STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART Read online

  Sered, his mind prompted, unbidden.

  Yes, he answered his own question, unfortunately, they can.

  Dressed again as Academician Symakhos, Spock followed Charvanek into the main seminar room of the Ministry of Science, looking down the sloping tiers of seats to the podium far below. His mind touched on memories of similar rooms on Vulcan and Earth. All lecture halls on Vulcanoid or humanoid worlds did seem to follow the same basic lines of an amphitheater—and all seemed to have the same hard, unpadded seats, presumably to prevent attendees from dozing off.

  Yes, consider such matters as these. Do not think of Saavik—

  Definitely not. His human side had most certainly been overwhelmed at the sight of her. It would not be disagreeable to discuss with her that most human and bewildering concept of “love” when they were both safely away from Romulus—safely alone—but he was, first and foremost, of Vulcan.

  Are you?

  Yes!

  Spock resolutely turned his attention back to the consideration of the Ministry: a featureless, utterly functional gray building. When compared to the garish splendor of that elaborate Hall of State, this blandness said a great deal about the way Romulans viewed science.

  As an afterthought. Or rather, as a boring but necessary source for weapons.

  All around Spock and Charvanek as they took their assigned seats, the room was filling with gray-robed scientists and a growing crowd of Romulan nobles, incongruous in their glinting metallic uniforms—the senators, Spock thought, from yesterday’s council, here at Dralath’s “request.”

  Guards were, of course, also filing into the room, lining the walls. They all bore the standard disruptor rifles, they all wore the same dull silver uniforms, and they all had the same cold, blank expressions. They, at least, need not even pretend any interest in the lecture to come. Spock’s sideways glance noted a few familiar faces among the attendees: Avrak, clearly intending to snatch any advantage he could from the meeting; Kharik, already utterly bored; and Ruanek, looking alert as a warrior . . . no, Spock corrected himself with some surprise, as the scientists.

  Again: Fascinating.

  Bad enough, Ruanek thought, that Kharik should be here at all. Worse that he should have been the one to bring the mysterious Evaste to both the praetor and Avrak’s attention. Avrak had been quick to claim the credit, which was a patron’s right; but he owed Kharik now, and Kharik would let neither his lord nor his cousin forget it.

  “When I attended the Lady Evaste’s briefing,” Avrak commented seemingly casually to Ruanek, “Kharik came with me as security, but I don’t suppose he paid attention to anything but the lady’s . . . eyes.”

  Catching Kharik’s frown, Ruanek thought, Oh, clever, my patron. You forever keep Kharik and me at each other’s throats, never giving us quite the room to strike at each other—or at you.

  Rather than risk saying something that was certain to be destructive, Ruanek merely smiled. Tightly.

  And for an instant, he allowed himself to escape into the day-dream: an empty, lovely sweep of desert such as he imagined might be on Vulcan, a peaceful place where nothing terrible had ever happened, nothing terrible ever would. . . .

  Akhh, nonsense! He was a Romulan subcommander, not a—a weakling of a poet!

  A fanfare blared from hidden speakers. The praetor’s personal guard entered, grimly elegant in silver and red uniforms, fanning out along the stairs. Senators and scientists alike rose to welcome Praetor Dralath, who entered glittering with awards and smiling like a well-fed predator.

  “Honored Senators, honored scientists.” His sweep of a hand took in the entire room. “Welcome. I have brought you here to listen to a most remarkable presentation. One that may, in fact, change the entire course of all our lives. Lady Evaste, if you would . . . ?”

  As she reached the podium, red-crimson-russet robes swirling about her, a guard warily protecting her back, Ruanek settled back into his seat. Inexplicably, his heart had suddenly started racing.

  “. . . granted, our control group was small,” Saavik continued, “and the study has been going on for only fifteen years.”

  And it feels as though this presentation has, too. But then, she had never expected to actually give it. I seem to have fascinated Dralath utterly. It is illogical to complain of being overly successful.

  Still, she had not enchanted him so thoroughly that he would share his plans with her. Yet. And . . . then there was Spock. Spock, unmistakable even in those drab Romulan robes, Spock staring at her, his face impassive as always, but his eyes . . .

  Saavik quickly looked away before her voice could betray her by shaking.

  Spock, what are you doing to me? I am no green ensign with, ah, what is the phrase, my “first crush.” And we have known each other for so long without . . .

  “But each of the controls had begun to deteriorate before tests started,” she continued with fierce determination. “I will transmit hard data once I am granted computer access.” Saavik paused for dramatic effect. “My research institute even managed to . . . acquire Vulcan test results. As you may know, their Science Academy’s work on genetic splicing and ribosome transfusion is some years in advance of our own.”

  “Yes,” came grudging mutters.

  “So. Preliminary trials there showed detection rates fifty percent more effective than conventional methods and a thirty-five percent remission rate after first crisis of the following diseases, for which, as we know, my colleagues, there is as yet no cure.” She read down the list, listening to the growing murmurs of disbelief from the audience, and quickly concluded, “And there have been no adverse reactions, and no allergic reactions, to the medications.”

  “So far!” a scientist shouted, ignoring Dralath’s frown.

  “So far,” Saavik agreed. “I applaud your caution. Now, let me show you some diagrams, scholars and Senators.”

  And here I believed the mission was merely to get in, get Spock, get out. Had Captain Uhura already known that Dralath was planning war? Unlikely; she would then have sent in operatives more professionally trained in espionage. It is illogical to think that Spock might have been, as the humans say, set up.

  Romulans were not logical. As the presentation continued, Saavik was forced to stop now and again as an occasional debate—no, call it honestly, a fight—broke out among members of the audience. Not from the senators, though: they seemed to have perfected the skill of sleeping with their eyes open and their backs straight. Saavik met Spock’s eyes once again, and instantly regretted it.

  Oh. The sudden thought struck her so strongly that her calm voice faltered. It could be . . . no . . . I couldn’t have lost track of the days so thoroughly. But the relativity paradoxes of space travel wreaked havoc on the body’s calendar, sometimes by as much as years. It could logically be that . . .

  No. Concentrate! Your life—and Spock’s—depend on it.

  “Now, scholars and Senators, if you will watch this . . .”

  Saavik rotated the helical projections on the display platform, then projected a simulation as modified by her prototype drugs. There in the audience, Spock frowned judiciously, silently analyzing.

  Others in the audience were not so restrained.

  “What about genetic variation?” a man called out. And a woman’s voice added, “Have you ruled out chance mutations?”

  “One can, by the very nature of ‘chance,’ ” Saavik retorted, “hardly predict what may or may not happen.” She spread her hands, smiling. “I make no claim to soothsaying abilities.”

  That earned her a ripple of amusement, mostly, she noted, from the males.

  “And climatic influences!” a scientist shouted. “What about those? Does the model take into account those potential variations?”

  “Yes, climate!” another yelled. “Vulcan is a scorched waste-land! How can we compare it to—”

  “Can we reverse—”

  “The altered genes! Will they breed true in successive generations?”
r />   Romulans, Saavik mused, turned even scientific disputes into blood sport.

  Ruanek sat in silent, utter horror. He’d just been an idiot, a damned suicidal idiot. He had lost himself so thoroughly in the presentation, struggling his way along to understanding, that he had actually shouted out that cursed question about genetic variation.

  Why not just turn your disruptor on yourself while you’re at it? You’re too stupid to merit the Final Honor.

  But there was worse to this than Avrak’s questioning frown, worse than his happening to know a scientific concept that should be beyond a good, honorable soldier’s interest or understanding.

  Worse was that he did understand. There could be only one reason why Dralath should be so interested in advanced medical techniques. And Evaste’s techniques might work. They might add twenty, forty, even a hundred years to Dralath’s life, letting him outlast his emperor, outlive any hope of rebellion. . . .

  No. It must not happen. Ruanek glanced warily about, but of course none of . . . the others were here. This problem was his to solve.

  “. . . and there, scholars and Senators, you have it. Preliminary, yes, but as my colleagues and I see it, most promising.”

  Dralath, to Saavik’s relief, was getting to his feet. Her ordeal—at least this part of it—was now officially over. Senators quickly stood at attention, while the scientists, less formal in their excitement, collected their notes and scrambled to their feet to congratulate the praetor’s latest favorite, making the guards glower and close ranks.

  “There is no need,” Saavik said in Evaste’s most charming voice. “These are my fellow scientists!”

  She stood acknowledging their thanks, smiling past them at the praetor. But . . . Spock had joined the line of well-wishers. And as he neared her, Saavik knew with utter certainty.

  The Fires of Pon farr are upon me, but only the first stages, not the blood madness. Does Spock feel the burning yet? Not fully; he’s older than me . . . and he studied on Gol. His control is logically stronger. But I—I mustn’t let us touch; that will surely kindle the bond. . . .

  “A stimulating presentation, lady,” Spock was saying, revealing absolutely nothing in face or body language, and something deep within Saavik was pleading with herself, No, please, not now. . . . “Thank you.” Oh no, don’t come any closer, I can’t . . . But she had to pass on a vital bit of data. “He wants to dine alone with me tonight,” Saavik whispered.

  “Refuse!” Spock hissed.

  She felt an alarmingly illogical flash of triumph: He was protective. Or jealous. In another moment, the flames would leap up—No, no, emotion on his part means that he’s starting to feel it, too! Frantically, Saavik whispered, “How else can I find out what he hides?”

  “You should not be alone with him.”

  “On the contrary, it is you who should not have come to Romulus alone. Then perhaps neither of us would be here.”

  But Spock had a point. Should her nighttime interrogation of the praetor go sour, Spock’s presence would be highly valuable. Saavik hastily clasped her hands to keep from reaching out to Spock. Instead she whispered to him the location of her suite in the praetor’s compound.

  And then, not daring to wait a moment more, she murmured an excuse and hurried off. Ah, a terrace, with fresh, mercifully cool air! Saavik stood in the doorway, breathing deeply, willing calm . . . you are calm. . . . She’d been through the Fires before, of course; she knew her own body, knew that it wasn’t too late to keep this—this appalling case of bad timing under control a while longer.

  That was, if these Romulans only left her alone long enough to collect herself!

  “Get away!” Saavik snapped at the guards who were crowding in behind her. No. Wrong. Evaste wouldn’t sound so commanding. She forced herself to smile at Dralath, standing behind them, to look somewhat abashed at her outburst. “It’s nothing; I’m always like this after a presentation. I just need a few moments by myself.”

  At the praetor’s wary nod, the guards withdrew. “Praetor Dralath,” a male voice murmured.

  Dralath turned with deliberate lack of haste. “Senator Avrak. What do you want?”

  “May I present two of my sworn guards, Subcommander Ruanek and Centurion Kharik? They will guard the entranceway to give the lady the privacy she seeks. None shall pass them.”

  “Of course not,” Dralath agreed. “Not if you wish to remain what you are.”

  “And in the meantime, Praetor Dralath, might we not talk together?”

  “So be it,” the praetor snapped. “You’re safe here, Evaste,” he added over his shoulder as he and the senator strolled away. “Just don’t stay away too long.”

  Saavik made herself return his smile. She let out her breath in a slow sigh of relief, and headed out onto the terrace to lean on the smooth coolness of the stone balustrade. She would have steepled her fingers as she had been taught, but someone might see: that was too Vulcan. Silently, she recited, I am Saavik, daughter of Vulcan. I am in control of my being . . . I am in control of my mind . . . heart . . . soul . . . I am . . .

  Among the enemies who begot me. In a place I never thought to see. . . .

  Saavik’s first sight on Romulus had been a Customs officer there in the noisy, crowded Ki Baratan terminal. He was a grizzled old man with the bearing of a soldier. He had also had one sleeve neatly fastened above the elbow and a patch covering his left eye. Don’t they heal even their own?

  “Evaste of Anat-Vorian?”

  “Yes, sir.” Saavik kept her voice soft and level. I did not expect this; after so many years, I did not expect to still be harboring a latent hatred for . . . my half-kin.

  “You’ve the accent of the frontier all right,” the officer said. “Been a long time since I’ve heard it. Served with a man from the Outmarches, oh . . . you would barely have been in school. Vorian. Do you have an elder brother?”

  “I . . . had.”

  His muscles ticced around the eye patch. Saavik heard herself ask, “Centurion, are you in pain?”

  He gave her a startled glance, then shrugged. “You get used to it.”

  “But why . . .”

  She had meant to ask, Why weren’t you healed? Misunder standing, the old centurion muttered, “You can’t be wondering how I got these, can you? Not if you knew enough to call me by my old title. Akhh, my ship took a direct hit. The shields went down, and my console exploded. Lucky to have a face, they told me.”

  “Lucky to be alive!”

  “You think so? Like this? Not enough money to buy me a new face and arm, they said. Nothing to be done about it, but my uncle went to his commander. Fates speak his name gently where his spirit wanders; he never came back from the Barrier. He got me this job. Otherwise, I’d have taken refuge in the Final Honor, aye, and my wife and children with me.”

  There had been the slightest hesitation on those last words, the slightest unexpected warmth. With a shock, Saavik realized, He would not have abandoned his children, his wife. How illogical that she had never thought that a Romulan might actually be a loving husband and father!

  The old centurion snorted. “You just listen and it all pours out, does it? You’d have made a good priest, lady. Bah, enough of that. Why are you here now?”

  “At the praetor’s call.”

  Music blared from the immense viewscreen. The centurion grimaced. “Not again.” Outside the tiny office, people sighed and looked up at the screen.

  An image of the Imperial bird-of-prey, with the crown that looked like golden talons, filled the viewscreen. The screen flashed, and an impressive figure in a military uniform bright with awards replaced the Eagle.

  Dralath, Saavik thought, that is certainly Praetor Dralath.

  “My beloved fellow citizens,” his voice rang out. “I, your praetor, come before you to caution you that the emperor requires a sacrifice of us all:

  “After much thought, and with the Senate advising us, we have reached a decision concerning recent trade talks with t
he Klingons. We are breaking them off and canceling the remainder of our contract for their birds-of-prey. We have demanded a return of our earnest money. Although demanding a return from thieves seems an exercise in futility, I would not, as praetor of our great empire, allow it to be said that we have gone back on our debts.

  “Furthermore, our scientific and engineering advisors speak well of our new prototype warbirds.”

  An image of a ship, the eagle on its underbelly freshly painted, formed on the screen, and Saavik straightened in alarm. This ship was perhaps twenty percent bigger than the old warbirds, with more graceful lines than the K’tinga-class Klingon vessels that the Empire had used in recent decades.

  “Why indeed, you may ask, my friends, should we send our treasure to the barbarian Klingons when we possess such shipbuilding capabilities ourselves? Furthermore, with unemployment up and inflation at an all-time high, constructing these ships, the prototypes of a fleet of much larger vessels that we hope, one day, to build, will employ many loyal Romulans.”

  Glyphs replaced the warbird: addresses at which men and women seeking work might apply.

  “You are offered the chance to serve the Empire, once, through your sacrifice, expressed in taxes.”

  Was that a sigh Saavik heard in the Customs Building?

  “Twice, through your own military service, which I cannot commend in high enough terms.”

  “A third time, in your work and your continued loyalty. We bring you now . . .”

  Old officers, some known even to Saavik thanks to intelligence briefings, appeared on screen, criticizing the quality of Klingon vessels and praising the spaceworthiness of the new ships.

  The praetor reassumed control of the screen. “We are naming these ships Amarcan-class warbirds, after Commander Amarcan, late of the Imperial War College, who disappeared into the Barrier. What you are about to see is the Consecration, performed by the Noble Born commander out of reverence to her teacher’s spirit, of the ship that she will command.”

  Odd that he doesn’t mention the commander’s name. Almost as though he’s . . . reluctant to do her that honor. Or . . . wary.