STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  As Picard entered the Transporter Room, ben Zoma warned him in an undertone, “Careful. He’s got a knife.”

  I thought I said “unarmed.” Is he that foolish? Or that contemptuous of us?

  But then a flash of data memorized from who knew what briefing reminded Picard that all Romulans of rank carried a knife known as an Honor Blade. This Romulan probably hadn’t even considered his as anything as common as a weapon. It was part of him.

  But it was a weapon now. The Romulan—Ruanek, he’d named himself—had one arm about the sagging body of his unconscious brother. Both were battered and stained with soot and green blood—but the knife gleamed, unmarked, never wavering in that clenched fist. The Romulan’s face was cold and hard, but his eyes . . .

  Picard had seen that look in the eyes of humans, too: those who had been pushed far too hard under unbearable conditions for far too long. Those who had reached the edge of total collapse.

  One wrong word, and he either attacks in sheer despair or uses that blade on himself.

  Neither option is acceptable.

  He quickly considered and discarded command voice: Subcommander Ruanek was in no condition to hear anything military from anyone he would consider an enemy.

  All right, then. Gamble. Picard muttered to the Security crew, “Put your phasers down.”

  “But sir—”

  “That’s an order!”

  He waited a second for their compliance, then took a wary step forward, hands half raised to show their emptiness.

  “You brought your brother to us for help.” The translator should handle that easily enough, and his soothing tone should register even if the words didn’t. “That means you trust us with his life. The way you talked, it means more to you than your own. But we can’t help him if you won’t let us near him. Surely you know that.”

  Something flickered in the Romulan’s eyes. Not relief, exactly, but a desperate surrender that said, I trust him; I have no other option. “Captain?” It was said in his heavy accent but the urgency in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Yes. Jean-Luc Picard, captain of—”

  “Go!” Ruanek was clearly fighting with his exhausted mind for the right words in this unfamiliar language. “Warp drive—get this ship away!”

  Damnation. He was followed. Picard gestured subtly to ben Zoma, who just as subtly shrugged: No news from Lisuni. “Who—”

  “No questions, no . . . no time. Here, I show you honor, you show me the same.”

  He sheathed the knife and offered it and its scabbard to Picard. A spark of inspiration moved Picard to say quietly, “I know that is an Honor Blade. And I give you my word of honor that no shame shall befall it.” As he tucked knife and sheath respectfully into his belt, thinking, An unlikely ornament for a Federation captain, he saw the relief on the Romulan’s face. “Now, let us get your brother to sickbay. Yes, and you, I think, as well. For treatment,” Picard added wryly, seeing how Ruanek tensed, “not torture. I don’t know what you’ve heard of the Federation, but one thing we are not is torturers.”

  “Captain.” Cadwallader’s voice over the comm was sharp. “We’ve picked up another ship on our sensors. It just decloaked. And—Captain, it’s coming straight at us out of the Neutral Zone.”

  I knew it! Our refugees did have friends. “Belay that,” Picard snapped at Ruanek. “Only your brother goes to sickbay. You’ve got work to do. On my way,” he added to Cadwallader. As Picard rushed out, he snapped over his shoulder to Security, “Get him to the bridge on the double!”

  Even before he’d left the turbolift, Picard was ordering, “Go to visual. Maximum magnification.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  He settled into the command chair, staring. Nothing at first. Then ben Zoma, standing at Picard’s shoulder, straightened. “My God, will you look at that.”

  With alarming majesty, a warbird bigger than any Picard had ever seen formed against the backdrop of space. The curve of its immense double hulls was graceful and terrible in one, like the shape of some vast, dull-green, merciless predator, and its disruptor array glowed the poisonous green that had terrified intelligent beings from Q’onoS to Earth . . . to Narendra III.

  “Red alert!” Picard commanded. “Shields! And get that damned refugee up here.”

  “Do we fight?” That was a hopeful cry from Idun Asmund.

  Are you insane, woman? Whatever that is, some new type of warbird, it’s at least three times our size and probably mounting a hell of a lot greater firepower. Now I know what took out Enterprise.

  “Not yet,” Picard said flatly. “First, let’s see who’s out there. We’ve had pretty good luck with that lately. Ensign Cadwallader, open hailing frequencies.”

  A few tense moments, then: “Hailing frequencies open, sir.”

  “This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the U.S.S. Stargazer, hailing Romulan Star Empire warship. You are in Federation space, Commander. Repeat, you are in Federation space. Do you require navigational assistance?”

  That might give them an honorable way to retreat, Picard thought. As the seconds slipped away, he was aware of the faint whirr of his ship’s life-support, aware of the pulsing lights of red alert, aware that his hands were beginning to sweat.

  No response.

  Picard tried again. “Romulan vessel: You are in direct violation of treaty! Identify yourself and withdraw!”

  No visual formed. But a harsh voice snarled out swiftly translated words, “I am your nemesis. You cannot withstand me. I am,” here the translation failed, “ketrakath!”

  “Analysis!” Picard snapped.

  The doors to the bridge slid open. Subcommander Ruanek, still dazed and unsteady, stood there, flanked by Security guards. Out of the corner of his eye, Picard saw the Romulan tense at the sight of the warbird on the screen, and heard his angry hiss. The subcommander moved blindly forward, nearly falling, catching himself only by an equally blind grab at a rail. Ignoring that, ignoring the guards close behind him, he focused utterly on the Romulan ship, eyes fierce.

  “Replay,” snapped Picard. Once again, the warbird’s threat rang out over Stargazer’s bridge. “What is that?” Picard snapped at him. “And what is ketrakath?”

  “That, Captain,” Ruanek snapped back, the translator catching his words, too, “is the ship of our beloved ex-praetor, Dralath.”

  “What’s he doing in Federation space? Trying to get himself a trophy to take home?”

  “A trophy? Oh no, Captain. That,” Ruanek said, loathing in his voice, “is a foulness a decent soldier prays never to see: Ketrakath means a suicide run, attack without restraint or hope.” He balled his hand into a fist and brought it down on a guardrail. “Fires burn him to Erebus! Having no honor, he does not choose Final Honor. Instead, he steals the lives of his crew!”

  “Meaning?”

  Ruanek shot Picard a savage glance. “The warriors on board that ship have no choice. Dralath has drugged his crew so that none will turn on him or rebel against the course he has set. It is a thing utterly without honor!”

  Honor be damned, it’s their firepower we need to know! We’ll have the sociology lessons later! “Commander Lisuni: Any data?”

  Lisuni promptly rattled off figures: approximate mass, approximate type of weaponry.

  Right. Three times our mass and definitely more firepower. “Helm, move us back. Keep us out of disruptor range.”

  The Romulan had pressed forward until he leaned against the rail less than a meter from Gerda Asmund. Absorbed in minute course corrections, she did not even growl a warning. For an eerie moment, the disgust on both their faces, half masked by the rhythmic flash of red alert, made them seem close kin.

  “They’re moving with us, Captain,” she warned. “Still closing.”

  “They still show no signs of hostility,” Lisuni noted.

  “Overt, anyhow.” That from Idun Asmund.

  “As you were, Lieutenant,” Picard snapped. “Helm, warp eight. Lisuni, what’s this thing�
��s top speed?”

  “Unknown. The fastest recorded speed we have for the older ships is a little over warp nine point three, but it—”

  “Does not apply,” the Romulan interrupted sharply. “This is a suicide run. Start by assuming he’s diverted all available power to engines and weapons systems, and know Dralath will push his ship’s engines to destruction to take us.”

  The Romulan swallowed hard, licking his lips as if he thirsted . . . for what? Revenge? Atonement? Or was he merely battling his own exhaustion?

  Damned if I understand you. A shame it’s the Vulcans who’ll get to debrief you—at least I assume it will be the Vulcans, also assuming we survive this.

  “Ship’s unshielded,” Gerda Asmund reported sharply.

  “Doctrine, Captain,” Lisuni added. “A ship whose captain chooses not to shield displays peaceful intentions.”

  The Romulan barked out a laugh that made Picard want to flinch. “Federation doctrine, maybe! The only time Dralath ever told a truth was when the truth was deadlier than a lie.”

  “Warbird’s closing,” Gerda Asmund snarled. “Captain, it’s accelerating. Warp eight point five . . . six . . . warp nine. Nine point one!”

  “It’s powering up disruptors,” Idun Asmund reported.

  “It’s firing!” Lisuni cut in.

  “Helm!” Picard shouted. “Evasive!”

  A blaze of poisonous pale green energy engulfed Stargazer. The ship lurched and trembled. Lights dimmed for a heartrending second—then brightened again.

  “Damage control,” Picard snapped. “Lieutenant Asmund, return fire!”

  “Photon torpedoes away—Direct hit!” she added in a shriek of triumph as light blossomed out.

  But it was followed almost immediately by Lisuni’s discouraging, “Minimal damage. Even with lowered shields, that is one powerfully built ship.”

  Damage reports were flooding in from all over the Stargazer. No structural damage, only minor injuries—

  We won’t be that lucky next time. If we can’t damage that ship head-on, there has to be some way . . .

  Ha, yes, here we have our very own Romulan military advisor!

  “All right, Subcommander Ruanek,” Picard told him sharply, “you’ve made your point. That ship is out for blood. I’ll put all my cards on the table, and frankly I don’t care whether you think this is honorable or not: We have clearance to land you and your brother on Vulcan—but we’re not going to get there unless you know some weakness in that warbird!”

  “Akhh!” It was a cry of pure frustration at his own weakness. “As well starve a child and expect it to fight.” The pulsing red-alert signals flashed across the Romulan’s drawn face, glinting off a desperate, humorless grin and glazing eyes. “The Klingons who died with honor at . . . Narendra III were right: It is a good day to die.” He pulled vaguely at his battered tunic, trying to straighten it. “I had thought before . . . of taking Final Honor. I do not fear . . . the Last Review.”

  “Well, I’m not ready for it, if it’s all the same to you,” Picard said. “Helm—”

  “Wait . . . wait . . .” Ruanek blinked, shook his head, clearly struggling to clear his mind. “No shields, no shields . . .”

  “Disruptors gathering power,” Lisuni warned.

  “Not . . . a frontal attack . . . too strong there, even without . . . without shields. But . . . you are human, Captain . . . devious. You will think of something . . . .”

  Ruanek’s sudden grin was sharp. Picard felt a predator’s grin twist his own face: the first time in the history of the races, he thought irreverently, that Federation and Romulan officers had conferred on tactics. “They can outshoot us and outrun us. But outmaneuver us?”

  He slapped in-ship communications open. “Engineering!”

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “Phigus, I want you to reinforce Stargazer’s structural integrity field for all it’s worth.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Picard dropped his voice, as if the madman on that Romulan ship could hear him. “Cadwallader, open speakers. Order all hands to strap in. You, too, Subcommander! Don’t want to lose you now. Helm, on my mark!”

  “Everyone,” Picard announced, adrenaline riding him hard, “we are about to perform the Federation’s first Immelmann turn in space.”

  That got the response he’d expected: blank looks from the Romulan and most of the bridge crew, a few gasps from those who knew their Earth military and aviation history, and a silent whistle of admiration from ben Zoma.

  “Asmund, Weapons.” Picard specified name and position deliberately: he could not risk confusing the twins just now. “Be ready to fire the instant I give the order.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Asmund, Helm: prepare to warp us out the instant she fires.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Engineering!”

  “Ah, sir.” Simenon’s usually subdued hiss seemed to spray from the speaker across the bridge. “No disrespect meant, but you’re going to do what?”

  “An Immelmann turn, Phigus.”

  “Well yes, but—”

  “I gave you an order, Engineer. Ready? Then: On my mark—engage!”

  Engines roaring into full power, Stargazer leaped forward, whipping into an impossibly tight loop. Happening fast, so fast, no time to think, no time to worry at the whine of the inertial damping system, the shuddering of the ship as its structural integrity field threatened to collapse. Support struts trembling, groaning—any more strain, and Stargazer would destruct and at least take that damnable warbird with it—

  So fast—so quickly through the loop and braking, ship shaking all over again with the sudden deceleration, threatening to tear itself apart. The warbird had fired again, but they’d been too quick for it. The disruptor blasts missed them completely, and—

  Stargazer was right behind the warbird, looking at that unshielded flank—

  “Fire!” Picard shouted.

  With twin shrieks that tore at his eardrums, Idun Asmund fired both torpedo banks, and her sister brought them into a sharp bank and full speed away from the warbird.

  Did we . . . ? Did we . . . ?

  “Got him!” someone yelled. “Right up the—”

  The warbird exploded in a savage blaze of white-orange-red flame, debris gouting in all directions. The shock wave buffeted them—almost negligible after their wild ride. And then: space was empty again, silent . . .

  “Hei-ya-hai!”

  That shout of triumph erupted from the Romulan refugee, who stood shivering, still clinging to the rail with his good arm. Picard spared him a quick glance. Subcommander Ruanek had clearly reached the end of his endurance and would need to get to sickbay pretty soon.

  But first, Picard faced a more important task. “Damage report,” he ordered, heart racing.

  Reports came flooding in, and with each in turn, he felt as though a vise were loosening around his mind and heart.

  He’d done it. He had taken the gamble of a lifetime and destroyed a ship with three times Stargazer’s fighting strength. And there was no major damage, either to his ship or his people.

  O God, thy arm was here! The King’s line from Henry V after Agincourt rang in his head.

  Picard drew a deep breath, playing for the few seconds he needed before he could be sure his voice would not shake.

  “Helm, Weapons, well done. And you, too, Engineering.” Commendations for all three, no doubt about it. And maybe, just as a reward, even though the subcommander had wanted to save his own neck and his brother’s, a favorable mention of him, too.

  “Now,” Picard ordered, “put us back on course for Vulcan. Warp factor nine, Phigus, if you think the engines can take it.”

  “Captain, after this, nothing will surprise me.” The chief engineer’s voice sounded a little hollow.

  “Cadwallader, encrypt and transmit a message to Admiral Lynn.”

  “Contents, sir?”

  “Ah . . .” Picard smiled faintly. “En
countered warbird. Sank same.” Admiral Lynn would appreciate the joke. “Advise him that a more detailed report will follow shortly.

  “Now, Subcommander, you’re going to sickbay. Guards, give him a hand.”

  Security laid surprisingly gentle hands on Ruanek’s good arm. The Romulan shrugged them off.

  Proud and stubborn, Picard thought. But it was all catching up to Ruanek now. He looked like hell, greenish-pale with exhaustion, shaking, soaked in perspiration, eyes wild with pain and the realization that he’d just helped kill a Romulan praetor.

  Ex-praetor.

  Still, Ruanek had enough will left to give Picard a sharp, ironic grin.

  “Congratulations, Captain. You are now a Hero of the Romulan Empire. Very impressive decoration, by the way.”

  Despite his usual self-control, despite the Federation injunctions to good order and discipline, which no doubt did not include captains joking with Romulan refugees on a ship’s bridge, Picard had to laugh.

  “I won’t go to collect my award, if that’s all the same with you. Now, off with you. I don’t need a refugee fainting on my bridge.”

  But Ruanek got in the last shot. In the instant before the turbolift’s doors whisked shut, the subcommander drew himself up and, face carefully bland, gave Picard a full Romulan military salute.

  THIRTY-FOUR

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

  The destruction of Narendra III had shattered the peace of Sarek’s town house in ShiKahr. Day and night alike, the high-ceilinged rooms teemed with aides, attachés, scholars, and senior diplomats. It left him little time for meditation or even private thought.

  Sarek compelled himself to admit that this was almost a relief.

  As Federation diplomats focused on the Klingon Empire’s desire for permanent alliance, Sarek’s negotiations with the Legarans, at another critical point after 60.54 Earth years, were temporarily suspended.

  The Klingon Alliance should have been my son’s task, Sarek thought.

  It would have been the crowning achievement of Spock’s diplomatic career, just as Coridan and perhaps the Legarans would be Sarek’s. But Spock remained missing, this time without even a hope that his katra could be recovered.