STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  NINE

  KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 5, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, 2344

  There were yet more guards within the maze of the Government Center, stalking about the red or gray buildings with disruptor rifles at the ready.

  Of course, Spock thought. With the senators and the praetor all about to assemble in one site, it must be the proverbial nightmare for Romulan Security.

  The Hall of State, predictably, was also built like a fortress. Of smoothly polished red stone, it had few windows save for a row of narrow slits near the domed roof. There were no indentations in the walls at all, nothing to provide handholds for any would-be assassin.

  Paranoia? Or brutal honesty?

  “Have I been here before?” Spock murmured to Charvanek, following her up the Hall’s wide, shallow stairs. “Am I expected to display a provincial’s awe?”

  Charvanek, coldly elegant in a stark black uniform, her short crimson cape fastened by a golden badge in the shape of the imperial eagle, flashed him the hint of a sardonic smile. “You have never been here before. But you need not be awed, my cousin. After all, were you not just recently accorded audience with His Imperial Majesty, who presented you with that bauble?”

  The tunic and breeches she had decreed proper for one of his scholarly rank were of a slate gray so dark as to be nearly black, half-hidden under a heavy, equally somber gray tabard. About his neck was Charvanek’s “bauble,” what Charvanek had assured him was a perfect copy of the golden medallion awarded to eminent civilian researchers.

  She caught him glancing at the Hall’s immense metal doors, and explained, “Those were cast from the hulls of the ships that brought us here. Each panel is engraved with a different scene from our journey. A pity,” Charvanek added with sharp irony, “that you have no time to appreciate them as they deserve.”

  “Hold!”

  Two young Romulans in dull silver uniforms and bright scarlet capes, heads shielded by crested helms, barred their way with disruptor rifles. Their challenge was merely a ritual, surely, since they must have recognized Charvanek at once—but Spock saw the indifferent coldness in their eyes. They would think nothing of firing at anyone’s wrong move. In another time and place lacking the military discipline, Spock thought, these two boys would be casual killers.

  What is Romulus breeding?

  “Uhlans of the Romulan Guard,” Charvanek said, nodding with a commander’s crispness at the guards as she and Spock passed, granting the boy on the left the barest hint of a chill smile.

  “Young Neral,” she explained to Spock, “is right out of the Academy. Yet he has already made friends with every faction of the court—a most desirable talent.”

  The boy stiffened to attention. At his crisp order, the doors swung wide. Charvanek strode forward down a wide hallway without another word, and Spock followed. The faintest of whirrs and a quick flash told him that they had just been scanned, definitely in a search for concealed weapons, for retinal identification, and probably down to their genetic level as well to be sure they weren’t impostors. Security in the Romulan Star Empire, Spock thought, was thorough.

  “Your records are already in the databanks,” Charvanek said casually before he could ask.

  Well, perhaps not that thorough.

  Their footsteps rang against the polished red and gray stone. More guards passed them on patrol, rifles in hand, glances wary; each guard in turn granted Charvanek a somewhat grudging salute.

  Back in favor, then, but not entirely. Or, more correctly, not totally in favor with Praetor Dralath.

  A whiff of incense caught his attention. Small, intricately worked bronze firepots that could well have been of Vulcan design were set in niches along the smooth red walls. But no Vulcan firepot ever had been bolted to the floor, or had a protective grille welded over it.

  “It would seem that the senators do not wish to risk a literal firefight.”

  Charvanek raised a wry brow. “It did happen. Once.”

  Rather incongruously, low tables placed at regular intervals held shallow bronze bowls of flowers with huge, fragile petals, red and purple set among leaves the color of fresh-shed blood.

  “The emperor,” Charvanek commented without expression, “is very fond of flowers. He is also, by the way, quite an esteemed marine biologist. Better for him,” she added, so softly that even Spock’s Vulcan ears almost missed her words, “had he been allowed to be that. Only that.”

  At least the flowers softened the hall’s austerity. How cool such stonework would have been during a Vulcan summer, Spock thought, like a deep well in the shade. Here, it was merely . . . chilly.

  Two more of the cold-eyed young uhlans met them at the end of the hallway, also with their disruptor rifles at ready. The settings, Spock observed, were on Kill.

  “No dramatics,” Charvanek snapped at them. “You know me. And I vouch for my cousin, Academician Symakhos of Bardat. Now—stand aside!”

  It was a commander’s stern voice—and it was instantly obeyed.

  “Come, cousin,” Charvanek said. “Here is the Council Chamber. We’re early,” she added, glancing about.

  A few Romulan men and women in dress uniforms glinting with metallic thread and harness had already gathered. They stood stiffly near the council table, not quite at attention, all but radiating their wary discomfort. The curt snatches of conversation Spock caught sounded less like true gossip than military dispatches:

  “. . . another lady for our praetor.”

  “She is a medic.”

  “A faith healer.”

  “A fraud.”

  “He wishes her as ‘guest-friend.’ That is enough.”

  They act like so many predators forced into the same lair, Spock thought, then scolded himself for that emotional metaphor. Whatever latent mental talents these people might possess, their ancestors had left Vulcan long before the arts of the mind had been perfected: their unschooled emotions were perilous—even for themselves. No wonder they hated this type of proximity.

  Study your surroundings. Concentrate.

  The council table was a large stone rectangle of so dark a green that it was nearly black, polished to a fine gloss that would show no stains. On it sat small, individual terminals—bolted to the table.

  Nothing that can be moved—or is that, perhaps, thrown? Nothing that can be used as a weapon.

  Then Spock froze as a new group of Romulan senators entered, boot heels clicking against the smooth floor. No Pardek, of course; Pardek was still in prison. But there, unmistakable as he had been at the terminal, was Avrak. An ambitious man, Avrak: no doubt he regarded Pardek’s imprisonment as his opportunity, assuming he survived it.

  If Avrak recognizes me . . . Illogical. He has not seen me since the Obsidian affair.

  With Avrak were two others Spock remembered, the cousins Kharik and—Ruanek! Ruanek, with whom Spock had been corresponding secretly since the events on Obsidian.

  Avrak might not recognize me. Ruanek, though . . . impetuous as he is, can I trust him not to accidentally betray me?

  Hiding in plain sight never seemed so utterly illogical.

  And yet . . . Charvanek, it would seem, had been quite right: Romulans, like humans, saw only what they expected to see, and neither Avrak nor the cousins paid Spock the slightest notice. After a few moments, he dared study them.

  When he had last seen Ruanek and Kharik, they had been barely more than boys, part of the Vulcan fanatic Sered’s strike force on Obsidian. Now, Kharik wore a centurion’s insignia, but still smoldered with the same illogical anger as before; not surprising that he had not risen above that rank. Spock was gratified to see, however, that Ruanek appeared less . . . unfinished than he had on Obsidian.

  Only a subcommander, though? I should have thought a man with your intelligence would have risen further—or is that the problem? Your intelligence, and your impetuous honesty?

  And . . . could the fact that the now-grown Ruanek’s features looked more Vulcan than Romulan have hel
ped restrict his career? Humans had once based prejudices on nothing more than racial appearance. Were Romulans so illogically sensitive about the past?

  Ruanek and Kharik had always been rivals. Judging from their surreptitious glares at each other, the feud had grown worse over the years. Amazing, given Romulan tempers, that they were both still alive.

  Perhaps it amuses Avrak to keep them that way.

  “Well, cousin?” Charvanek asked. “Nothing like this on Bardat!”

  “Indeed not,” Spock agreed with utter honesty.

  Classic Romulan architecture, it would seem, included high, arched ceilings. Wind rushed in from those narrow windows up near the roof: Vulcan design again, intended to catch the faintest cooling breeze off the desert. Not logical in this cooler climate, particularly not now, when chilly drafts were swooping down, carrying the mineral-sharp tang of the Apnex Sea. A shiver ran through Spock before he could suppress it, and he warned himself, A Romulan would not feel this as cold.

  Breaking the vast sweep of the stone walls were blue, red, and blood-green mosaic scenes of military glories. There were also more than a few war trophies—welded into the stone so that no one could snatch one free. An array of Klingon arms and banners crowded one entire wall. Spock turned from them and found himself staring with a shock almost of horror at a jagged segment of a Federation starship’s hull, set in the place of honor, directly behind the high-backed chairs of emperor and praetor, the emperor’s one step higher. Traces of the ship’s identification number still showed, and Spock instantly memorized it. He would confirm that number with Starfleet when he returned.

  An immense brazier wrought in the form of a giant Romulan eagle stood at the far end of the Council Chamber, welded to the floor and covered with protective mesh. As each new senator entered, he or she approached the brazier, scooped up incense in a gold cup from the bowls on the nearby offering table, and cast it into the embers, adding to the growing miasma of too-sweet incense.

  “Come,” Charvanek said suddenly. “Time for the offerings.”

  A tall, dark-haired, immensely strong-looking man in the gray and red uniform of a commanding general was also striding toward the offerings. Charvanek raised her chin but did not alter course in the slightest. She reached her destination an instant after the man and met his eyes unflinchingly. He set down the cup, stood back, and bowed . . . grudgingly.

  “Noble Born,” he managed to say.

  She dipped her head ever so slightly, then turned away. Scooping up her offering, Charvanek bowed deeply, then cast the spices into the brazier and watched as they sparkled into bright flame. Only when the last grain was consumed did she turn back to the man whose turn she had preempted. “General.”

  The general flushed angry green, rendering his face even more intimidating. He clicked his heels, bowed sharply from the waist, and stalked off, leaving the shrine unhonored.

  “Volskiar,” Charvanek spat the name as she guided Spock back to the council table. “A brute, a fool, and an agent of the praetor, with an upstart, downworld title. He,” she added fiercely, “argued I should be executed when I returned from Federation space.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “To be blunt, he cannot have been the only one.”

  “Indeed not. But he was the only one who did not care that I overheard him.”

  “My dear cousin!” a sudden male voice exclaimed.

  Charvanek turned with a warrior’s speed. But in the next second, her tenseness melted, and her smile was, Spock thought, almost genuine. “Ah, Narviat.”

  The man who strode toward her was as tall and lean as Spock, his strong, narrow face handsome in a deliberate, polished way. His sleek black hair, its length indicating membership in the Imperial family, was pulled back in an elegant knot. He wore the dress uniform of an admiral of the fleet, black boots, fitted black trousers, and a severely tailored tunic of metallic silver cloth crossed with a crimson sash and glittering with awards—but he was too politically elegant to be convincing. Spock suspected that it had been years since he had seen active duty.

  “Narviat,” Charvanek repeated, holding out a hand. Spock raised an eyebrow slightly as the man brushed her fingertips lingeringly with his own. Were these two pledged? Acknowledged lovers, perhaps?

  No, logically not acknowledged. They were both, after all, related to the emperor, and Dralath would surely view any union between them as a threat to his power.

  Narviat’s glance turned toward Spock, a searching personal and political appraisal performed at light-speed.

  “My cousin,” Charvanek said, “may I present Symakhos, First Academician of Bardat, and a family connection on my mother’s grandmother’s side? Symakhos, Admiral Narviat.”

  “An honor, Admiral,” Spock said. Picking his way carefully, he added, “The admiral’s service record compels admiration even on the frontier.”

  “Long retired now,” Narviat confessed. “I count myself fortu-nate to have served at all before retiring into public life. You, too, have steered a hard course,” he added with only the briefest of hesitations. “A mere veteran can only imagine the discipline it takes to turn from the path of arms to research. The Empire needs its scientists.”

  Decidedly, a political type.

  “Your acknowledgment honors me,” Spock began.

  A blare of noise interrupted him: a harsh fanfare from a hidden speaker, making everyone in the chamber wince. Narviat’s face hardened ever so slightly. “Our praetor approaches. To business.”

  All around Spock, the others straightened to stern attention. Not a trace of their thoughts could be read from the suddenly stony faces, but Spock nearly swayed under the sudden blaze of raw emotion: Hate? Envy? Ambition?

  It is their emotion. Not your own. There is no emotion. There is calm. Logic. Only logic. Only calm.

  “And there is our noble praetor,” Charvanek murmured for Spock’s ear alone.

  Starfleet and civilian intelligence had made Praetor Dralath’s disillusioned features almost as well known to Spock as his own. But it was not the praetor who captured his attention, or the faces, almost equally familiar to Federation Intelligence, of officers and ministers of state. Who was that tall, lean figure sagging at Dralath’s side? Spock heard Charvanek’s sharp hiss of indrawn breath and knew: This could only be Emperor Shiarkiek.

  And the man was deathly ill.

  Or . . . was that, perhaps, heavily drugged? As everyone saluted him, a full military salute with an added lowering of their heads, Shiarkiek glanced at them all, his eyes not really tracking. He made an abortive gesture that might have been an answering wave, sank with an audible thump into his seat, and vanished into a world of his own. Dralath stood a moment longer, eyeing the senators with casual arrogance, then sat. With a loud scraping of chairs, so did everyone else.

  “Terminals on!” Dralath ordered, and each screen blazed into life. “Senators,” he began, allowing them only an instant, “do you see these reports before you?” He gave them a few moments for frantic scanning, then added, “Have you read these examples of mismanagement on so many levels? A dockyard riot in Argat. A fuel spill near Tartak. Seed shortages. Crop failures. Even the as yet unsolved sabotage of Senator Branak’s groundcar!” His voice snapped out, sharp as a whip’s crack “Are you not ashamed, each of you, to confess such ineptitude?”

  A few angry murmurs started up at that, a few angry glances flicked at Dralath, then away.

  “Or can it be,” Dralath shouted, “can it truly be that some of you are feeling more than mere shame? Come, look up at me, all of you! How many of you can meet my gaze without flinching? You, Senator Erket? You, Admiral Narviat?”

  A mistake, that. Narviat could, Spock saw, and did return Dralath’s stare, his handsome face absolutely cold.

  Dralath glanced away, out over all the others. “No, Senators, not all of you can meet my gaze. And we all know why! Not all have been true to the Romulan people!”

  More murmurings, and some uneasy glances, senato
r at senator: Who was going out of favor?

  “I will be blunt, Senators!” Dralath shouted. “Some among you are nothing less than true enemies of the state! Some of you are out-and-out traitors!”

  “No!”

  “That cannot be!”

  “My loyalty is unquestioned!”

  Romulans leaped to their feet, their chairs crashing over backward in the haste to outshout everyone else. Denials and accusations echoed off the high dome of the roof. Hands flew to Honor Blades.

  But in all the chaos, Spock, forcing inner calm on himself with every bit of his will, looked only at Dralath. And Dralath . . . was leaning back in his chair, watching the panic like one enjoying a mild entertainment, on his lips the faintest of thin, cold smiles.

  He knows exactly what he does.

  Sure enough, at the precise moment when blood would have been shed, Dralath leaned forward, both hands on the table, and shouted, “Silence!”

  It was a voice trained to override riots. Senators froze, blades in hand. Into the sudden startled quiet, Dralath continued, scorn in his voice, “Look at you! What, have you all turned to squabbling children? Or have you, perhaps, decided to show me your imitation of the Federation? Or is that of the Klingons?”

  A few uneasy laughs swept about the table.

  “Sit down, Senators. Sheathe your blades and sit down!”

  Warily, the Romulans found their seats again, like so many predators who would spring up again at one misplaced—or carefully placed—word.

  “Look at the documents,” Dralath continued. “Read them carefully. See the report from Tralath Province. And Harkan County. Grain shortages, faulty starship engineering—I need not tell you that there have been shortages, delays in shipments, accidents, Senators, more accidents than are credible. Warning signs, Senators. Dangerous signs. Now, some among you have been blaming me.”

  Shouts of denial rang out, from the faithful—or the most politically wary. Dralath, smiling that cold little smile, held out his hands for silence.