overruled, then: It would be a prison cell, definitely. Or rather, indefinitely.

  But to his utter surprise, he and his “escorts” had traveled swiftly through the rapidly fading Vulcan day to end up here, instead, at the ambassador’s secluded estate somewhere out of the city. On the border of the desert he’d dreamed about all his life. The guards hadn’t given him a chance for even the quickest of glances about, hustling him inside almost before he could catch his breath and footing.

  After that—akhh, after that, things had happened too quickl
y for a mind dazed by hope and exhaustion; he couldn’t quite keep events in order. Ruanek vaguely remembered meeting Ambas sador Sarek’s chief of staff, and being so worn out by surprises by this point he’d barely raised an eyebrow over the fact that Aram Korel turned out to be a human.

  And a sensible one: The man had taken one look at him, plainly registering both “Romulan” and “exhausted,” and had wasted no time in conversation. Instead, he had ushered Ruanek, along with that unshakable entourage of guards, on to Sarek’s own physician.

  Another sensible person, that, competent and not ungentle, far better than that coldhearted doctor aboard the Federation ship, who had scanned him quickly and thoroughly, assured him that the knife wounds were well on the way to mending, that the main cause of his weakened arm was nothing worse than badly strained muscles—much to his relief, since Ruanek had already been thinking permanent damage—and that all injuries would be healed once he finally got sufficient rest. He’d also assured Ruanek, his words carefully guarded, that yes, Spock, back in ShiKahr, would survive.

  Somewhere along the way, too, there’d been a blessedly efficient sonic shower that had finally let him rid himself of all the grime and stains of the various battles. Someone had taken his filthy, battered uniform, asking dubiously if he wanted it cleaned.

  Did I really tell him, “Burn it!”?

  At any rate, he’d been genuinely grateful for clean clothing—and genuinely surprised that he’d been permitted to keep his Honor Blade. He had a hazy memory of having eaten and drunk something somewhere about then—no memory at all of what it had been—so foggy-brained by that point, he hadn’t even considered that the food or drink (whatever it had been) might be drugged. Which it hadn’t been.

  The human guards had not intruded in any of that. He was fairly certain of that . . . yes. In fact, Aram Korel, invoking the ambassador’s name more than once, had finally managed to usher them out of his immediate vicinity. He was finally, blessedly, alone.

  Ruanek rubbed a brisk hand over his eyes, trying to get them to stop burning. Now that his body had some nourishment on which to work, if not yet the rest it craved, he could at least begin to think again.

  I do not understand these people. I do not. Unless . . . is this all a snare? Set me off my guard with kindness, and then, when I am properly weakened—

  No. He could not bear that thought.

  This room—this suite, rather—that he’d been allotted was downright luxurious, in a tranquil, sparsely furnished way. For all Ruanek knew, there still could be security systems monitoring his every move, although so far he hadn’t been able to locate any sign of surveillance.

  And where are the guards? Lurking outside? Or in nearby quarters of their own? I cannot believe that they’ve gone altogether.

  No matter, for now. The illusion of privacy was . . . quite agreeable.

  After some experimenting, he found the controls for the lighting and adjusted it so that the walls glowed a soft, soothing tan and the bare, blue-patterned tile floors gleamed. The only furniture in the main room was a low table, a desk with a computer console, and chairs, all of some sleek, golden-brown substance that looked like wood but, given that this was a desert world, was probably a synthetic.

  He explored further, finding a sleeping alcove hung with tan and brown draperies and holding a wide, comfortable-looking bed. Ruanek warily tried it out even though, for all his weariness, he’d never felt further from sleep. Comfortable, yes, more so than any he could remember since childhood.

  Too comfortable for a warrior, he decided, and forced himself back to his feet with a great effort, ignoring a body that clamored for him to just stay flat. If I am still a warrior.

  No, don’t think of that. Not yet.

  Off the alcove, a door led to, amazingly, a separate room for the sanitary fixtures. Ruanek explored the various devices, and found them easy to operate and most agreeably modern; far better than the dingy, rusty things he’d known in the barracks in Ki Baratan.

  Restlessly prowling, too tired, paradoxically, by this point to rest, he returned to the main room, examining the small, intricately wrought bronze firepot on a stand in the corner: cautious sniffing revealed no hidden drugs, only a pleasant incense. Some ritual item? Probably.

  And here, in this corner: Ha, a small cooling device. Ruanek even managed to get himself a fruity drink that, after some wary study, he figured out how to dial (to his secret delight, feeling almost like a child) to just the right chill.

  Almost decadent, all this, he thought, sipping the drink as he looked about, especially when he compared it to the one cramped room that for so many years had been his quarters back in Ki Baratan. That, at least, he was not going to miss!

  Akhh, but . . .

  No. Don’t even try to think. Not of past. Not of future. Not yet. Concentrate only on here and now.

  Easy to say, when he didn’t even know who or what he was anymore. Ruanek glanced down at the clothes he’d been given: a flowing tunic cinched in by a woven belt, fitted trousers that seemed almost made for him, both in some soft fabric that was—he had to admit it—a great deal more comfortable, as well as more becoming, than a uniform. Nice, flattering shades of blue-green, too, as though someone, that human chief of staff or maybe even Ambassador Sarek, had actually cared how he looked. The thought sent a little stab of appreciation through him.

  After all, you didn’t care how a prisoner looked.

  But . . . agreeable though the outfit might be, it made him a stranger to himself. The Honor Blade that Picard had returned to him no longer seemed a natural extension of what he was, but something exotic, strange—

  All right, all right. Get away from this dangerous track of thought, now!

  Ruanek put down the drinking glass and hurled open the room’s shutters, sure he was going to find bars or armed guards ready to shoot—

  Instead . . . oh Fates, it was the desert, the open, peaceful sweep of space of his daydreams. Ruanek stood frozen, drinking it in, trying to pull the quiet of it into his spirit. He didn’t doubt that there were security devices and guards out there. After all, Ambassador Sarek was not a fool. But it was so easy to pretend that there was only that wide, tranquil expanse, and the equally vast sweep of slowly darkening sky.

  The sky that, as the night came on, became far too dark . . . But, Ruanek reminded himself hastily, there were nights on Romulus just as dark, times when none of the moons were visible, and he—he wouldn’t think of that.

  The breeze was shifting, blowing in off the cooling desert, and Ruanek took a deep breath of dry, fragrant air. Why had he never guessed, with all his daydreaming, that the desert might smell sweet?

  But without any warning, the scene suddenly changed in his mind, and it was all at once alien, all at once far too alien. Ruanek quickly closed the shutters, hands not quite steady, and went to sit at the desk, trembling, staring at the console on it, the one even remotely familiar item in all his surroundings, in all this entire foreign world.

  No. There was one other. One very familiar item. His . . . Honor Blade.

  With a sharply indrawn breath very much like a sob, Ruanek drew the weapon from its sheath, studying its unmarred beauty.

  Fates. Maybe this was the answer after all. Surely, Ruanek thought bitterly, his vow to rescue Spock was fulfilled. He had seen Spock safely home and, Fates willing, reunited with his mate. There was, when one came right down to the hard facts of it, absolutely no more point to his life, nothing else to hold him here. . . .

  At least I got to see the desert.

  But—Ambassador Sarek had given him hospitality. It would be the height of dishonorable behavior to stain that hospitality with even an honorable suicide.

  For what seemed an eternity, Ruanek sat shivering, unable to grasp the knife in the proper position, unable to leave it alone. In a burst of panicky strength, he put it down on the desk and, desperate to stop himself from doing anything else, switched on the computer console. The screen, mercifully,
came instantly to life. Studying the cryptic Vulcan menus revealed, Ruanek frowned slightly, feeling the faintest stirring of curiosity shiver through the weight of despair.

  What programs had been left for him to access? Some easy-to-understand story, probably, full of simple action. Something to amuse the stupid warrior.

  No . . . this was . . . a text of some sort. Yes . . . in Vulcan, but he could more or less manage the written as well as the spoken language. This was, he saw, a text in Vulcan about Vulcan. Land, climate, history . . . all here, though probably at a child’s level—

  No, again. Whoever had left this program ready for him to access was definitely not patronizing him! Difficult going, but Ruanek scrolled down, intrigued in spite of himself, struggling to understand the flood of new concepts, new ideas. There was probably a voice control, but he wasn’t sure enough of his Vulcan accent to attempt that.

  Akhh, he’d come to a whole page of choices! Too many. Pick one, he told himself, and stabbed at “Linguistics” at random. New images formed almost instantly, new lists of words, ideas, modern Vulcan and Old High Vulcan, and—look at this! He knew this phrase, but knew it as Romulan! Close, so close—yes, and here was a whole proverb, Old High Vulcan maybe, but Romulan, too. Ha, more links, tying in to more subjects, related studies of culture and custom, and even though Ruanek knew he really should stick to one thing at a time, the flood of information, so rare, so new, was just too fascinating, far too fascinating for that!

  And no one to arrest me, no one to name me traitor for learning.

  The Honor Blade lay, forgotten, on the edge of the desk as Ruanek lost himself in the raw joy of knowledge.

  Sarek’s palmprint soundlessly opened the door to the guest suite. There, as Aram Korel had assured him, was the Romulan, awake and unhurt, staring intently at the computer screen, scrolling down through the files with almost Vulcan speed. Sarek coughed discreetly, prepared for a warrior’s whirl and crouch.