Captain's Blood

3

SOLTOTH CAVERNS, ROMULUS, STARDATE 57473.1

He was tired, he was sore, he fought to keep despair from overwhelming him, but he was not dead.

Even now, one standard week after his outrageous gambit, Spock still tasted the primitive explosive’s sulfuric sting in the back of his throat. His ears still rang with the echo of the blast. His muscles ached from the force of the concussion that had slammed first against his body armor, and then against him.

The fall back from the podium had seemed to take forever, and, indeed, T’Vrel confirmed that he had momentarily lost consciousness. But whether that was a result of the explosion or of the shock of instantly being contained within an incompressible level-four forcefield, she could not say.

No matter the cause, the terse Vulcan healer maintained that Spock’s unconsciousness had actually been a benefit. Enough people had seen him thrown back from the podium to rule out such tricks as transporter substitution. Before dozens of close-up witnesses, he had crumpled to the stage floor in a limp confusion of sprawling limbs, the chemical he had sipped from his water cup providing a convincing froth of what appeared to be green blood at his lips.

The Vulcan defenders onstage, different from the unwitting Romulan bodyguards who had escorted Spock to the coliseum, had successfully kept witnesses back while they frantically called for healers, so that when the carefully timed fire spread across the stage floor and the blast-fractured structure began to collapse, there was no question but that it was Spock who had been caught by the explosion, it was Spock who had been abandoned onstage, and it was Spock whose body was mangled beyond recognition by fire and crushing debris.

That part of the plan, at least, had unfolded satisfactorily.

Less satisfactory to Spock was the lack of explanation for the illogical aftermath of his plan. That was the conundrum that troubled him as he walked slowly along the high-ceilinged cavern tunnel for his daily meeting with T’Vrel. The tunnel’s walls were rough volcanic rock, carved by particle beams centuries ago, cold and dark now, lit only by occasional facets of emerald light. And though Spock knew that the nature of this rock explained the past and foretold the inevitable future of the twin worlds of Romulus and Remus, he did not yet see how his own fate was also contained within it, like a hidden vein of dilithium, waiting for its discovery to unleash a revolution that would change the face of the galaxy.

As a planetary system, Romulus and Remus shared similarities of their birth with Earth and its moon. Once, geologists believed, the twin planets were a single body, which, for convenience, they called Romii. Then, five-point-three billion years in the past, another planetary body, at least sixty percent the size of Romii, and in a retrograde orbit, collided with the giant protoworld.

In a matter of hours, the stupendous impact had stripped the crust from Romii, and in less than two hundred years, it was estimated, that ejecta had coalesced into a single body that would eventually cool to become the planet now known as Romulus, still spinning quickly with the force of that ancient, cataclysmic collision, eventually becoming an abode of life.

The other half of Romii, composed primarily of its heavy core elements, had been superheated by the impact and the concurrent energy release of its axial revolution being stopped dead. After two million years of erratic oscillations before stable orbital resonance was achieved, the result was the planet Remus—perhaps the richest world in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants in terms of exotic mineral wealth, yet rendered virtually uninhabitable because it was gravitationally locked to its sun so that one day equaled one year, keeping the same face in constant sunlight, and the opposite side in perpetual night.

The planet’s unusually heavy gravity for its size, one-point-five standard G for a world barely the size of Mars, plus its complex chemistry produced an atmosphere of sorts. And billions of years later, when the Vulcan diaspora limped into the Romii system in their ragtag fleet of sublight ships, they found two life-bearing worlds: Romulus, with its complex ecosystem and oxygen atmosphere, a reasonable length of night and day, and virtually no mineral wealth with which to build a civilization; and Remus, in-hospitable, devoid of life except in the unique zone of habitability existing in the perpetual twilight of its unmoving terminator, but with the mineral treasures to build not just a world’s civilization, but an empire’s.

Thus it was in the petri dish of the Romii system that the maverick offshoot of the Vulcan race split again, becoming the ruling elite of Romulus, and the subjugated slaves of Remus. Yet both branches of the original colonists maintained that savage edge that was their heritage from their pre-logic Vulcan ancestors. In the Romulans, that savagery became the fount of cold and cruel calculation, making them masters of intrigue and manipulation. In the Remans, it became the fount of physical strength and a penchant for direct action.

But those colonists who first chose the rewards they believed awaited them in the mines of Remus, and who were later joined by native generations of Romulans exiled for their crimes, then their sins, and, eventually, for their political beliefs, had to devote the majority of their existence to mere survival. The Romulans, in the comparative paradise of the world they had chosen, had time to look beyond themselves and build their empire. The military might that forged that assemblage of worlds became an equally effective tool for ensuring that the Remans fulfilled their half of the social contract—supplying the material wealth that enabled the Romulan expansion, while being given none of it for their own use and betterment.

Two thousand years after the first landing on Romulus, no one could say exactly when it was the Remans had become a slave race, and no Romulan historian would dare to investigate. It was simply the way things had always been and always would be.

The Remans, however, in their stories and traditions, in their secret schools in which the Old Ways were passed down through the generations by spoken word alone, still remembered a time when things were different, and thus could imagine a future time when things would be different again.

A ruling race that believed in the permanence of their society.

A slave race that knew that all things must change.

In the histories of a thousand different worlds, that same situation had led to only one result—

Revolution.

And all because two worlds had collided five billion years ago.

Those shock waves still resonated through history.

But Spock had yet to feel them.

T’Vrel was waiting for Spock in the starkly lit and austerely furnished canteen, as she always did this time of day.

The courtesy was something else Spock had noticed with his advancing years and rank. He no longer had to wait for anyone. Somehow, he became the more important participant in any meeting, and so he invariably became the last to arrive, even when he arrived early.

“Ambassador,” the healer said, politely acknowledging his presence. They were the only two occupants in a canteen built to seat one hundred Romulan troops, and as usual, T’Vrel spoke in one of Vulcan’s more esoteric scholar’s dialects.

In keeping with T’Vrel’s preference for efficient conversation, Spock acknowledged her presence in turn with a simple nod. Considering her background, he knew it was the correct response.

T’Vrel was a Surakian. Of all the different offshoots of Vulcan empiricism, among which no truly major differences existed, the Surakians were those who attained the Kolinahr through the ongoing pursuit of the strictest interpretation of Surak’s teachings. As was typical of her particular school of logic, T’Vrel’s head was shaved, the clearest expression of the Surakian disdain for ornamentation of any kind. Her clothing consisted of a plain dark brown robe, with a simple, floor-length lighter brown vest of Guylinian cotton, from the province of Surak’s birth.

Also, as would the others of her school, T’Vrel had renounced personal possessions, and in the normal course of events, she would have been expected to live a fully communal existence, dedicated to the advancement of knowledge above all else.

Many of Vulcan’s greatest scientists and philosophers had been Surakian, or had been shaped by their schools. But, intriguingly, for all that they sought out new information and experience, not one Surakian had ever followed Spock’s path and sought a career in Starfleet. Their focus was strictly on Vulcan. Everything else was extraneous.

Except, of course, the Romulans.

In the view of the Surakians, the Romulans were an af-front to the Vulcan psyche. Until the renegades had been returned to the fold, the grave insult their ancestors had paid to Surak would continue to be an unhealed wound.

Before Spock could take his place on the green metal bench across the table from T’Vrel, the healer had scanned him with her medical tricorder and gave her verdict. “You are well enough.”

Spock wondered what it was about physicians, how they all managed to sound like McCoy to him. Or was it just that he missed the human doctor’s company, and sought to find it elsewhere?

“News?” Spock asked. He glanced at the tray she had set out for him. Old Romulan military rations. The Soltoth Command Post dated back from a time before the Earth/Romulan wars, when the Star Empire had taken on the Hiram Assembly. The war had gone badly at first, and had reached the outskirts of the Romii system. This complex of volcanic caverns deep within Romulus, attainable only by transporter, had been intended as an impregnable bunker from which the Imperial Fleet could prosecute the defense of the homeworld.

The bunker had not been necessary. The worlds of the assembly were now Romulan colonies. The Hiramnae themselves an extinct species. It was the Romulan way.

“No change,” T’Vrel answered. “Claims of responsibility from three organizations. The Compliance Division will release the coliseum to its owners in two days to allow repairs to commence.”

“No word from Vulcan?”

“Regret at the loss of a senior diplomat on leave, who was acting on his own without official sanction.”

Spock kneaded a food pack to activate its heating chemicals. He had expected more from the Vulcan diplomatic community, and T’Vrel seemed to sense it.

“You are surprised by their response?” she asked.

“Disappointed,” Spock answered.

“Surely, that is an emotional response.”

“It is not every day one dies. I had expected a more…pronounced reaction.”

“Define ‘a more pronounced reaction.’ “

“A public call for an investigation into the circumstances of my death. An official effort to begin one.”

“The Vulcan embassy has expressed full confidence in local compliance officials.”

“Then they are lying.”

That his inflammatory accusation drew no outward response from T’Vrel was not remarkable to Spock. Surakians had the same perfect control of their autonomic systems as the greatest Kolinahr masters.

“They are being diplomatic. It is their function.”

Spock placed the heated foodpack on the tray before him, squeezed the activation corners, and the soft-sided pouch hardened to become a low, rectangular bowl as the top surface split open. He sniffed the aroma of centuries-old plomeek soup.

“Agreeable?” T’Vrel asked.

Spock paused, surprised. For a Surakian, to enquire about a purely subjective experience was illogic of the most extreme. Food was fuel. Palatability was not an issue. She had even had to switch from the scholar’s tongue to a more common Vulcan dialect to ask the question.

So Spock ignored it, refusing to be pandered to. He peeled the serving utensil from the foodpack, tapped it on the table once to harden it, then used it to stir the ancient soup.

“Given the inexplicably low-key response to my assassination,” he said, “logic suggests that I have miscalculated the effect I wished to create.”

“Now you are being diplomatic,” T’Vrel said, still in the common dialect. “The miscalculation is shared. You did not act in this alone.”

Spock appreciated T’Vrel’s willingness to share the responsibility. But though he had had considerable help in putting his plan into motion, the final decision had been his. None of that was worth stating to a Surakian, though. To repeat information already known was illogical.

“Have you any insight into conditions which we did not allow for?” Spock asked.

“One.”

That admission did surprise Spock. “Indeed.”

She returned to the scholar’s dialect she preferred. “The existence of an unidentified party already engaged in covert efforts to change the existing political structure on Romulus.”

Spock took a mouthful of the plomeek soup, and was momentarily surprised by how flavorful it was. The Romulan military had long ago learned what Surak had so eloquently stated, that a military force proceeds by the nutritional well-being of its members.

“The existing political structure on Romulus was chaotic before my assassination,” Spock said. “To all appearances, it remains chaotic.” The political fallout from Shinzon’s coup was what had prompted him to take the extreme step of manufacturing a legend by becoming a martyr to the cause of unification. By itself, the deceit behind such a concept would be disagreeable to a Vulcan, even illegal if attempted on a world within the Vulcan sphere of influence. But Romulan society was much more apt to take action based on emotional reactions. Thus, as he had done once before, in command of a doomed shuttlecraft long ago in the past, Spock had seen the logic of emotion, and had acted on it.

But T’Vrel had even more surprises for him.

“Upon consideration,” she said, “the existing political structure on Romulus appears to be chaotic.”

Spock put down his utensil, his appetite gone. Had he risked everything based on false assumptions? “Explain,” he said. The Vulcan healer had switched back to a common dialect, subtly implying that he was at fault for not being able to reach the same conclusion she had.

“The aftermath of Shinzon’s coup brought uncertainty to Romulus. Many groups vying for power, each looking for advantage over the other. None willing to speak out against or for unification with Vulcan. None wishing to cause friction with Vulcan ‘influences’ in particular, or Federation ‘intiatives’ in general.

“You, Spock, chose to exploit those chaotic conditions, by presenting yourself as a martyr, an emotional rally point for the many groups to coalesce around—a logical decision supported by the elders of my s’url.” The healer used the Vulcan word for a Surakian school of logic.

“Yet now it appears my logic was uncertain,” Spock said.

T’Vrel nodded once in acknowledgment. “Our plan to have the new government of Romulus endorse unification depended on the fact that our manipulation would bring stability and order.

“What it appears we did not consider was that another group saw the same chaos we saw, and decided to exploit it as we planned to exploit it, to further their own cause.”

“What cause?” Spock asked.

“Unknown,” T’Vrel answered. “All that we can infer is that the failure of our plan was caused by our attempt to bring order to a situation that was already ordered.”

“In other words,” Spock said, “our logic was sound, but our analysis of initial conditions was flawed.”

“Yes.”

Spock steepled his hands, pleased that an explanation was in hand, frustrated that a new plan would have to be developed.

“Have you given consideration to what new steps we might make to further our cause?” he asked.

“Yes. But the situation is more complex than it first appears.”

Spock refrained from interrupting, knowing further explanation would follow, and it did.

“There is only one reason why news of your assassination was not followed by the predicted outpouring of Romulan sentiment for unification: The other group that we failed to identify is actively against unification.”

“If that is true, then it would appear I died for nothing.”

“Regrettable.”

Spock decided he had been deferential long enough. “Not regrettable. Unacceptable.”

The Vulcan healer did not respond to Spock’s challenge directly. Instead, she asked, “What new action do you propose to take?”

Spock was puzzled by the question. Because it had only one answer. “Identify the other group intent on manipulating Romulan politics.”

“That could be dangerous,” T’Vrel said evenly.

For just a moment, Spock wondered if this was how McCoy felt in their ongoing debates. “Explain,” he said again.

“We have just now, seven standard days after your staged assassination, deduced the existence of the other group that has thwarted our plans from the beginning.”

Spock understood at once. “Then it is likely that they already know of our existence.”

T’Vrel nodded. “And since their goals are antithetical to our own, logic dictates they will attempt to stop our efforts.”

Spock drew on his own Kolinahr training as the full meaning of T’Vrel’s conclusion became apparent to him. In the normal course of events, there would be many ways to stop a rival political organization. But in this case, given his own apparent death, the next, most obvious way the other group would move to stop him would be to ensure his actual death—a crime for which there could be no punishment.

“How much time do you estimate we have before the unknowns move against us?”

T’Vrel didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

The caverns of Soltoth echoed with a sudden explosion.

The emerald facets failed as their broadcast power source was interrupted, bringing on impenetrable darkness.

Time had run out.