STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  The sudden discreet buzzing of his wrist comm brought the praetor starkly alert. News at last! Holding up a hand for silence, Dralath said into the comm’s tiny speaker, “Well?”

  The messenger knew not to waste his praetor’s time with nonessentials. “General Volskiar has returned—”

  “Ah!”

  “—alone.”

  “He what?”

  The advisors were all staring at him. Dralath brusquely waved them away, waiting impatiently as they filed meekly out. Once they were gone, he hissed into the comm’s speaker, “You are certain he is alone?”

  If Volskiar had somehow managed to lose his entire fleet at Narendra III, there was going to be a public execution over which the entire Empire would shudder for years!

  “Yes, my Praetor. The general is receiving clearance to land even now, and has asked for audience with you.”

  “He will speak with me. Indeed. I will take the message in my private quarters. Out!”

  Spock clenched his hands behind his back, both to hide their unseemly trembling and to keep from roughly shoving the earnest young Romulan, barely more than a boy, out of the way. Even with his hands shaking, Spock could see the job done some much more swiftly, and done right!

  “Micromanaging again, Spock?” a corner of his mind asked in McCoy’s dry drawl.

  Yes. He was doing exactly that, which was quite illogical. The young Romulan’s fingers were sure on the console keys; he gave every aspect of knowing what he was doing. But . . . the Fires were rising anew for all Spock’s mental struggles, battling with logic, with sanity. Pon farr could only be denied so long.

  A bit longer, he told himself. Hold out just a bit longer. Let me only finish my mission here.

  “I have it!” the young Romulan said triumphantly, and stabbed at a volume control. There was a loud crackle of static, and he hastily turned it down, frowning slightly with concentration as he adjusted the gain. “Sorry. That’s as good as it’s going to get.”

  Spock brusquely waved him to silence. “Dralath,” Ruanek murmured after a few moments of listening to the faint, not-quite-clear voices, “and . . . who is that with him . . . ? I can’t quite make out . . .”

  “General Volskiar,” Spock cut in.

  “Ha, right! You’ve got a good memory for voices.”

  The room fell quiet. Everyone there listened intently. . . .

  The mirrors lining the walls of the praetor’s private study reflected a Dralath almost dark olive with rage. “You lost how many ships?”

  General Volskiar stood at full military attention, fairly radiating defiant arrogance. “Four,” he repeated reluctantly, “but we did fully achieve our objective—”

  “You lost five warbirds out of seven?”

  Volskiar’s gaze wavered. “Hear me out, my praetor. One was lost to the Enterprise, as I say, and no shame in that. The others were lost not to an honorable, honest enemy, but to treason! To the darkest, foulest treason!”

  “I am not your troops, Volskiar. No need to orate.”

  “But what I have to say is too terrible for small words. My praetor, I hold as prisoner the woman who was once known as Commander Charvanek—she who set an ambush and most treacherously fired upon our fleet! She who has murdered our own!”

  “Why?” Dralath exploded. “Why would she do such a thing?” Zerliak had reported that that obsolete warbird she maintained had left orbit and disappeared, and there’d been that infuriating instant when orbital defenses had crashed . . .

  Oh, the Klingon-loving woman was clever, clever . . . why else had she survived the first time she’d played traitor for the damned Federation?

  “My praetor, I, ah, thought interrogation might better wait till she was safely in your hands.”

  “Yes, of course.” Clever, Volskiar. I hate cleverness in my senior officers. He thought of Volskiar’s prosperous estates. Any more cleverness, and you may make me richer than I already am.

  Struggling for composure, Dralath said, “I take it that no one has seen her being brought back to Ki Baratan.”

  “Only my crew.”

  “Excellent.” But why would Charvanek have taken such a wild chance?

  Narviat. The name shot into his mind without warning. Narviat, so quietly defiant in his prison cell. Narviat, who was such a blatant friend of the people. And who, together with Charvanek, was linked by blood to the emperor, and who made such frequent visits to the Imperial Palace . . .

  “Excellent,” Dralath repeated with barely concealed satisfaction. “All Romulus shall celebrate, General Volskiar. There will be a grand public festival to honor our glorious victory over the aggressor Klingons and the treacherous Federation.”

  “And . . . the traitor?”

  “The woman shall, of course, be questioned, but discreetly. We do not wish a martyr.” Like her cursed cousin, Narviat, she was far too popular with the mob. As well as being of the Imperial blood.

  But she would still die, she and Narviat together, with the crowds jeering them as traitors. Ah yes, none so quick to hate as those who have their faith broken! And that would shatter the prestige not only of Charvanek and Narviat, but of their kinsman as well: Narviat, Charvanek, and Emperor Shiarkiek in one swift, efficient blow!

  “Very well, General Volskiar, you shall—” Dralath broke off with a muttered oath as a warning light on his desk console began to flash. He mouthed, Talk, keep talking, and while the puzzled Volskiar obediently began to speak of ships’ supplies, Dralath began his hunt. Someone was spying on him. . . .

  Keep spying, he told that someone, fingers flying over the console’s keypad, just a little longer . . . I will have you in just a little while longer. . . .

  And if it is you, my mysterious Academician Symakhos, akhh, if it is you, I shall not need my operatives to report from Bardat. If it is you, then there shall be three traitors, not two, bound to the execution frames!

  TWENTY-SIX

  KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 8, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, YEAR 2344

  Narendra III, Spock thought, listening in despair. The massacre successful . . . and Saavik, ah, Saavik . . .

  Had she gotten through with her message or . . . died en route? Illogical. The action of the doomed Enterprise showed that she had delivered her message—but what had happened then? Had she died on Enterprise? No, no, the irony of that was too strong. He would not believe it. Could not. Illogical or not, he would not believe her dead!

  Wouldn’t he?

  But . . . something was wrong. The truth seeped gradually through Spock’s shock and turmoil. Something was very wrong with what they were hearing, and it had nothing to do with the horror of Volskiar’s report or the banality that he droned on about now. . . .

  That was it!

  “Break contact!” Spock shouted. “Now!”

  When the startled young Romulan failed to act swiftly enough, Spock shoved him out of the way, disconnected the system himself, and snapped into the stunned silence, “Overconfident amateurs!”

  “What—”

  “What do you—”

  “How could you—”

  But Ruanek held up a hand for silence, nodding in terse understanding. “He’s right. Didn’t you hear what Volskiar was saying? How he suddenly went from making a proper report to his commanding officer to vague rambling about ship’s supplies?”

  “Exactly,” Spock cut in. “Dralath doesn’t remain praetor by being trusting. He knew someone was spying on him and was trying to keep the contact open long enough to trace us!”

  He was talking too excitedly.

  Control, he warned himself, and knew the warning failed to cool his anger. Underneath the Pon farr-heightened anger, he felt an equal surge of anguish tearing at him. Saavik and her warning, her life, had gone for nothing and he—

  Let me accomplish something here. Let my life, here at its end, mean something.

  To his dismay, his hands were trembling, too violently for accuracy on any keyboard. Instead, while the others plotted
, Spock took Ruanek aside and asked softly, fighting to keep his voice level, “How adept are you at breaking into systems, coaxing out records?”

  “No one trains a warrior for that,” Ruanek admitted with a trace of his old resentment. “Ah, wait, but Kerit is!” Ruanek snagged a scrawny teenaged girl by the arm and pulled her over to them. “Kerit here can work wonders, crack just about any electronic system, can’t you, Kerit?”

  She was thin, narrow-faced, and shabby in a deliberately unkempt way. And in her eyes burned that almost fanatic light Spock had seen in many a . . . ah, what was the old Terran term . . . yes, in the eyes of many a “hacker” in the Federation. The Underground united strange companions: how else would a subcommander know a streetwise youngster and her dubiously acquired skills?

  “Excellent,” Spock said to her, and pointed at a console. She sat down with a thump, wriggling her fingers to loosen up. Spock continued, “Before we may reveal Dralath as the ‘enemy of the people,’ which, rhetoric aside, he is, we must have evidence.”

  Ruanek’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “You’re planning to break into his private files!”

  Kerit underscored that with a little gasp and giggle.

  “As far as seems prudent,” Spock said coolly, “yes. We—”

  Thin-faced Jarrin burst out, “Have you gone mad? Do you, do you think it’s just a matter of breaking into some merchant’s records for a joke?”

  Kerit started guiltily at that, and Ruanek raised an eyebrow at her.

  “These are the records of one of the most suspicious officials on the planet!” Jarrin continued fiercely. “Why do you think none of us ever tried to break in? He has alarms on top of alarms!”

  “All the more intriguing the challenge, then,” Spock said to Kerit, and won a sharp, nervous little grin from her. “What other choice is there?” he added to the others. “Are we to stall and bicker as you did in the caves beneath the city, talking our lives away while Dralath claims victory? Yes, and while your Admiral Narviat and Commander Charvanek both pay what is so casually called ‘the ultimate price’ and any hope of change dies with them?”

  No one spoke. No one moved. But then Ruanek shrugged. “You’re right. And, damn Dralath to the darkest hell, there’s more at stake than anything so—petty as personal safety.”

  “Petty!” someone exclaimed, and Ruanek glared, for a moment all warrior again, impatient at a civilian’s qualms.

  “Are not all Romulans gamblers at heart?” Spock cut in before an argument could erupt. “Begin, Kerit.” As an ambassador, Spock had learned when to apply a touch of melodrama to logic: “Let us cast all upon a single throw of the sticks, and see what Fortune sends us!”

  The technique worked. With a happy little giggle, Kerit set to work. And no one even tried to argue.

  Ruanek shifted his weight subtly from one foot to the other, and fought the urge to rub his aching arm. The emperor’s physician had had a deft touch, even to sealing up the deepest of the knife wounds so well that there would be no lasting harm to nerves or muscles, but that didn’t mean the injuries were healed. And the pain-numbing drugs were rapidly wearing off.

  Pain is nothing. He began the Warrior’s Creed without hesitation. Are you not a warrior of the Empire? Are you not a subcommander—

  Akhh, no. He wasn’t. Not any longer. The shock of that renewed realization hit Ruanek so strongly he nearly staggered. He was . . .

  What? No family, no rank, no status of any sort in Romulan society—Terrifying, genuinely terrifying, to think that the only stability in his life right now, the only person he could truly trust, wasn’t even a Romulan.

  And that person, Ruanek thought, glancing uneasily at Spock, who was leaning over Kerit to study the screen, almost laughing with her as he did so, just might be following in the path of Sered of Vulcan so many years ago, back when Ruanek still thought he had a promising career.

  Spock just might be going insane.

  Very much aware of Ruanek’s eyes on him, Spock spared a thought almost of pity for the Romulan. What reassurance could he possibly give Ruanek? I am merely undergoing a natural phenomenon, one that will eventually kill me. Do not let that concern you.

  At least the blood fever wasn’t high enough to force him to react to immature little Kerit. She was giggling again and muttering softly to herself in concentration.

  “Uh-oh. No. False path. Heh. Spider waiting, ready to catch—not me. Turn this way . . . pathway . . . yess . . . bet you think you’ve got that safe. No no no, this way . . . try this code . . . Yes! Got something.”

  “Yes, you do,” Spock agreed in genuine appreciation, studying the screen. He asked the others, “Who is—rather, who was Senator Tharnek?”

  Ruanek straightened. “I know that name. I remember Avrak talking about him, fairly recently, too . . . Tharnek . . . Senator Tharnek—right! Until just a short while ago, he was the overseer of the Rarathik District. Until, that is, he suffered an unfortunate and quite fatal confusion about the proper dosage of a heart medication.”

  “Fascinating. He must have truly been loyal to the praetor.”

  “How so?”

  “See for yourself! Either he had no heir, or the late senator cherished his praetor over all others.”

  He moved aside to let Ruanek see, watching the Romulan’s face as Ruanek scrolled down the file.

  “Uh-oh,” Kerit cut in, “on to us. I’m downloading—damn! They’re moving data—got it. Come on, come on, stupid slow machine . . . yes, no! Damn! All right, all right, they haven’t found us yet. No spider pouncing. We wiggle in this way . . . ha! There. Safe.” She twisted about to give Spock a feral grin. “What do you want now?”

  “See if you can access some death records,” Spock told her. “Senators, Kerit, who met with fatal accidents within the last . . . mm . . . five years.”

  “Oh, easy! They don’t guard those! Been in there before—whoo, no! Got guards now. Wait . . . try . . . twist about like this . . . and this . . . code . . . code . . . yes, almost . . . there. That what you want?”

  Spock and Ruanek studied the data together.

  “Fascinating,” Spock said at last. “Your Romulan senators seem to be a singularly unfortunate lot. They would appear to have suffered an astonishing number of fatal accidents, far greater than the statistical probabilities would allow.”

  “And,” Ruanek said, “there are a lot of transfers of estates into the praetor’s personal accounts.”

  “Indeed. Kerit, one more search, if you would. Political records, now. See if you can cross-reference how many of the deceased were known to be activists, preferably those actually on record as speaking out against the praetor.”

  “Right. Here we go . . . yes . . . ease out . . . don’t leave a fingerprint . . . eeee! Almost got me there! Spider code, down like a knife.” She paused, panting as though it had been a physical struggle. “Right. Here we go. Shouldn’t be a problem; public records . . . no. No, they’re not. Suspicious dreeb, puts everything under guard . . . Ethak Code, clumsy stuff, should upgrade if he really wants to keep ’em secure—there.”

  “Interesting . . .” Spock scanned the list of names, quickly matching the names with the list of the deceased. “To speak out against Dralath too openly does seem to increase a senator’s risk of meeting with a fatal accident. And there also seems to be a remarkable coincidence: Every one of the deceased left his or her estate to the praetor. How very . . . patriotic of them.”

  Ruanek snorted. “That’s one word for it. But, yes, all this is conclusive evidence against Dralath, showing he’s corrupt, but it’s not going to help Admiral Narviat. We can’t leave him in Dralath’s hands. Yes, and we can’t give up on Commander Charvanek, either!”

  The Fires surged up at the thought of Charvanek, nearly blinding Spock, nearly devouring rational thought. “No,” he agreed shortly, fighting for control again. “We cannot. Proof of corruption, as you so casually belittle political murders, is clearly not enough to sway the Rom
ulan people.” As Ruanek frowned at the matter-of-fact—if true—insult, Spock continued, “What we do need is an undeniable link between Dralath and the massacre of Narendra III, irrefutable evidence that Dralath, not Charvanek or Narviat, is the traitor. Without that evidence—”

  “Uh-oh.” That was Kerit, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Bad. Someone’s on to us. Better try . . . right. There. Got by ’em. For now. Make it quick, get your data. They’re going to be sending the spiders in here.”

  Ruanek and Spock exchanged blank looks.

  “Spiders!” Kerit repeated, impatient with such stupidity. “Tie up the system in webs, trace you right down the strands. Get you good, maybe, if you’re cyberlinked, even brain burn or something synapse-scrambling.”

  “Narviat,” Ruanek said helplessly. “Can you just locate him? And then get out?”

  “Sure as the Pit hope so. Just in case, get ready to run when I give the yell.”

  “Understood. All of you,” Spock said over his shoulder, “pack up anything that might be considered incriminating. And be ready to move.”

  Kerit, muttering to herself once more, was flashing through floor plans, screen after screen. “Lot of rooms . . . secret ones. See? No clear way in, out. Cells, bet you. Cells Dralath doesn’t want anyone to know are there.”

  “Go on,” Spock urged, studying the screen as the charts scrolled by, “on.” The concentration needed for an accurate scan of quickly moving data helped focus mind and will. And Kerit, he was learning, could process data almost as swiftly as he: most satisfying. They scanned together, swiftly hunting . . . hunting . . . “There! Stop. Close in, Kerit . . . yes. Stop. A bit closer . . .”

  “Can’t get any closer. Lots of spiders around there. Lots and lots of them, all sorts of stuff, all around just that one little room.”

  “That one little cell,” Spock corrected. “That can only be the location of Narviat’s prison. No other isolated room would be so thoroughly guarded.”