STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART Read online

  He glanced up. The rooftops were decorated almost ornately with intricate stonework, figures that . . .

  He blinked. Yes, indeed yes, Spock thought with a little shock of recognition, those are definitely T’Karik and Sesenek from the old tales—yes, and that is, without a doubt, the image of a sehlat!

  More shocks followed as the groundcar slowed still further. The ordinary Romulans were plainly dressed, men and women both, in what appeared to be homemade clothing dyed dull gray or blue with only a few accents of color: a bright bit of yellow embroidery at a collar or red trimming at a sleeve. But the styles of the clothing . . . yes. Spock had seen similar designs in old volumes of Vulcan costume.

  And the language, even the body language, the lift of a brow, twist of a hand—all the details continued to be jarringly not quite right yet just as jarringly familiar.

  If it were not illogical, I could find myself looking for acquaintances.

  “Look out!” the young driver shouted, swerving wildly to avoid a little boy who’d darted in front of the groundcar. The child’s mother snatched her son back, shaking him, hissing, “Behave or the Eater of Souls will get you!”

  Spock twisted about to stare after her, then sank down into his seat again.

  “Are you all right?” the driver demanded.

  “I was,” Spock told him truthfully, “merely startled.”

  The driver snorted, muttering something under his breath about “. . . without the sense of a drabbik.”

  But Spock hardly noted. The Eater of Souls. One of Vulcan’s oldest archetypes: a demonic being said in the ancient tales to materialize during sandstorms to devour Vulcan souls down to the very katra. Not surprising that he had reacted so strongly, since archetypes were “hardwired” into every sentient being’s psyche—and equally not surprising that Romulan archetypes should remain Vulcan if . . .

  “The date,” Spock said suddenly. “What is the date?”

  “Why, Day Three, First Week of Tasmeen, of course.”

  Tasmeen! The Romulans had even kept the Vulcan calendar!

  And in that moment, Spock knew, with a certainty above all those logical reasoned appeals he had made to the Vulcan Science Academy. Despite the changes wrought by a thousand years, these were still his people, these were still the sundered cousins who must not be lost from the Vulcan family.

  But his trained ambassadorial senses were beginning to note disturbing traces of unrest that had nothing to do with the basic Romulan hot temper. For all the crowds and hostility, people were not quite meeting each other’s gazes. And the streets were just too clean, too empty of idlers. Whenever the groundcar stopped in traffic, Spock, now that he was listening for it, overheard flashes of resentment, muttered warily, at the balance of trade compared with the Way It Was, resentment at the quality of Romulan ships compared with the old warbirds, resentment at too much taxation, too many tariffs.

  Almost, Spock mused, as though Praetor Dralath were channeling resources. For what? A defense buildup? A war? And is Charvanek correct? Is there danger to the Federation?

  “There,” the driver pointed with his chin. “The commander’s estate.”

  The high outer wall was an unornamented sweep of that common red stone, somewhat chipped and worn with age. At the gate, whose intricate scrollwork did not quite disguise its sturdiness, Spock’s driver reached out of the groundcar to type in a code on a recessed keyboard, then muttered a second code. A moment passed, another . . . then the gate swung slowly open, metal creaking and complaining. Poor maintenance? Or part of a deliberate warning system? Vulcan had once had such guarding walls, such deliberately noisy gates and creaking floors. . . .

  The garden within the circle of the walls, smoothly twisted spires of dark lava half-hidden by vegetation, was . . . just a little too unkempt, not quite neglected. The mansion was . . . just a little too shabby, again not quite neglected. But what had once been a colorful façade in sharp, primary reds and blues was faded here and there or even chipped, and Spock noted an ornamental column no longer standing quite true. Clear evidence of what must have been a difficult—and expensive—struggle back to power. Illogical to feel guilt.

  Or was it, perhaps, regret?

  The not-quite-shabbiness continued within the house: too many empty spaces that might once have held art, too many shut-up rooms. Too few servants, as well, though that could indicate caution on Charvanek’s part.

  A door creaked open, and a stolid Romulan in the somber silver and blue livery stood aside. He looked, Spock thought, like a veteran, retired now to his commanding officer’s private service, and he stared at Spock—hard. Spock met his glance blandly and entered. The door creaked shut behind him.

  Charvanek stood before him.

  For all his years of self-control, a stab almost of pain shot through Spock at the sight of her. Of Vulcan stock as Romulans were, Charvanek had barely been touched by the years. But the long struggle for survival had burned away all weakness, all softness, leaving her as fierce as the Romulan bird-of-prey, fierce and compelling, and like that bird-of-prey, beautiful.

  Control. Spock nearly snapped that warning at himself.

  Charvanek said only, “Spock.”

  Spock and Charvanek sat across a small, inlaid table of honey-dark wood in a small room ornamented with faded murals of Romulan wilderness. Sat as though, height of illogic, they were merely two old acquaintances meeting once more, sipping two ritual cups of khavas, the Romulan answer, it would seem, to Earth’s coffee.

  Illogical, as well, Spock realized with a jolt, to need to concentrate on what Charvanek was saying, and not simply remember the past.

  You are not a human. You must not be a fool.

  Spock had been under Federation orders back then, but with Vulcan honesty, he had to admit that their meeting had hardly been the hard, logical stuff of regulations.

  The past is just that: past.

  Charvanek must surely have been thinking the same, because she broke off, studying him, face unreadable save for the faintest of wry smiles. “We are, for good or ill, no longer who or what we were.”

  “And only fools wish for it to be otherwise. Charvanek—”

  “We are alone. Liviana.”

  “Liviana, then.” His voice, to his astonishment, had almost stumbled on the name (the secret name whispered to him once, so long ago . . .). “What of Praetor Dralath?”

  “Ah. Indeed. Dralath.” Without doing more than drawing back ever so slightly, she suddenly became not the woman but the commander. “Our brave leader is becoming increasingly unpopular with the people.”

  So he’d noticed on the journey here. “And the military?”

  “Unfortunately, he still has a firm grip on the military.” Charvanek shrugged slightly. “It was they who let him arrest several senators under trumped-up charges: Karpan, Teranas, Pardek, Gorath. And not one citizen spoke out in their behalf. Or rather, dared speak out.”

  Her voice was almost indifferent, as though she wasted no pity on anyone clumsy enough to be snared. Spock caught Pardek’s name among the others, and kept his face studiously blank. At least, he thought, Pardek and the reunification project with him were still alive.

  “Then the military is the true power here?”

  “You misunderstand! Dralath is strong enough to keep them his: they haven’t forgotten how last year, he gutted a general who tried to attack him. Convenient, of course,” she drawled, “that the attack should happen during a planetwide broadcast.”

  With careful irony, Spock said, “That seems an unlikely way to win public support.”

  She gave a short, fierce little humorless laugh. “True enough. Most recently, Dralath has become increasing warlike. Though, I might add, not altogether convincingly.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “A cover?”

  After the slightest pause, she nodded. “It’s almost as though he were planning some act of ‘military glory’ to counter that growing unpopularity. There is nothing,” Charvanek add
ed cynically, “like some easy victories far from home to make a leader look good.”

  “Before I can act or make any logical recommendations, I must have evidence.”

  “Other than my word?” It was a warning purr.

  “I do not doubt your word. But I still must see the praetor in action. And I must, to be quite blunt, have a chance to consider any potential replacement. I am assuming that there is such a replacement under consideration?”

  “Clever, Spock.”

  “Merely logical. You would not have taken the risk of contacting me if you merely wished a sympathetic ear.”

  That forced a wry smile from her. “Indeed not. So, then: Narviat is his name, a logical—yes,” dryly, “Romulans are capable of logic—a logical and clever aristocrat who is liked by the people.”

  And by you, Liviana? Do I read that behind your words? What are you plotting, my no-longer-enemy? “Not a comfortable situation for him.”

  “No, indeed! Narviat has been walking a knife’s blade as far as Dralath is concerned. Particularly since Narviat is distant kin to the emperor—”

  “As are you.”

  She raised a brow. “You’ve been checking on me.”

  “Indeed.”

  He volunteered nothing more, and Charvanek, after a moment, continued, “What would you? I . . . might be able to take you with me to the next session of the Senate. Academic advisors are common there. You must understand that this will involve a great deal of danger for you, for us both. The risk—”

  “Risk,” Spock snapped before he could stop himself. “Of course there is risk! This has all been a calculated risk!”

  Charvanek blinked. “Well done!” she said after a moment. “You truly are acting like a Romulan! Quick temper and all—I never would have dreamed a Vulcan had such passion in him.”

  Spock stared at her, stunned.

  It . . . hadn’t been an act.

  But Charvanek must not know it! Spock quickly forced his face back into its usual impassivity, hunting a logical explanation for his lapse—yes. Clearly Romulan thoughts, Romulan emotions, could overwhelm a Vulcan’s self-control if they caught him off-guard. Understood.

  To cover the awkward moment of silence, Spock said, “One acts the role one must.”

  Something dark flicked in Charvanek’s eyes. “Ah yes,” she said with absolutely no expression, “I had forgotten just how fine an actor you can be. So, now: At least you will need only the most minimal of disguises to pass as my distant, scholarly cousin. My very distinguished scholarly cousin, that is, one whose talents appeared so early that the sacrifice of a military career and a soldier’s honor was seen as the only . . . logical . . . choice. And we have this advantage: No one will expect to find Ambassador Spock of Vulcan—or Captain Spock of Starfleet—in Ki Baratan. If we tell them that you are a civilian scholar, they will see only a civilian scholar.”

  “Indeed.” It was an irony of war that hiding in plain sight should be easier on perilous Romulus than on friendly Earth.

  Of course, a stray thought reminded Spock, whenever he had needed to pass unnoticed among humans, matters had been complicated by the presence of James Kirk, for whom “inconspicuous” had been impossible. What Jim would say of this mission . . .

  At least I endanger no one but myself.

  Correction: He also jeopardized this exceedingly unlikely ally—she who right now was studying him as she would a weapon.

  “Yes,” Charvanek said shortly, and called over her shoulder, “M’ret.”

  A dark wiry Romulan, the boy who’d been Spock’s driver, shot into the room, nearly banging the door back against the wall in his haste. He grabbed the edge just in time to keep it from slamming, then turned with a youngster’s desperate pride to Charvanek, saluting. “Commander.”

  “My aide,” Charvanek told Spock, and for a bare instant, an almost maternal amusement glinted in her eyes. “M’ret, this is my distant cousin, Symakhos, First Academician of Bardat. I believe you’ve already met.”

  M’ret offered Spock a sharp, correct bow with more poise than Spock had expected. Spock acknowledged it with a solemn dip of his head. Charvanek continued, “The academician will be attending the next session of the Senate with me. His baggage was misplaced on his civilian transport, but he must be properly garbed as befits one of his scholarly rank.”

  Did M’ret believe that fiction? The youngster gave not the slightest clue in face or posture. He merely saluted Charvanek again and said, “As my commander wishes.”

  SIX

  U.S.S. ARMSTRONG, DEEP SPACE, STARDATE 21018.5

  Saavik woke with a start, rolling out of bed, clawing her hair out of her eyes with one hand, snatching for her phaser with the other, calling, “Lights!” She saw—

  Nothing alarming. The familiar bronze-red panels of her quarters on board Armstrong, the tiny curl of incense from the little bronze firepot in one corner, the weapons collected over her years in Starfleet hanging undisturbed on one wall. But something was still screaming—

  Not screaming. Beeping. Saavik let out her breath in a hiss. The beeping was merely her computer signaling an incoming message.

  Disgraceful lapse of control, she scolded herself, though a wry corner of her mind acknowledged that even a Vulcan could be caught off-guard. Getting to her feet, Saavik stretched and breathed in deeply, pulling her composure about her along with a dark red robe. Running a hand through her disheveled hair, willing her still-racing heartbeat back down to normal, she sat at her meticulously clean desk. “Screen on.”

  Instantly, the insistent beeping stopped. But Saavik stiffened in new alarm, her eyes widening. Not the standard innocuous “message incoming” signal: The screen had darkened to Starfleet blue, flashing a “high-security” warning. Unusual that the message should have bypassed Mr. Watanabe on the bridge. . . .

  Not unusual, Saavik corrected herself, ominous.

  Control. That was the way of it. She was a Starfleet officer, not some ensign right out of the Academy. And more important even than that, she was a daughter of Vulcan, by blood and by choice.

  But very few Starfleet personnel possessed both the technical skill and the authority to override a starship’s ordinary communications protocols and bypass the bridge. Indeed, right now she could think of only one.

  “Computer,” Saavik ordered, more sharply than she would have preferred. “Security procedure. Classified communications access.”

  “Identify for retinal scan,” the computer’s emotionless voice replied.

  “Commander Saavik of Vulcan, first officer U.S.S. Armstrong, Security Class One.”

  A beam of light flashed, recording the patterns in her eyes. The screen blinked, colors shifting, as the computer ran its testing program.

  “Security clearance Class One: granted.”

  “Message on,” she ordered.

  Starfleet’s insignia, overlaid with the emblem for Starfleet Ops, appeared on the blue screen for a moment, then faded, to be replaced by the still-lovely mahogany face, the corona of now-silvery hair, and the presence, simultaneously attractive and formidable, that was Captain Uhura.

  Captain, no more than that—and by choice. Despite her age and accomplishments, Uhura, as head of Starfleet’s elite security agency, kept what humans called “a low profile,” or at least as low as was possible.

  “Captain Uhura.” Saavik came to rigid attention.

  “At ease, Saavik. Please.” Uhura’s voice was still as melodious as it had been when Saavik had served as a trainee on board the Enterprise. “I have some alarming news, I’m afraid.”

  Logic, Saavik told herself. Captain Uhura would have no reason to contact me directly, rather than going through Captain Howes, unless it concerned—Spock.

  Discipline insisted that she not question a superior. Discipline, this once, could wait. “It is about Spock, isn’t it?”

  Uhura didn’t so much as flinch. “It is.”

  Not illness. There would be no need for a high-secur
ity message. And not . . . death. I would surely have sensed that.

  Saavik drew in a sharp breath. “He has left his appointed post with the trade mission on Oriki.”

  “Now, how did you know that?” Uhura’s voice was casual, but her eyes were suddenly absolutely cold.

  Warily, Saavik replied, “I . . . deduced it from the fact that you called me directly. I cannot, however, hypothesize where he has gone.”

  Uhura studied her for a long moment without speaking, face almost as unreadable as that of a Vulcan, then said bluntly, “He’s gone to Romulus.”

  “Romulus . . .”

  Captain Uhura was waiting. I will not disgrace myself, Saavik snapped at herself. She forced her face back to a mask of utter calm. “I assume that you wish me to extricate him.”

  Uhura drew a deep breath. “Other folks might think you really did have a computer planted in your skull. Yes, and that you couldn’t care less what happened to Spock. But that cool façade doesn’t fool me.”

  No, I would guess not. But do you know the force of emotion behind it? I dare not show the slightest trace of that, or I will never control it again.

  She waited. After a moment, Uhura continued, “Has Spock ever discussed his views on reunification with you?”

  Saavik raised an eyebrow. “Certainly. It is a subject on which we disagree. I will not insult my future consort’s logic. But . . . Spock is an idealist. His ambition is to join what Surak’s choices sundered. And Surak,” she added, not quite as steadily as she would have liked, “died violently.”

  Uhura nodded. “Precisely. So, Saavik, once again, we’ve got to help him. Just like old times. I’m assuming that your next step, were I to end the communication here, would be to plan your own trip to Romulus.”

  “That would be a highly illegal procedure.”

  “And you would still do it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, that’s fortunate, because there just happens to be a Barolian freighter docked at Starbase 6, one light-day from here. We’ve arranged for you to take possession of it. It will get you to the homeworld, and back to the Federation as well.”