The others were hardly so calm. Arguments were breaking out again, and a flash of Fire-born anger erupted within Spock. “So does the honor,” he continued, aware of how his eyes must be blazing with the blood fever, “of your praetor, of Dralath who attempted to debauch and destroy a woman—and who, to impress her, revealed his plans. He has sent out your empire’s fleet not against some worthy foe, not some great and terrible peril to the Romulan people—but children. Unarmed women. Crippled elders. Unarmed civilians!”
Over the renewed storm of murmurings, Spock asked, “How many of you know of Narendra III? How many know of that unarmed colony—”
“Klingons,” a man began tentatively, and Spock whirled to him, finger stabbing at him, making him shrink back in surprise.
“Klingons,” Spock agreed. “But unarmed women, unarmed children—open war can be honorable, but where is honor here? Open war can be honorable—but such a cowardly attack, such a sneak attack, can not!”
He had struck home with all of them with that—
All but one. Spock met the gaze of the still-skeptical Narviat, and fought down a new surge of rage. That his word should be doubted, and by a—
By a politician, he told himself, and one who has every right to be skeptical.
But there was no time for subtlety. “I have heard a great deal about establishing my trustworthiness,” Spock said to them all, but looked directly at Narviat. “It seems reasonable that you establish yours as well.”
Narviat quirked an eyebrow at him. “Brave words from the only Vulcan on Romulus. Or are you going to say that we are all Romulans? Or, as in the old tales of the Sundering, Vulcans?”
“Words are easy,” Spock retorted. “We can trade barbs until the praetor’s ships attack, or we can act now.”
I must know what you are. I must know if you are better than Dralath.
“Wait, wait,” Ruanek broke in. “You both wish proof of each other? We all know that Vulcans have amazing mental disciplines, such as the—the ‘mind-meld.’ ” He stumbled over the unfamiliar term. “Use it now, so that you both may know the worth of the other.”
Ruanek, Spock thought, had some very elevated ideas of what Vulcans could and could not do! Narviat, studying him, said with just the faintest undertone of wry amusement, “The subcommander has a spirit of fire. But I have heard from no less a personage than our emperor that Vulcans do, indeed, have a way of knowing if a man lies—although it is also said that Vulcans cannot lie.”
“Much is said,” Spock told him flatly.
“Yet Vulcans do have such a discipline—that, I believe. Nothing magical about it; this is merely one of the skills we have forgotten. And are you skilled in this ‘mind-meld’? Yes? Then let us take the test, here and now.”
It would, Spock thought, be the most dangerous mind-meld he had ever attempted, what with the Fires in his blood barely quelled by meditation, and his judgment might well be impaired. But he could hardly refuse.
“We must be in physical contact,” he told Narviat, moving to his side, the others edging back out of his path. “It should not be unduly uncomfortable, but whatever occurs, the link must not be broken by others.”
Narviat nodded. Spock put his hands, fingers spread, on Narviat’s temples, feeling the man hold resolutely still, then began:
“My mind to your mind . . .”
And . . .
His own mind fought him, the blood fever tearing at his will, trying to attack the other consciousness, the other male—
No. Control. Partition off emotion. Partition off mere animal instincts. Narviat must know nothing of that. See only Narviat, feel only Narviat . . .
But the Fires raged, there below the surface, distorting his sight, his will, his mind, and it was too soon since he had forced the mind-meld on the praetor, too soon since he and Saavik had been linked—
Suddenly Spock had to break off, staggering back, struggling not to pant, fighting for self-control.
“That,” Narviat said after a shaken moment, “was . . . interesting.”
“Decidedly.”
All he had gained, Spock thought, all he had read for certain, was—nothing specific. Yes, Narviat was ambitious and, in his own honorable way, ruthless—no surprise there, not from a member of the Imperial family who’d survived so far. He was also far less venal and warmongering—more sensible, was it?—than Dralath.
And that, Spock thought, will have to do.
Particularly since, judging from Narviat’s expression, he had picked up a fair amount of emotional backlash that had left him . . . quite bewildered.
“I trust,” Spock said laconically, “that doubts have been erased?”
A quick nod from Narviat. “If we move,” he told them all, “we must move swiftly. For your sake,” he added to Spock, “as well as our own.” Glancing around the group, catching each man’s or woman’s gaze with his own, Narviat added, “What we are about to do could mean our deaths. For we do not seek merely to recall the fleet; what we are about to do is nothing less than plot the overthrow of the current government. You cannot be surprised by this; this next step was inevitable. But there can be no turning back, no retreat save death.” A well-timed pause. “Are you all agreed?”
Nods. Murmurs.
“Then: To Dralath’s defeat!”
“To Dralath’s defeat!”
The shout from them all was warily muffled, but it still, Spock thought, sounded alarmingly loud. But Narviat was already pointing out possibilities with the air of a man who has thought them over many a time and worked most of them out.
“We cannot risk anything as chancy as straight assassination. Dralath is never seen in public without a guard, and there is almost certainly some form of body armor under that pretty uniform.”
“Armor,” a man shouted, “can be pierced.”
“It can, yes,” Narviat agreed. “But what if you miss? Wound Dralath or miss him altogether, and you have ended any chance of getting close enough to him again. Hit the wrong target, and Dralath has a lovely chance to turn the victim into a martyr—‘He died for his praetor.’ ”
That started some uneasy murmurings. Narviat held up a hand. “Wait, there is worse. Miss and be captured—I don’t have to spell out what happens to the rest of us then.”
“And assassinations,” Spock added, watching Narviat closely, “tend not to lead to an orderly transfer of power.”
“How nicely you put that! No, they do not.” For an instant, what could only be genuine concern for the people flashed in Narviat’s eyes. “I would not wish civil war on Romulus. Not again. But,” he added briskly, “there are other methods.”
Spock straightened. “Someone,” he said very softly, “is watching. Keep talking.”
As Narviat began a bright pattern of words, Spock edged subtly away into shadow, as though weariness from the mind-meld had suddenly caught up with him, as though hunting a place to rest . . . hunting . . . Across the cavern, he could see Ruanek doing the same thing, edging up the taller stairway for a better view . . .
A shout. A flurry of motion and—
“Kharik!” Ruanek erupted. “Watch out—he’s trying—no, you don’t!”
Kharik, snarling, was trying to make a break for it, clearly meaning to flee back to Avrak with the tasty news that Ruanek was a traitor. But Ruanek, leaping off the stairway, blocked his escape. Kharik whipped out a disruptor pistol, but before he could fire, Spock caught his arm, tearing the weapon from his grip.
The two cousins stood staring at each other, years of mutual hatred in their eyes.
No, Spock thought, not here, not now.
The others seemed to expect a fight, closing in around the cousins. “No,” Spock began. “This is not—”
“Honor,” Ruanek snapped. “I call challenge on Kharik, he of no worth.”
“And I,” Kharik snarled, “accept challenge from Ruanek, he who is nothing!”
“To the death,” they said as one, clearly reciting a ritual chant. “We challenge and
accept this combat to the death.”
“But this is the height of illogic!” Spock protested. Never mind that duels are, in themselves, illogical; these people won’t accept that fact. “This is a terrible time for a duel.”
Time? There is no time!
“Honor,” the Romulans told him in a rush. “This is a matter of honor!”
“But we are right below the city! Anyone might overhear!”
They shrugged that off. And even Narviat, whom Spock had expected to be more logical, said, “It must be. A Vulcan cannot understand our ways.”
I cannot understand what is nothing short of human illogic! No, no, humans would never be so insane!
But he had no choice but to yield to the situation as the Romulans backed up, clearing enough space for a combat ring. Ruanek, his eyes shadowed, came to military attention before Spock.
“I ask honor of you. I ask that you be my second.”
It was clearly meant as a great compliment. “If it must be,” Spock said reluctantly. “Yes.”
Not surprisingly, no one wanted to second Kharik. After a few moments of awkwardness, Narviat sighed, muttered something about “Honor must. I will do it.”
Madness. They are all quite insane.
As, then, were his own ancestors. He was, Spock realized with the smallest of chills, seeing a virtual window into Vulcan’s bloody past. “If you must fight, fight. But above all, be quiet! I remind you again, these tunnels are perilously close to the surface, and any sound of fighting will alert the city guards.”
“Agreed,” Ruanek snapped. “My enemy, what weapons shall we use for the kill?”
It was a ritual request, since all Kharik had left to him was his blade. “Knives,” he said, as though it really had been a choice.
“So be it.”
The combatants circled, each with knife in right hand, their blades glinting, their eyes glinting, each watching for an opening, waiting—
A lunge, a blur of action almost too quick for the eye to follow—
And they’d drawn back again. A streak of stark green blood marked Ruanek’s upper arm—not, Spock noted with uncontrolled relief, his knife arm—and green blood trickled down Kharik’s cheek. Nothing serious, not yet, but small, cumulative wounds could yet take their toll. . . .
Another lunge, quick thrust, quick parry, forearm blocking forearm—
Separate again. No damage done this time. Circling, circling . . . not a sound to the fight save the hiss of the duelists’ breath—
Lunge! Ruanek feinted to the left, took Kharik with him, risked crippling as he blocked Kharik’s knife with his left arm, hissing as the blade tore a jagged rip through flesh. Continuing the motion, he twisted, knife hand forcing forward in a short, brutal underhand stroke, up under the ribs with such force that the breath left Kharik’s lungs in an audible groan—
Ruanek leaped back, panting, blood dripping from the blade—blood surging as well from Kharik, stabbed in the chest but still living. A collective hiss rose from the crowd, another from Spock, the metallic reek of blood filling his nostrils, the savagery of the Romulans filling his mind, the blood, the blood fever, rising, blazing—
Kharik lurched forward, knife reaching for his cousin. Ruanek dodged sideways, blade level—
And Kharik’s own movement impaled his throat on the point. He choked, blood spouting, then convulsed so strongly he pulled free, staggering, the knife falling from his hand. One last surge at Ruanek—
Then he fell, twitching, writhing—and at last lay still. A few of the crowd, the scholars used only to verbal violence, turned away, retching. The rest stood silent as Ruanek warily checked the body for any last sign of life.
There was none. He straightened, gasping out, “It is done,” his face torn between ecstasy and a strange . . . emptiness.
Of course, Spock thought, the Fires blazing. For all the hatred, they had been part of each other’s existences. Ruanek has just cut a piece of his life away.
For a time, he could not frame another thought, could only force his will inward, inward, seeking the coolness, the tranquillity . . .
Control. Logic. Logic is the cornerstone, not violence, not blood—logic.
Logic and civilization. As Ruanek stood over the bloody corpse, struggling for breath and self-control, Spock gradually dared surface back to the world around him. The struggle for self-control had taken little real time; no one seemed to have noticed how he had suddenly gone blank.
He said dryly, “I trust that Romulan honor has been satisfied. Now, may we go on to the matter at hand? Overthrowing a government is no small task.”
Narviat’s laugh was clearly forced. “Indeed. First . . .” Ruanek was hesitating over the body. “What?” Narviat asked.
“The ritual . . . I am his kinsman. Was.”
Spock and Narviat exchanged wry glances. “Honor,” the latter murmured, just for Spock’s ears, “can be a genuine . . . nuisance sometimes.”
Narviat moved to the corpse’s side, set the outflung limbs more or less straight, said what sounded to Spock like a singularly perfunctory prayer, then added, all but snapping his fingers in impatience, “Crystals.”
Ruanek fumbled in his small money pouch, came up with two crystals, which Narviat snatched and placed on the corpse’s eyes.
“May his journey to the next world be a swift one. Now, you and you,” pointing to two of the burlier men, “see if you can’t find some nice, tranquil final resting place for the less than dear departed, someplace his patron’s guards won’t locate too quickly.”
Ah yes, Spock thought, the consummate politician, indeed. A careful mix of concern and utter pragmatism.
But, like it or not, that was what often made the best politicians.
And, just possibly, it was the mix that would create the Romulan Empire’s next praetor.
SEVENTEEN
NEUTRAL ZONE AND FEDERATION SPACE, STARDATE UNKNOWN, YEAR 2344
“Personal log, Stardate . . .” But she couldn’t seem to remember the exact date. “I am Saavik of Vulcan, Commander, U.S.S. Armstrong. This is my report of an unauthorized mission into the Romulan Empire for which I assume entire personal and independent responsibility.”
Saavik paused. To the best of her knowledge, she had not been expelled from Starfleet. Yet.
“Course heading . . .” She read in the coordinates, adding, “Departure from the spaceport at Ki Baratan, bound through the Neutral Zone to the Klingon civilian base Narendra III.”
Saavik checked her instruments. In ordinary times, she would have found the opportunity to fly the lively, unpredictable little craft highly agreeable. One thruster was decidedly out of alignment, and the ship had needed nursing along after liftoff.
It still did. If she concentrated, she should be able to properly adjust the matter/antimatter feed rate, gain more efficiency out of the ship’s computers.
If she concentrated . . .
A sudden insistent beep beep beep brought her sharply alert, realizing that it was the navigation computer’s emergency signal warning her against a change of headings. What—she had been staring into the blinking lights of her instrument panels as if meditating on nothing at all!
Hastily, Saavik checked the navigational settings. The port at Ki Baratan had set her course; diverging from it while in the Neutral Zone could result in her ship’s being boarded or destroyed.
Open the log, Saavik. Document the homeworlds’ planetary defenses.
What was wrong with this wretched ship’s autocontrols? Had the Barolians cheated her? She had a mission worth dying for, but damned if she was going to die because of defective instrumentation!
For at least the fifth time, Saavik ran diagnostics. Normal, normal . . . the lights were blinking steadily . . .
Once again, the navcomp’s shrilled distress signals jolted her awake.
On course to Vulcan. Again.
Saavik rubbed a hand over her face. Couldn’t blame the shipboard computers. It was all too clear wha
t was happening.
Sometimes, meditation could overcome the effects of Pon farr. For her, meditation seemed only to set her on autopilot.
If only Spock had agreed to escape with me, we could have put this damnable hulk on autopilot for Vulcan, and right now be . . .
No. Definitely no. Dreaming of Spock, especially dreams like those, would make her go mad even faster.
So be it. She was bonded to a member of one of the most ancient and honorable families on Vulcan. She had an obligation to at least try to set the record straight.
Talk, Saavik. Talk.
She heard her voice grow fast and shrill as she gabbled another log entry. If Captain Uhura’s people ever wanted to break into the praetor’s mansion, they would know everything she did about his security. About Dralath. Court gossip that Starfleet anthropologists would prize; rumors about the Underground; details on every person in the court—including the emperor—with whom she had come in contact. Like that one-eyed centurion and the implications for Counterintelligence of his lack of medical treatment.
Could she fly free yet? Not quite.
No. Wake up. There is one thing more you must do. Damn you, you’re still Starfleet! Wake up!
A timed-release message, Saavik decided.
“Saavik of Vulcan, Commander in the Starfleet of the United Federation of Planets, to all ships. Seven Romulan warbirds approach Narendra III with hostile intent. At maximum warp, assume attack in . . .” She struggled to calculate the time, and abandoned any attempt at precision. “In approximately three hours after the Romulan fleet exits the Neutral Zone.” She would have to trust that the Federation—or the Klingons—had ships on patrol. “A second stealth attack is projected on Melville Colony. Warning. Warning. Warning.”
She added every distress code she could remember in at least ten languages, then set it to broadcast at a later, programmed interval—whether or not she was conscious—and turned back to her personal log. Captain Uhura had warned her that she was on her own. Was there any way to explain what really did look like espionage, defection, treachery, an act of war, or any number of acts that could not only get one court-martialed, but executed?
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