STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART Page 7

  Dralath glanced down again at the datasheet in his hand. Another riot, quickly crushed, in the Rachan Marketplace. Someone handing out flyers on Erehani Way, flyers full of treason—well, that someone had unfortunately died in the middle of capture. The guards, of course, had already been punished; they should have known that the praetor wanted a live traitor. Such creatures were so much more useful! Once a would-be rebel had told all he knew, he could be put to so humiliating a death that he could never make a proper martyr.

  So be it. One did not groan over slain prey. But . . . Dralath glanced at the next datasheet, detailing a crop failure in the Rarathik District, and the next, which described an abortive attempt at rebellion by the district’s farmers, then brought his hand down on the desk with an angry slap.

  Do they think me a god, to control the rain? That technology we do not possess, curse them for idiots!

  But a second glance at the sheets showed that the unrest was as much due to claims of inferior seed, blighted seed, provided by the government, as it was to the vagaries of weather.

  Damnation.

  “Serik!”

  The clerk, a thin young rharit of a man, nervously poked his head into the room. “Praetor . . . ?”

  “Who is in charge of seed distribution for the Rarathik District?”

  “A moment, please. . . .”

  As the clerk scrolled frantically through the data on his handheld console, Dralath barely fought down a sneer. Bah, Serik’s lips even quivered like those of a rharit! Next thing, he’d be down on all fours and twitching his nose.

  “Uh . . . I have it, Praetor. Senator Tharnek.”

  “Indeed.” Dralath waved him away. “Back to whatever it was you were doing, Serik. Yes, close the door after you.”

  Tharnek. A pity. The senator did give him such agreeable and of course quite voluntary . . . donations. But if Tharnek was working a bit of secret, illicit business on his own, there could be no choice. Dralath quickly keyed in his private code on his console’s board, then sent Tharnek a personal message, advising the senator to meet with an unfortunately fatal accident. That done, Dralath, smiling thinly, accessed another code and scanned down the list of the soon-to-be-late senator’s holdings. How honorable of Tharnek, he thought, keying in a new set of commands, to assuage his shame by transferring all his wealth to his praetor.

  Wealth that was very much needed just now.

  A sharp beep warned of incoming data. Dralath scanned the new message, then let out his breath in an angry hiss. A brawl between two spaceport workers had quickly escalated into a nearriot. And though the local guards had swiftly restored peace with only two deaths, still, the gist of the shouts, at least according to the spy’s report, had been not directed at the fighters but at him. And yes, yes, look at this: In the confusion, someone had actually managed to tear down one of his posters and deface another! The sheer arrogance of it left him breathless.

  As did the warning behind the act. So much unrest! Or rather, so much new unrest. One could do only so much with guards, spies, and secret police. The last thing he wanted, Dralath mused, was an outward use of any more force than was needed for the putting down of a spaceport brawl: start attacking one’s own people in earnest, and one had best commit suicide there and then to spare the inevitable mob the trouble.

  Yes, but if one could not win the people’s love by ordinary means or ordinary force, there was yet another way. Dralath pursed his lips, considering. He had already begun his plans for this: an off-planet, outside-the-Empire war. A small war. An easy war. A quick victory with low casualties, one to dazzle the people and turn him into a popular hero. Much more credible, then, when he blamed all the troubles, the economic shortfalls, and even the occasional crop failure, not on the poor, long-suffering praetor, the Fearless Defender of Romulan Honor laboring endlessly on the people’s behalf, but on the selfish, grasping senators.

  Indeed. Give the commoners something seemingly glorious, Dralath thought, something larger than their little lives, and their eyes were blinded to fact.

  I need them blinded for as long as possible. Another advantage to that nice, glorious little war: a chance for aging patricians to be rid of recalcitrant and overeager heirs. It never hurt to woo more allies.

  Even with all these mirrors. Dralath grimaced, and saw the grimace reflected a dozen times over. The problem with so many security mirrors meant that one had to see oneself, yes, and denuded of any fancies.

  Suddenly pushing back his chair, Dralath stood, daring the mirrors to do their worst, the metallic fabric of his uniform glinting with medals and clan sigils. Of medium height and slightly stocky build, he still held himself with the upright carriage of the active warrior he had once been. No problems there.

  But the ruthless mirrors showed him flesh beginning to sag at jaw and chin, showed him the paunch that insisted on remaining no matter how fiercely he exercised, showed him the first lines on forehead and cheek—those first warnings that his time was short, shorter than others of his kind.

  “No!”

  But the mirrors revealed everything. Everything except the traitors in his blood, the tiny killers that ate away at his life and his glory.

  So far, he’d held the damnable sneak of a disease at bay for longer than any of a series of now late, not particularly lamented physicians could have anticipated. The sickness in the blood gave him an aristocratic pallor, more than anyone would attribute to a man whose origins were really anything but Noble Born. Analgesics too subtle to register on bioscanners brought him release from increasingly nagging pain. Cautious doses of stimulants restored brief moments of nearly youthful energy. He could take the few good years he had remaining to make a name for himself that would outlast him—

  “And be nothing more than a cursed footnote? I will not have that! I will not surrender!”

  No? What of the emperor? Look at him! Once Shiarkiek had been a figure of true splendor, tall and lean, proud as a god. Now he had shrunken to nothing more than a tired old man who dressed like some backcountry noble and who wanted nothing but to retire to his country estates to tend his pet fish.

  Ancient as the emperor was—past two hundred—he would still outlive Dralath unless someone pushed the ancient fool into the Halls of Erebus. There had been times, many of them, that Dralath had been tempted.

  Not yet, Majesty. Not while you may still be of use to me. Not while I am still in control. And I am in control.

  A shudder shook him. Dralath frowned at his image and straightened. Foolish to let fear enter his thoughts. Perilous to show weakness, even here. Perilous—

  And perhaps unnecessary? Yes . . . his spies had brought him word of a recent arrival in Ki Baratan, some colonial female, Evaste, a medic or mystic healer or whatever she was, who had made claims of possessing gene-splicing techniques that might extend life . . . and might just possibly provide treatment for his own condition. A cure . . .

  At first he’d thought her nothing but yet another fraud, someone to be casually eliminated. Pest control. But one of those spies had been Kharik, one of Avrak’s House Minor underlings: unreliable, granted, since Kharik, all hot temper and bluster, lacked most of the cunning of his patron—and just might be occasionally reporting to said patron. Still, Kharik was not without his uses. And he had said that the medic was a beauty. Even allowing for the lout’s usual exaggeration, Dralath had decided that meant Evaste was probably at least passable. Worth a brief interview.

  Dralath glared unflinchingly at his reflection. Evaste had been more than passable, but that was less important for the moment than what she’d said . . . So sure, so logical . . .

  Maybe this time, he thought. Maybe this time there is no fraud. To live in full possession of mind and body . . .

  Bah! He sounded like a fool. This Evaste might or might not live up to her promises, but at least she was quite . . . beautiful. Dralath smiled ever so slightly.

  A knock sounded at the door. “What?” he snapped.

  Ser
ik poked his nervous head inside once more. “I—I would not disturb you, Praetor . . .”

  “Then don’t!”

  “Uh, but . . . but the emperor . . . he seeks admittance, Praetor. What should he be told?”

  Dralath smiled inwardly. It said a great deal about his status, civil unrest or no, that the emperor came to him!

  “Let him wait—no.” Why make so trite and obvious a gesture of contempt? “Usher him in. Bring the usual amenities, drink, food. Then leave us alone.”

  Serik bowed, straightened, bowed again, left. In another moment, he entered again, holding open the door and announcing nervously, “His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Shiarkiek, Master of the Romulan Star Empire, Lord of—”

  “Yes, yes,” a weary, cultivated voice murmured. “I am certain our noble praetor knows all my titles. Now, do stand aside, there’s a good youngster.”

  With no more fanfare than that, Shiarkiek entered. Once, Dralath thought, he had been an impressive figure, lean and wiry as a hunting kharakh, his hair that odd shade that sometimes appeared in the Romulan royal line, a light reddish-brown. But now that hair was liberally streaked with gray, and the elegant leanness had fined down almost to gauntness. His robes, some dull metallic-gray fabric trimmed with faded reds and blues that gave only the vaguest nod to military splendor, seemed almost too big for the thin body.

  There it was: all the transitory nature of glory. Shiarkiek was, Dralath mused, now no more than a tired old man, so frail he would surely break at a harsh word.

  I will never sink to this. No matter the pain. Never.

  The praetor got to his feet, just a touch too slowly for true deference, saluted, just a touch too casually for true respect. “Emperor Shiarkiek.” It was almost a purr. “How kind of you to visit my offices. Please, be seated. Serik! The food and drink I requested. Bring it. Swiftly!”

  Serik, wide-eyed, sped away, closing the door behind him.

  “Your courtesy,” Shiarkiek commented, so smoothly that Dralath could not quite have called the retort sarcastic, “is well known. As Senator Tharnek has reason to know.”

  Dralath just barely mastered a start. So, now! Time for some secret . . . inquiries. Someone on his staff was clearly in Shiarkiek’s employ.

  Foolish to waste time in false puzzlement or denial. “The emperor is amazingly well informed.”

  “The emperor,” Shiarkiek countered, “is still the emperor.”

  “As he is. For now. Oh, no threat was implied, Your Majesty! Of course not! I merely meant . . .” With a melodramatic sigh, Dralath said, “It is a shame, a true shame, to see the mighty brought low by the one enemy none can overturn.”

  “By age, you mean.” Irony flashed in the ancient eyes for an instant. Then Shiarkiek was once more a weary, passive figure. “So it is, even for you, Dralath.”

  “I am not—”

  “Yet old? No longer young, at any rate. And death may come to anyone, old or young. As Senator Tharnek has so recently learned, with that so-tragic fatal accident he must even now be experiencing.”

  “Senator Tharnek,” Dralath said flatly, “was betraying his own people, supplying the farmers in the Rarathik District with inferior seed. He was a traitor, Your Majesty, not someone on whom pity should be wasted. He had committed a crime both against his own and against all the Romulan people—as I am sure you agree.”

  “A crime has certainly been perpetrated,” Shiarkiek agreed blandly.

  “Clever, Your Majesty. Quite. May I remind Your Majesty that cleverness is a double-edged sword? Too much cleverness can, alas, sometimes prove quite dangerous to the . . .”

  “Puppet?”

  “Why, Emperor Shiarkiek! What would make you say such a terrible thing?”

  “Honesty?” the emperor asked with a raised brow. “Dralath, we both know exactly how matters stand. ‘He who rules the military rules the Empire.’ And I did not come here to argue what is and what must be. I am not yet ready for my fatal accident.”

  Serik, with perfectly terrible timing, chose that very moment to knock on the door. “Your Majesty? Praetor? I—I have the refreshments you requested.”

  At Dralath’s impatient wave, Serik brought in the tray, placed it on the praetor’s desk, and scuttled out again. Dralath stared after him for a thoughtful moment. Had that been terrible timing? Or deliberate? Was little Serik in the emperor’s pay? Sometimes meek little rhariks did go mad. In which case one snapped their necks with one’s heel.

  Shiarkiek glanced wryly at Dralath, as though understanding exactly what the praetor had been thinking. “I am not to meet with a fatal accident just yet, am I?”

  “The Powers prevent! It would be . . . awkward.”

  “For both of us, yes.”

  But while Shiarkiek took the glass Dralath filled, he did not drink, only, after a moment, returned it to the tray. “Dralath, this is not a social call. I . . . would not seek to criticize you or the way in which you handle the tedious job of government. But . . .”

  Suddenly the spark of life animating the emperor seemed to vanish. Sagging, he murmured, “Where is glory these days, Dralath? Where is honor? Once to be a ruler was to serve the people, the Empire, once to be a Romulan was a matter of pride, of knowing that one’s word was good, one’s way was pure, one’s heart and soul were sharp and clean as the edge of a blade. Now . . .”

  “Now,” Dralath said, letting just a touch of impatience show in his voice, “we are as the times have made us. No more, no less, than we need be.”

  “A sad thought. Hear me out, Dralath, I pray you. Once, there would not have been a need for these ‘accidents.’ Once, the accused would have been honorably charged, honorably offered the choice of death by ritual or by combat. Once, there would have been none of this sly secrecy. There would have been no need.” Shiarkiek paused, blinking weary eyes. “Is that it? Was there such a need? Why has there been such a sudden gathering of funds? Yes, yes, even an outdated old man such as your emperor is aware of it. A war, Dralath? Is that what you wish? A dishonorable war? A war for your own glory? Can you, even you, have sunk to mere profit?”

  “Enough,” Dralath snapped. “This conversation is pointless.” A heartbeat. “Your Majesty.”

  “Is it? Dralath, think! Without our honor, what are we? Not Romulans, not beings of pride and grace—without our honor, we are nothing!”

  “I hear and heed,” Dralath recited by rote. “Now, if you will kindly—”

  “It will happen to you, Dralath. Each day, the flesh grows a little less firm, the will a little less sure. Someday some younger soul will sit in that chair and tell you that you, too, are . . . obsolete.”

  Damn him, can he know of my disease? How can he know?

  “I have,” the praetor said, biting off the words, “work to do. Even if you, O Emperor of the Ancient Days, do not. Go away, old man. Go home and tend your fish!”

  But Emperor Shiarkiek was already moving slowly away. The door shut silently behind him, and Dralath was left alone.

  Alone with the ruthless, merciless mirrors. And the truth.

  “The healer,” he murmured. “Evaste. Evaste, and her miraculous medicines . . . they had best be as miraculous as she claims.” If they were: excellent. If not . . . Dralath shrugged. People did tend to . . . disappear.

  Raising his voice, he snapped, “Serik!”

  The door opened just enough to let Serik poke a nervous head into the room. “Praetor?”

  “The provincial healer, Evaste by name. You do know of her? Excellent. She is to be granted an audience. At the Hall of State. Yes, I said at the Hall of State!” A minor noble, she should know how to behave. If not . . . others’ embarrassment was always amusing, too. “Oh, and Serik . . .”

  “Praetor?”

  “It is not a request.”

  As the emperor left the room, his bent-backed shuffle took him slowly down a less-used corridor, unnoted by guards or underlings.

  Servants, he thought, and ministers, spies, courtiers—bah
, that much I don’t miss, all the lives surrounding me, never letting me be.

  Shiarkiek headed on down the empty corridor till he had reached that one brief stretch of hall that was unmarred by monitors or electronic spies. And slowly his back straightened, slowly the shuffle became a determined walk. Still old, yes, he thought dryly, but not quite obsolete, not yet. Oh, and Dralath, my fish, my pretty little pet fish, are garahk. They have fangs.

  A man fell in beside him at his signal, a figure as tall as Shiarkiek, almost as lean, the hood of his cloak pulled back just enough to reveal keen dark eyes in a clean-featured, handsome face that gave away almost nothing of its emotions. No longer precisely young, our Narviat, the emperor thought, but quite the elegant figure. I would expect no less from a kinsman. However distant. That brought another face briefly to mind: Commander Charvanek, of the royal line as well, though just as far removed. Fortunate for you both. Were either of you closer in the direct line of succession, were either of you named my heir, I fear Dralath would be racking his brains to come up with yet more “fatal accidents.”

  “Well?” Shiarkiek asked. “Did you see and hear?”

  “Everything. You play a dangerous game, my emperor.”

  Shiarkiek raised a wry brow. “He will not kill me. At least not before I’ve named an heir. That One—” Even in these secure surroundings, it was wiser not to name names. “That One doesn’t want the throne himself, not when it’s so much handier and safer for him to use an emperor as . . . figurehead. He hardly wants the civil war and chaos that would follow my sudden demise.”

  Narviat’s fingers flew in a ritual gesture. “ ‘May you live a hundred years yet.’ ”

  Shiarkiek shot him a cynical glance. “Wait till you are my age, then see if you make that same wish. But as I say, That One hardly wishes civil war.”

  “Yet he does want a war. For,” Narviat added coolly, “his own glory.”

  “We are in agreement, then. He must be stopped. But . . . how?”

  Narviat frowned slightly. “How, indeed?”

  And for an instant that handsome, well-schooled face did show a trace of the thoughts behind it. For an instant, Shiarkiek read, quite clearly, And how am I to take the praetor’s place?