STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  To his bemusement, though, his guest’s first reaction was an over-the-shoulder attempt to wave this intruder away and an impatient, “Not now!”

  In the next instant, Ruanek realized who had entered, and nearly lost his balance jumping to his feet and trying to give a military salute and a civilian bow at the same time. “My Lord Ambassador! Forgive me, I, ah—”

  “The hunger for knowledge,” Sarek assured him, “is no reason for embarrassment.”

  “But—Spock? Sir, how is—”

  “It is likely my son will survive,” Sarek said, “but my daughter may not.”

  “Saavik? But . . .” Ruanek began, but Sarek stopped him.

  “Let us speak of other matters,” the ambassador said. “Might I see what you study?”

  Ruanek quickly stepped aside, only just barely keeping from snapping to military attention. Sarek glanced at the screen. Vulcan desert ecology . . . , he noted, interspecies symbioses . . . “I mean no insult by the question, but do you understand this?”

  The Romulan’s eyes were blazing with the near-hysterical excitement that came from utter exhaustion mixed, Sarek thought, with what Terrans quite accurately termed “information overload.” “Some of it, sir. I—I lack a good deal of the vocabulary, but, well, I can more or less bridge the gaps with, uh, logic.”

  But then the cold, hard mask slipped back over his face. As though, Sarek thought, he is afraid of revealing anything more about himself. The ambassador said with carefully controlled irony, “I am hardly about to betray you to the praetor. This is not meant as censure, Ruanek, but how is it that you speak and read Vulcan?”

  “Federation Standard, too.” It was a muttered admission. “More or less. Less, to be perfectly honest.”

  “Indeed! Explain, if you would.”

  “It’s nothing very dramatic, sir. There was a long, boring winter one year, and you can only do so many military exercises. I . . . well, you can get a few not-quite-legal items in a city the size of Ki Baratan, if you know how.”

  “Items, I assume, such as language tapes.”

  “Exactly. I could only find a Federation Standard book, though, no tape, so my accent is terrible. Nearly got your son and me blown up.”

  “Then you have an interest in languages? Obviously, you learn them swiftly.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  It was said as though Ruanek were confessing to a crime. Sarek, eyebrow raised, prodded delicately, “But I should think that such a skill would be an asset.”

  “An asset! Knowing Vulcan and Federation Standard could have gotten me executed as a spy!”

  “Do you speak any . . . less perilous languages?”

  “A smattering of Barolian,” the Romulan muttered, “and some Zerik: That’s a pretty straightforward tongue, no genders for nouns or—

  “Sir,” he added so suddenly that Sarek blinked, “are you trying to bribe me?”

  “I . . . beg your pardon?”

  “With knowledge. It’s—I—sir, you don’t understand. I am . . . I was the son of a House Minor. Not very high on the status ladder, but too high to let someone like me legally do anything but go into the military, try to find a good patron, and hopefully rise through the ranks. I have a decent general education, of course; I am of the nobility. But I was not, legally, permitted to study anything above that level in any depth ‘lest I become distracted from my proper service to my patron.’ ”

  What a supremely illogical policy! “There are no such restrictions on Vulcan, I assure you.” Sarek paused. “But if Romulan law was so strict, why did you risk your life to learn?”

  Ruanek glanced down. “I . . . I don’t know how to say this, sir, and frankly I’m too weary for pretty words. Maybe it was one of the reasons I never made it past subcommander.” He stopped with a jolt and added almost as though he didn’t believe it himself, “Commander. Commander for a few hours, anyhow. Sir, I couldn’t endure not learning, even if it meant running risks.”

  “And perhaps a tiny piece of it was the enjoyment of that risk? The knowledge that you ran the danger of getting caught both with contraband and illegal knowledge?”

  The quick, startled flash of a smile told him he’d struck home. “You’re good, sir. Yes, there was a bit of that, too; things got pretty dull at times, always in Avrak’s shadow, watching for danger that almost never came. But it was, truly, that I, I needed to learn.”

  Not all would be as strong-willed as Ruanek. How many of their brightest minds have our cousins destroyed?

  That was a matter for later consideration. “Ruanek, I must speak of Federation and Vulcan law.”

  The light left the Romulan’s eyes. “Of course. I did expect this.”

  “Perhaps not. This will not be a standard interrogation, nor will you be harmed in any way.”

  “Sir?”

  “I wish to attempt a mind-meld. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes, sir. I saw it done once.”

  Not by the slightest twitch did Sarek reveal his surprise. “Indeed?” By whom? No Romulan, surely. My son? Did Spock . . . ? “Then you know I do not say this lightly. Nor do I demand it. But if you grant me permission, I may then pass on a report of your innocence to the proper Federation officials. They will then leave you at least in relative peace.”

  When Ruanek hesitated, clearly uneasy behind that mask of warrior arrogance, Sarek added, “I will not invade your private thoughts, nor alter any, my word upon that. I already know that you have great personal honor.”

  He saw the faintest hint of a pleased smile quiver on Ruanek’s lips at that. “You honor me, sir.”

  I will not tell you how I learned even that much, Sarek thought. “But,” he continued, “there is a darker matter that must be resolved: Are you a weapon? Has your mind been altered without your knowledge?”

  The mask shattered. Genuine horror flashed in Ruanek’s eyes. “They’ve already done that.” It was little more than a whisper. “My patron—former patron—Avrak, curse him to the Outer Darkness, he—he would sometimes have secret codes implanted in my mind.” White-faced, Ruanek continued, “I had no choice, I never did. They always swore to me no harm had been done, no change had been made, b-but how would I know?”

  He straightened with desperate pride. “I will not be used as a weapon against you or your son. I grant you permission, sir, to do what you must. And if . . . if I am, indeed, a weapon, I ask of you only this: Tell me that I may choose the Final Honor with my mind still intact.”

  “I trust that it will not come to that,” Sarek said gently, and sank to a chair. “Come, sit opposite me, within my reach . . . yes.”

  He leaned toward Ruanek, fingers outspread, feeling the Romulan first flinch at his touch, shivering, then hold resolutely still.

  “My mind to your mind,” Sarek began with the ease of many years’ experience . . .

  . . . and as swiftly as thought, he was there, one with Ruanek’s mind, allowed in by the Romulan without more than a moment’s uneasy resistance . . .

  . . . traveling through bright flashes of hope, shadows of memory, blaze of green—violence, recent memory—fightknifedeath, an enemy falling, Kharik, cousin-foe, savage stab of joy at being free mixed with a weary horror at needing to kill yet again . . . then brighter memories of Spockfriendolderbrotherhonor . . . a confused montage of rebelsundergroundperil . . . of Narviat . . . strangely seen, bright with hope, dark with uneasinessuncertainty, of a woman, a commander, Charvanek, seen only in purest-whitehonor and the emperor, a blaze of cleanest gold . . . hunting, all the while hunting with utmost delicacy through the web of thoughts for wrongness, tampering . . . yes, and yes . . . here were old sites of tampering, but no traces of lasting damage . . . no sign of harsh black signaling altered synapses, altered neurons . . . no sign of hidden peril and now . . .

  Out.

  He sat with the patience of experience, waiting for his mind to accept that he was not Romulan, not an exiled rebel, that he was . . .

  I am Sar
ek . . .

  Yes. He was himself again, in his own mind and consciousness.

  “Sir . . . ?”

  It was a very nervous sound. Opening his eyes, Sarek told the anxious Ruanek, “All is well. And yes, your mind is your own. There is no trace of intrusion.”

  “Hei-ya-hai!”

  That, Sarek suspected from Ruanek’s instantly embarrassed expression, was a Romulan warrior’s cry of triumph.

  “Do not claim victory just yet, Ruanek. We are not quite finished. I said that I would not invade your private thoughts, and I have not. However, I could hardly have avoided your memories of the revolution, or your ambivalent feelings—quite understandable under the circumstances—toward the new praetor.”

  “I don’t believe he will be an aggressive foe to the Federation, sir, if that’s what you want to know—probably, given the state of confusion Dralath left behind, not a foe at all. I . . . assume you know the rest.”

  “Save for this one thing: How were my son and his mate involved?”

  “They did nothing treasonous! I swear to that on my honor. Sir, your son is a hero, he and his lady, too. They risked everything, down to their lives, for peace. And . . . it may sound melodramatic, because . . . because . . .” Ruanek rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Because I’m so weary by now I’m not sure what I’m saying . . . But, well, your son helped both the Empire and the Federation and . . . and I will not betray him, sir, not even to you.”

  “Quite acceptable.” Sarek had already gained enough data from the mind-meld to be able to put together logical excuses for his children’s . . . adventures. Not that I will not be questioning them myself, when they . . . if it becomes possible. “Then that is all.”

  “Your pardon, sir, but it’s not. What happens to me now?”

  “You are my guest, Ruanek; you need not fear that I will simply throw you out into the desert.” He paused, watching Ruanek’s face. “I will, assuming that you wish it, provide tutors and whatever educational tapes we both think logical. Since you show an affinity for languages, perhaps linguistics should be the main subject of your study, though I would advise a wider curriculum including the other sciences as well.”

  Most gratifying: Ruanek could not suppress a gasp of sheer wonder.

  “One thing more, Ruanek,” Sarek continued smoothly. “I shall also provide a Healer for you.”

  That brought back the cold-faced warrior, snapping, “I don’t need . . .”

  But his voice trailed into silence when Sarek pointed to the unsheathed Honor Blade still lying on the desk. “In the days ahead,” the ambassador said gently, “you may find the burden of your life’s total change too heavy to bear alone. This is not a weakness or a reason for shame, but merely a logical fact. The Healer’s name is T’Selis, and I believe that you will find her both discreet and quite competent.”

  “B-but why are you doing this? Why should you care what happens to me?”

  “You saved my son’s life even knowing what it would cost you. More, you are Spock’s friend, and I have learned over the years to trust his judgment.” In that, at least. “I also do not believe in wasting an intelligent and honorable life.”

  Judging from Ruanek’s eyes, exhaustion was finally overwhelming consciousness. But he fought back, saying, “I’m not a Vulcan; I can’t control my emotions as you do . . . and, and, to be truthful, sir, I don’t know if I want that.”

  “No,” Sarek agreed, “you may never totally learn such control, not at this stage of your life. However, that is not necessarily a handicap. My chief of staff is human, and I find him, for all his occasional emotional outbursts, quite competent. And you surely know that my late wife, Spock’s mother, was human.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “You may or may not also know that, among my other duties, I am Vulcan’s Ambassador to Earth. As such, I am always in need of aides who have both a gift for languages and a firsthand understanding of emotions. To say nothing of the usefulness,” Sarek added, and only another Vulcan could have read the hint of wry humor in his eyes, “of an aide who may become a bodyguard should an emergency arise.”

  “Sir . . . are you offering me your . . . patronage?”

  “I am offering you the chance to make your own choice.”

  Ruanek all but radiated sudden sharp joy at that thought—presumably the first time he had ever had such a choice—but he protested, “I am a Romulan!”

  “Truly? Seeing you dressed as you are, an outsider would find it difficult to name you Romulan or Vulcan. You are, after all, in a very real genetic sense, my distant cousin.”

  “But everything I do, everything I say—what of my emotions?”

  “Of course you are emotional. Were you not raised on Romulus?”

  That was almost too subtle for someone who by this point was struggling just to keep his eyes open. But then Sarek saw the sense of it strike home as Ruanek straightened: Down through the centuries of the two races’ spacefaring, there had occasionally been Vulcan prisoners taken, Vulcan or half-Vulcan children raised as Romulans.

  “I . . . sir, I . . . should be . . . saying something more . . . arguing or . . . or . . . something . . . but I—I can’t think . . . thank you, that’s all. Can’t find words for—for anything else . . .”

  “You should be saying nothing. Come, Ruanek, stand!”

  It was snapped out sharply as a military command, and it brought his guest staggering to his feet. Eyes glazing, the Romulan followed Sarek’s lead to the sleeping alcove. Without another word, Ruanek collapsed down across the bed, finally surrendering to the sudden, dense sleep of the utterly exhausted.

  Excellent. Now he may begin to heal.

  Since there was no one to see, Sarek permitted himself the slightest of satisfied smiles. Turning down the light, he left.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Even before the transporter effect faded, sunlight hit Dr. Leonard McCoy—Federation Starfleet admiral, retired, thank you very much—as if he, not Vulcan’s Forge, were Eridani A’s anvil. In this heat, the collar of his dress uniform, which had always fretted him, chafed even worse than usual. He tried not to tug at it like an ensign with his first dress uniform.

  Damn! I’d forgotten just how uncomfortable the things were! At least it still fits, more or less.

  He strode forward boldly, refusing to trudge as if his knees were hurting (which they were, even though this was, and blast the first person who said it, a dry heat), toward the somber figure, hooded and faceless in the noon sun, who stood waiting for him. Behind the figure rose the austere white walls of the Vulcan Science Academy’s Medical Center.

  The hood was pushed slightly back to reveal a strong, absolutely unreadable face. “Live long and prosper,” Sarek of Vulcan said, hand raised.

  “I come to serve,” McCoy responded. “Peace and long life.” At least, for once, his stubborn fingers didn’t tangle on the split-fingered formal greeting. “I’m thankful I was already en route to Vulcan when I got your message.”

  Sarek dipped his head slightly in courtesy. “It is good for Spock to have his friends with him at such a time.”

  They started toward the Medical Center together. It was just as well, McCoy conceded to himself, that they’d drafted all the old Klingon hands. God knows, he was one of the oldest.

  I could use some of that ice on Rura Penthe right now. Oh well. Mad dogs and Starfleet officers . . .

  The bronze gates stood open beneath the plaque stating simply in flowing Vulcan calligraphy, There is Healing within for any who have need. Vulcan men and women in Healers’ brown robes stood aside, gaze politely averted, granting the visitors privacy. Sarek and his human guest crossed a small courtyard ornamented with a carefully raked sand garden set with three rocks of intricate black basalt—Great for meditating, McCoy thought, if you don’t get sunstroke first—and entered a shadowy corridor.

  McCoy gave an involuntary gasp of relief. It was blessedly cool in here. For Vulcan, anyway.

  Without any word
s of explanation, Sarek pointed him toward a blank white door and stepped back. “Your pardon, Doctor. I have some final arrangements to make.”

  McCoy tentatively pressed the door chime.

  No answer. He glanced back at Sarek, who had his back to him, murmuring into a communicator.

  All right, try again.

  McCoy held the button down for a little longer this time. Still no answer.

  He nearly jumped when the door slid noiselessly open a fraction, revealing Spock in robes of a red so dark it was almost black, the fabric glinting coldly with the sigils of his house and rank. He was so drawn and weary that McCoy said “Are you all right?” instead of “Hello.”

  Spock, voice a harsh whisper, said, “McCoy.” He stepped back enough to allow McCoy a glimpse inside.

  My God, McCoy thought.

  He knew all about Vulcan strength, of course. Even so . . . what he saw represented Vulcan strength crossed with a total loss of emotional control. A massive bed, looking heavy enough to have given a Klingon pause, lay on its side, bedding and cushions shredded and strewn about the room, and an equally massive chest had been smashed to kindling. Everything that could be overturned or smashed had been, save perhaps for the still-glowing firepot.

  So much for incense fumes being calming.

  But he knew how, well, savage Vulcans could be on the rare occasions that they let their feelings come out. And under the circumstance, he certainly understood that Spock would be acting without restraint.

  He was suddenly strongly aware of being watched. McCoy turned warily and saw Saavik, seated at a mirror of some presumably shatterproof material, looking at him without blinking.

  McCoy’s breath caught in his throat. God, she looked . . . he couldn’t find the right word. Exhausted, yes, but . . . radiant. Magnificent.

  Alien.

  Yes. Exactly. After all these years of friendship, of knowing them both so well, he looked at Spock, at Saavik, and for the first time, saw alien.

  Helluva time for a revelation.

  Or maybe not all so alien at that. What was that old saying: “You have your marriage for yourself, you have your wedding for the relatives.” Never mind Pon farr, these two were newly made husband and wife. No wonder Sarek wouldn’t come in. This was no sight for a father.