STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  She could not suppress her gasp of horror, nor her involuntary glance up at the night sky as if she could expect to see Romulan ships, streaking off to do murder. To start a war.

  “Ah, my Evaste, you do understand!”

  I do, Saavik thought. I understand that you mean to bring madness down upon us all.

  She must end this, here, now, before she could no longer think. Dralath’s hand moved over her shoulder, easing the clinging silk back from it. Saavik shut her eyes as if in surrender. Gently, she slid a hand up his arm, caressingly brought it onto his shoulder—

  Then closed strong fingers on the praetor’s neck in the most enthusiastic nerve pinch of her life!

  FOURTEEN

  KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 6, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, 2344

  Spock edged out from around the tall, pitted stone just in time to see the praetor press Saavik down beneath him onto the cushions.

  No-o-o!

  Snapping Dralath’s neck would be too quick. Spock would strangle him, yes, see his face darken, his eyes pop, feel his futile struggle for air—yes! His vision narrowed to his quarry.

  Just then, Saavik freed one arm, slid it up Dralath’s arm in a travesty of passion—and administered a meticulous nerve pinch. Spock held back a shout of triumph. Atavism, he rebuked himself. Pure atavism—but how satisfying.

  Saavik was muttering a disgusted oath and pushing the praetor away. His limp body toppled from the cushions onto the tiles.

  As Spock vaulted onto the terrace, Saavik rose to face him. And he—he stood frozen, staring at her, unable to speak. She wore a filmy gown the deep green of heart’s blood, the vivid shade that once, long ago on Vulcan, had meant passion. Now, Vulcan women rarely wore it. And about her neck glinted a silver pendant. One of the praetor’s gifts? No matter, no matter . . .

  So beautiful. So very beautiful. His.

  Her hair was still mostly coiled in a low, loose knot. If he reached out, twined his fingers in it and tugged, it would slip free over her shoulders. To touch her now . . .

  “You left yourself no margin for error,” he forced out in an almost rational tone.

  She brushed back the stray tendrils of her hair with a weary hand. “You might have trusted me. You did once.”

  “I do.” He could say no more, aching to shield her from all harm, hold her in his arms—take her now; she will welcome you—

  Here? Now? Illogical, utterly illogical. Control . . . for her life as well as yours, control. “Saavik . . . you must leave immediately.”

  Saavik nodded. Matter-of-factly, she picked up the praetor’s feet; Spock grasped his shoulders. No guards were about: Dralath had banished them all from the immediate vicinity. Spock and Saavik carried him inside her suite and deposited him, by unspoken agreement, on a low couch rather than Evaste’s bed, then stood looking down at him, each, Spock knew, fighting an inner battle.

  “We must give the praetor some false memories to cover your departure,” Spock said at last. “I regret having to violate even his mental integrity but . . .”

  He had forced a mind-meld before, on a woman; in his present emotional state, the memory of Valeris shamed him.

  Saavik, misunderstanding his reluctance, raised an eyebrow. “This is war,” she told him sharply. “Your skills are stronger than mine, but if you do not wish to perform the mind-meld, I will. A woman’s touch—my touch—might be more effective.”

  She reached out her hand toward Dralath’s temple, but Spock quickly blocked her. “Not alone, Saavik.” He too made contact. Their fingers brushed, clung briefly, then separated.

  “You ask, you do not order,” she whispered. “So I will consent to what you ask. Anything you ask.”

  She had to know what she was saying. And its effects on one in the grip of the Fires.

  Resolutely, he forced his attention back to the task ahead. This mind-meld would not be easy, not with an enemy, a rival. Not with fire racing in his blood. And most certainly not with Saavik’s thoughts touching his.

  Entering Dralath’s mind was like struggling through a wasteland—a savage wilderness that could well have been found in Vulcan’s most barren regions. The praetor might not be a telepath, but his subconscious fought them, mind to mind. The outcome was never in doubt, but Spock and Saavik both were breathing hard by the time they finished.

  Spock withdrew from the meld, feeling an illogical need to wash his hands. When the praetor woke, he would have nothing but vague, groggy memories of too much wine and passion spent.

  “I suppose his women flee after he’s possessed them,” Saavik whispered. “Assuming they survive.”

  She wiped her hands against her robe, in the process molding it to the curves of her body. At Spock’s intake of breath, she looked up. The fire in her blood had burned away the weariness and humiliations of the role she had played. Now, she was clearly struggling not to hurl herself into his arms.

  Without thinking, Spock put out his hand to touch her temple, the light touch Vulcan teachers and adepts used to invoke a mind-meld. He had soothed her that way when she was a child who flashed into panic or blind fury if she was restrained.

  The touch was electrifying, a blaze of pleasure, desire, and triumph that she responded so completely. For an instant, Spock’s fingers brushed her lips to still their trembling, and then he was reaching for her, heedless of anything but the need to make her his, to ease the fever in his blood, the madness in his mind and spirit then and there. And she—

  She stepped back, forcing discipline upon herself with an effort that made them both ache. He dropped his arms, his breathing harsh as if he had been fighting all day.

  “What a treasure you are, Saavik. I ask forgiveness.” Somehow, he managed to keep his voice level. “I assume you had some plan to escape this place.”

  “Yes. Spock—”

  “Then you must implement it now, while there is still a chance for reinforcements to come in time to Narendra III. Set your course for Narendra III and send a subspace message to Starbase 9. Then, head for Vulcan.”

  “But you—” Saavik’s eyes blazed with longing. “You will not leave, too? Spock, come with me!”

  The idea of traveling back, alone with her, to Federation space . . . the wondrous, tempting idea . . .

  “I . . . cannot.” The words seemed to tear themselves from him. “Saavik, you are strong and competent, but you are only one. Should you fail and your message not arrive—yes, that might well happen, we both know it. I must do what I can here.” The emperor, he thought, weak though he may be, still holds the people’s loyalty. If I can reach Shiarkiek, he might be convinced to recall the fleet.

  If recall is even possible—

  And, though Spock didn’t say it, he must also find a way to unseat Dralath. Even should Saavik deliver her message, even if Narendra III and the Melville colony could be defended, there must be no more such plans.

  Saavik glanced back at where Dralath lay. “We could simply—eliminate him, here and now.” It was a temptation.

  “That will not recall the fleet. Dralath controls the military with an iron hand,” Spock said flatly. “No matter how precarious his balance of power may be, it is still a balance. If the Romulan generals are released from his yoke, each will seek his own glory in combat. They might run riot from Narendra III toward as many Federation colonies as they can strike.”

  Saavik shuddered. “ ‘And the war-beasts are let loose from their chains.’ But you, too, are only one. What can you—”

  “What I must.” Spock interrupted. For a moment, the sheer enormity—the sheer arrogance, perhaps—of what he meant to do overwhelmed him. “I have unfinished work here and allies that I cannot abandon. You understand.” Please. Understand. “I shall follow you home . . . if I can.”

  Saavik went white to the lips. “So this is Kobayashi Maru,” she murmured. “Endgame. Admiral Kirk called it a test of character.”

  “Jim also said that you could take the test again if you were displeased with i
ts results. Believe me, Saavik, you have no need.”

  Saavik bowed her head.

  And Spock . . . remembered how he had once, long ago, left the Enterprise’s bridge and entered a contaminated engine room, knowing he would not survive. How do you like my solution? he had asked Jim. If he failed now . . .

  If he failed, if he never returned to her, Saavik would face a slow, painful death as her systems shut down and madness erupted from the fire in her blood, while the best Spock could hope for was the violent mercy of a Romulan disruptor.

  But the needs of the many on Narendra III and beyond—the needs of perhaps thousands of innocent civilians—outweighed the needs of the one. Or even of the two.

  “Spock!” Saavik’s voice was husky. “Parted from me . . .”

  “Never parted,” he completed in the whisper that was all the voice he could find. “Never. Now, go.”

  While I can still bear to release you!

  The effort ached all through Spock’s body, but he turned away into the night. He dared not know how she escaped. If Charvanek were defeated, Romulan interrogation techniques might not break him, but then again, they might tear data from his mind. Then they would kill him, possibly as painfully as Pon farr.

  Even so, if Saavik’s warning alerted the worlds, they would not have failed.

  For Saavik to disappear, Evaste of Anat-Vorian had to die. As the sound of Spock’s long strides faded away into the gardens, Saavik ran for the too-lavish bedchamber of the suite she had never wanted to occupy. She threw the silver pendant across the room, then stripped off the loathsome, clinging silk that was the color of an Orion slave. It tore with a moist sound she found highly satisfactory, imagining she was rending the praetor’s flesh. Tossing the ruined gown on the floor, she struggled into a shipsuit, then into drab Romulan traveling clothes until, finally, she felt decently covered.

  Spock wanted her as much as she wanted him. She could not have mistaken the longing in his gaze. Or the fire in the brief touch that was all he dared give and all she dared accept.

  “Come back to me, Spock.” It was the faintest whisper. “Come back to me.”

  Saavik shivered. So cold—or was she burning up? She had to get offworld before the fever robbed her of wit and strength. She turned to the equipment that “Evaste” had brought to Romulus with such high hopes and wiped its files as if, disillusioned, the trader-medic had destroyed her small stock-in-trade.

  One last task remained. A quick search of the praetor’s tunic turned up a pouch of high-denomination crystals, a finely wrought knife, and a disruptor. She left the crystals where they were, but took the weapons. And for a moment, for all her need for haste, Saavik hesitated.

  I could kill him, here, now. I could kill him as he lies helpless.

  She hefted the disruptor, thinking that she would rather snap his neck.

  Of course, Saavik told herself, she would never do anything so dishonorable. Or foolish.

  So be it. You get to live, Dralath. And I trust I don’t regret it.

  A rejected gift, a torn gown, missing weapons—the disruptor for protection against recapture and the knife for honor—and files erased. With luck, the Romulans would ask no further questions. Suspecting that she would need speed as well as luck, Saavik raced across the garden. No problem with security devices: Dralath in his confidence had told her where and what they were.

  At the nearest checkpoint, two guards lay unconscious, a pile of crystals on a nearby table. They had probably been gambling when Spock passed this way. Well done! she congratulated him without seeking to touch his mind. No use in drawing out their farewell. Grabbing a cloak from an open locker—if these fools had been under her command, she would have put them on report—Saavik wrapped it around herself to provide a safely military appearance until she could discard the cloak, the praetor’s weapons, and anything else that was of Romulus.

  What else? Did she need money? Saavik had no false scruples about appropriating the guards’ money, or even that of the praetor if it were necessary.

  Saavik bared her teeth at the night and turned her back on the praetor’s mansion. Hailing ground transportation, she rode down into the city, then changed, rode, and changed again, stopping about half a kilometer from the Customs Hall. Discarding the warrior’s cloak, she burned it to ash with the disruptor, then threw the weapon down before the Guard could come. Another clue.

  Saavik produced her identification disk and held her breath through emigration processing, then strode as rapidly as she dared to her ship.

  As Saavik activated the ship’s hatch, she heard long, measured steps. A flash of illogical joy erupted: What if Spock had followed her? Whirling, she reached out to touch him through their bond—

  —then saw, instead, the one-eyed centurion whom she had met on landing.

  “Lady Evaste!” he gasped.

  A shout from him now could summon reinforcements. Her ID would not stand up to any serious investigation.

  If I kill, I will go mad. And I do not wish to kill, not him.

  “Oh no . . .” he muttered and drew closer, holding out his one hand.

  Saavik shrank back, blood fever overwhelming logic, telling her: Male. Outsider. Unacceptable. If he came any nearer, she would attack. She drew the praetor’s knife, and sanity returned, making her hold it not as a trained warrior but as Evaste might, uncertain of her grip. The fine blade shimmered in the dim light of the port’s night watch.

  The centurion took a wary step back. “Lady . . .”

  She shook her head, warning him off. “I have to get offworld. Let me go. Please let me go.” She kept enough of her wits to let her voice shake with seeming terror and shock.

  “You poor thing,” he said, and lowered his hand as if he realized why she might dread being touched. Saavik caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the battered side of her tiny ship. Her hair was wild, her eyes were wild, and her lips still trembled from the aftermath of her parting from Spock. A spasm of desire shot through her at the thought of him, and she shuddered as the blood fire rose. Her eyes were flame. Her blood was flame. If this outsider touched her, she would turn to ash.

  “Let me see your identification,” the centurion ordered, standing back. “Set it on the deck.”

  How very strange: She glared at him, yet he was not consumed by the fires she felt darting from her eyes. . . .

  No. Think. Be logical.

  As logical as she could be just now. Still holding the praetor’s blade, Saavik set out first the disk, then the transponder, telling him, “I was legally cleared for takeoff.”

  “Scans showed you carried a weapon. I said I’d deal with it. Give me the knife, lady.” A touch more gently, he added, “Set it down, if you will not hand it to me.”

  She set down the blade, and he, moving very slowly, picked it up. Pity made his remaining eye too bright. “An Honor Blade and a fine one,” he murmured, searching the knife for owner’s marks.

  Then he stiffened in sudden stunned realization. “Evaste, did you take this from . . .”

  Saavik made herself look down as if ashamed.

  In the next moment, she forced herself not to raise both eyebrows in appreciation: Some of the words the old man was using were not only obscure but viciously inventive. “Why did I even let you through Customs?” he groaned. “One-Eye, they call me. Blind! Blind and foolish. Night and day, I wish I had not listened to those young men, so sure, so damnably sure of themselves. Those aristocratic oafs. And now look . . .”

  She could see from the pain in his face how deeply he regretted that he had not acted on his first impulse and sent back offworld a lady who had played for stakes too high for her. “Please,” she whispered. “Just let me go.”

  The centurion put her ID disk down. “I can get you offworld and through the Boundary without trouble, but only on conditions.”

  “What else?” she asked, then broke off because her voice had nearly betrayed her. “What must I do now?”

  “Promise
me three things. And swear by the Eagle.”

  Damn! “Name them.” She let her voice quaver as Evaste’s might have.

  “You will not retreat into the Final Honor. You may not believe me now,” he added, very gently, “but people do survive what you’ve been through, yes, and go on to build themselves decent lives.” She could practically sense his thoughts, male and misguided but well-meant: Women live through these things. If she can only get through the first few nights, she will survive. “So,” he continued, “you will promise me you will give yourself a chance.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  “You will go straight home.”

  The irony was enough to almost make her weep. This time the quaver in her voice was quite real. “And the third condition?”

  “That you plan no vengeance on the Empire. You will swear that on the Eagle.” He pointed to the representation of the great blue and green bird-of-prey on the wall over their heads.

  It was not vengeance, Saavik thought, to stop dishonor. Here was a Romulan centurion who had a wife, children he loved, and he was risking their future to help a woman he had seen only once. She suspected that he would claim the Final Honor himself rather than support a sneak attack on other people’s children.

  Honor still did remain in the Empire. Just because she had never seen it as a child did not mean it did not exist even here. She hated knowing this, but like any hard lesson, it was worth the learning.

  “By the Eagle,” she whispered. If Spock respected it, if his friend Commander Charvanek reverenced it—and if this veteran, battered as he was, could still swear by it—it was worth a promise.

  The centurion removed her ID from his reader, then set it down again. As she bent to snatch it up, he saluted her.