“I showed him his duty.”

  “Showed him? Or performed it for him?”

  To his own surprise, Spock found himself angry. The Emperor had been had been very fragile since his recovery from the drugs that Narviat’s predecessor Dralath had used to control him. A sick, ancient man, unable to fight—and it was becoming more and more evident that the archpriest had murdered him.

  “What would you have me do?” N’Gathan demanded. Then, as if realizing he’d just said too much, he rushed on fiercely, “His days were trickling from his life like wine from a cracked glass. The Empire faces unprecedented challenges. It needs someone strong, virile to take command…”

  “Like you?”

  “I live but to serve. A ruler will emerge.”

  “So you would kill an Emperor who harmed no one and plunge his Empire into civil war out of respect?” Logical the concept might be, Spock thought, but like all theologies run amok, it was anything but reasonable.

  The archpriest snarled. “War is the forge that hardens us! How else to choose the best ruler? By the time that ruler emerged, the Emperor’s sacrifice would have brought us back onto our true course, free of all these aliens!” He spat out the word.

  Spock saw how N’Gathan’s glance shot about the Hallows, looking for guards or acolytes. He would have to move swiftly lest he himself become the archpriest’s next sacrifice.

  “Did you record all that, Amarik?” Spock called.

  “Got it, Ambassador!” Amarik yelped, an echo of the youthful enthusiasm Spock remembered. “Compressed, encrypted, and on its way to the Praetor, the fleet admiral, and all the other right people!”

  Again, the bells rang out. They sounded triumphant, Spock thought.

  “Ambassador!” cried the archpriest. “You’re no academician at all, and no loyal Romulan!”

  “I never claimed that I was,” Spock said. “I am, as you surmise, Spock of Vulcan.”

  He had miscalculated somewhat. N’Gathan was younger and heavier than Spock, and advanced like a warrior.

  “Archpriest!”

  Ruanek sprang from hiding, shielding Spock with his body and holding up his hand so N’Gathan could see his palm, healing from his blood sacrifice in the Hall of State. “I do not wish to fight to replace you as archpriest. I act only in the name of Emperor Shiarkiek and the life of which you robbed him. And so, hear me, heed me: I thee challenge!”

  He spoke the last three words in Old High Vulcan and whipped out his Honor Blade. Its ancient, polished metal reflected the firefalls onto his face.

  N’Gathan stared. “The warrior I saw in the Hall of State! Who are you?”

  “I am Ruanek, son of Stavenek of House Minor Strevon, former commander in His Imperial Majesty’s Fleet, now Legate in Vulcan’s Diplomatic Corps. Worry not. My bloodline suffices to let me spill your blood on the ground.”

  “Weapons drawn in the Hallows, my son?” N’Gathan’s voice was all priestly concern and authority again.

  Ruanek laughed sharply and hurled down the knife, point-first. It stuck in the ground, hilt quivering in the air. “A false priest has no sons. At least, none who are legitimate. Here is one blade. For the swiftest!”

  He sprang at N’Gathan. The archpriest grasped at the air, then flung what he held—a drift of the gleaming filaments tossed free of the firefalls—in Ruanek’s face and shoved him brutally aside.

  As Ruanek fell, he grappled with the archpriest and hurled him to the ground. The priest swung at him and, to Spock’s surprise, connected. Ruanek’s head jolted and he rolled with the blow. Another blow. The priest lunged toward the Honor Blade. Ruanek hurled himself at his enemy and brought him down. Again, though, he was not quite fast enough.

  I thought Ruanek had kept himself in training since his exile, Spock thought.

  The archpriest was first to reach Ruanek’s Honor Blade. “You dare not shed my blood here in the Hallows, do you?”

  Ruanek pushed back up onto his feet and sank into a fighting crouch. He focused his eyes not on his ancient blade but on the center of his enemy’s chest, from which his next move would be signaled.

  “Ah, you prepare to flee. Then, you are a weakling as well as a traitor. Such a disappointment. When I saw you in the Hall of State, here, I thought, was one wedded to the old ways: one worthy to succeed me, or the Emperor himself. But contaminated as you are…”

  The archpriest lunged. Ruanek leapt aside, then backward again until his back was to a gap in the barrier between the Hallows and the firefalls.

  “Stop dancing, coward!” said the archpriest.

  “Stand here and wait to be killed?” Ruanek laughed. “That is illogical. You found His Majesty easier prey, didn’t you? An old, sick man who’d earned the right to live out his last few days in quiet. Damn you to the eternal ice of Remus!”

  The archpriest launched himself at Ruanek, who leapt aside once more. As N’Gathan rushed him once again, Ruanek flashed a sharp grin at Spock.

  He twisted round, caught the archpriest, and shoved. Taken off-guard, unable to either recover his footing or stop, N’Gathan hurtled off the cliffside and into the firefalls.

  Flawless logic, Spock thought. Not to mention superb timing.

  Ruanek had known his old reverence for N’Gathan’s office and the Hallows themselves might keep him from slitting the archpriest’s throat. So he had had turned N’Gathan’s weaknesses—and momentum—against him.

  But it had cost him his Honor Blade.

  Ruanek sank to his knees, gasping in the hot, smoky air. “My Emperor is avenged,” he said. He put his head down and drew deep breaths, struggling not to cough.

  After a moment, he raised his head and looked down at his empty hand. “I guess my Honor Blade’s gone home. It really wasn’t much use on Vulcan. Still, I had wanted it for my eldest.” He sighed and met Spock’s eyes. “Now, I’ll have to do what you do: wear my honor from within. At least it’s whole again.”

  It always was, Spock thought.

  Rising to his feet, Ruanek reached for the crystals he kept within his tunic and tossed the entire pouch into the firefalls after the archpriest. Then he followed Spock back into the Hallows.

  Amarik had started to look for them. “Ambassador?” he asked. “I’m getting a message. Someone wants to talk to you. A senator…It’s Senator Cretak! Damn, she’s got good people on her staff if they could track me this fast.”

  Spock tapped the Federation-style combadge he had built into his medallion. “Patch me through, please. Senator? What may I do for you?”

  “This is truly Spock of Vulcan?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then you have done enough already. I received your transmission and will—no doubt as you intended all along—put the confession of the archpriest—”

  “The late archpriest,” Spock cut in smoothly.

  “Excellent! I shall put it to its proper use. I believe the senate will be very interested. Some minds may be changed as mine has been. Or opened.”

  “Ambassador!” Amarik cried. “Got a message coming through. Heavy encryption…hmmm, that’s one complex algorithm. It’s about Senator Vreenak. His ship blew up! They think it’s the Dominion!”

  “Did I hear that correctly?”

  “My assistant has received intelligence that Senator Vreenak died in an explosion. I should caution you, Senator, that it is not substantiated.”

  “Thank you for the warning. If Vreenak’s assassination can be confirmed independently,” Cretak’s voice went thoughtful, “neutrality is a luxury we can no longer afford, and so I will say in the senate. Vulcan you may be, Ambassador, but you have done the Empire good service today.”

  “I come to serve,” Spock said.

  “So I will do you a service in return. I suspect where you are, but I do not want to know for certain. Moreover, it would be a poor reward for your service if I allowed anyone else to find you. Take my advice and quickly remove yourself.”

  Spock ended the transmission. “I suggest we follow Senator Cretak’s sound advice.” Around him, his companions prepared to leave.

  Ruanek shook his head. “I have to stay,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet Senator Varyet. She’s a cousin of M’ret’s. The relationship’s distant, but blood’s still thicker than water.”

  Spock felt his face change. Ruanek moved closer to him and spoke quickly, urgently. “Don’t worry, Spock. We’ve already got her vote, and she can exert leverage on three other senators. Here’s the plan: I follow Varyet home, pretending she’s my patron, and she gets me onto one of her House’s ships. I’ll have to work my passage but—” he drew a deep breath “—it’s better than stasis.”

  “If the Empire revokes its nonagression pact, no ship will be safe,” Spock cautioned. “You may yet get your chance to fight Jem’Hadar.”

  Ruanek raised an eyebrow. “I estimate a 28.99% chance of making it to Vulcan. See, I actually learned something in thirty years on Vulcan!”

  The odds were low. Still, Ruanek had always been a gambler. He started to head upslope toward the temple, then turned back.

  “You know,” he said to Spock, “low as the odds are, I suspect they could be stretched to accommodate us both. Why not come back home with me?” he asked. “Vulcan needs you. Saavik needs you.”

  Spock shut his eyes. “I will not leave here until the war is over and my work is done.”

  “Shall I tell that to your…to the captain?”

  “Saavik has always known my mind,” Spock said. Which made matters no better…and no easier.

  Ruanek drew himself up. “In that case, live long and prosper, Spock.”

  Spock bowed. Since he had a Vulcan’s emotional control, this moment had to be easier for him than for Ruanek, he told himself.

  When he looked up, Ruanek had vanished into the temple on the first step of his long voyage back to Vulcan. He would spend his strength, and possibly his life, safeguarding the world he had adopted.

  Meanwhile Spock would remain on Romulus, working toward the day when Romulus and Vulcan, the worlds so long kept sundered, could be unified once more.

  “Peace and long life,” Spock whispered. It was illogical to think that the firefalls thundered as if they heard that blessing for the first time. He trusted it was not illogical to hope they would hear it again.

  Mirror Eyes

  Heather Jarman & Jeffrey Lang

  War correspondence: This story takes place in the three-month gap between “Tears of the Prophets,” the final episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine’s sixth season, and “Image in the Sand,” the first episode of DS9’s seventh season.

  Heather Jarman & Jeffrey Lang

  Jeffrey Lang seems to enjoy having the word “and” next to his name. In addition to “anding” with Heather Jarman on this tale, he has enjoyed anding with J. G. Hertzler on the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Left Hand of Destiny duology and David Weddle on DS9 novel Section 31: Abyss. He does occasionally write stuff all by himself (including Star Trek: The Next Generation: Immortal Coil and stories in the DS9 anthologies The Lives of Dax and Prophecy and Change), but it always makes him a little jittery and he has to lie down afterwards with a cool washcloth on his forehead.

  On the flip side, Heather usually works alone, as she did on the DS9 novel This Gray Spirit, the Star Trek: S.C.E. eBook Balance of Nature, her short story contribution to Prophecy and Change, and Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Andor. After years slogging through the wilds solo, she realized she was tired of having no one to play with so she signed up to work with Jeff on this project. A great partnership—in the spirit of Spock & Kirk, Frodo & Sam, and Bonnie & Clyde—was born.

  Jeff and Heather are hard at work on a new project ’cause they had so much fun with this one. Jeff swears up and down that he’s going to whip that original novel into shape someday soon, too. For her part, Heather has actually finished her outline for her original novel and plans to have it completed by Winter 2004. We’ll see—Heather’s quite the optimist. Jeff lives in Haverford, Pennsylvania; Heather in Portland, Oregon.

  Entry #1037

  I’ve decided I’m going to steal a runabout. The term I spent mastering the basic fundamentals of larceny—all part of my comprehensive training—might actually prove valuable for once. No one—not even Odo—will suspect my plan but even if they did, I’d still have to chance it. If I stay here any longer, I will be driven utterly and completely mad.

  So current circumstances have driven me to consider petty thievery, an appropriately ignominious climax to my lackluster career. Not a patriot’s death. Not a death dealt by my Dominion foe during combat. No, I’m sneaking out of here, hoping that in all the confusion of refueling and repairing ships, the launch of one insignificant spacecraft won’t be noticed. There’s nothing like a war when you need a diversion.

  Pragmatically speaking, running away is my only option if I want to make it out of here in something other than a coffin. They don’t tell you that part when you sign up—that if you don’t like your job the only way out is death. No, they feed you a steady diet of propaganda and lies. “Serving the mother planet is the highest of all purposes in life.” And my personal favorite, “Of the thousands of volunteers who have offered to fill this post, we have selected you to receive this honor.”

  I didn’t volunteer for this position. They might have made me think I volunteered, but there’s no chance I would have taken this job if I’d been in my right mind. Which raises another question: have I been in my right mind anytime since I started the training? The drugs can have unusual side effects and I’ve been faithful with my medication regimen. It’s only logical (did I just use the word “logical”? my roommate must be wearing off on me) that a drug used to stabilize the secondary identity can prompt odd neuro-reactions. One man I knew lost his sense of taste for the first six months he took his dose—swore up and down that everything tasted like rancid warp lubricant. That could be my problem with this assignment too—the drugs, that is. They could be the real problem and I’m somehow missing the big picture.

  Or maybe not. Maybe this place is as awful as I think it is.

  Deep Space 9 was supposed to be a plum assignment, the job everyone wanted, the most important outpost in the quadrant. And I might have been able to offer worthwhile information to my superiors—these people have absolutely no conception of security—but as soon as I established myself as a dependable, boring, quiet little wallflower that can flit about unobtrusively, the Empire forms an alliance with the Federation and the thrice-bedamned Klingons! Who needs deep-cover operatives when the major power players have become chummy? And worst of all, everyone in the damned quadrant knows about anything that ever happens around here. Jem’Hadar raids! Lost Orbs found! Time travel! Dimensional rifts! Mirror universes! It’s a paradox: despite all the insane things that happen here, nothing that only a self-respecting operative could discover happens here. I’m at my wit’s end! What do I do on a normal day in the infirmary? I’m a nurse! Would anyone in command actually care how many inebriated customers from Quark’s bar suffered from severe gastric distress and consequently expelled digestive contents all over the Promenade floor? That’s a fact worth building a battle strategy around. Meanwhile, if one of our generals needs to know when a supply convoy is going to pass through a specific region of space, they simply ask. The lowest-ranking ensign on DS9 can answer their question. What do they need me for?

  And then there’s the annoying aspects of day-to-day living. For example: I hate the way this place smells. Maybe I should be used to it by now, but I’m not and I don’t think I ever will be. The whole station stinks of atomized silicon or whatever it was the Cardassians used to keep the mining machinery lubricated. After all this time, you’d think the smell would be gone or that someone else would complain, but they don’t or maybe it’s just that my senses are more acute than the Terrans’ or the Bajorans’. Still, you would think the “other” Vulcans would have commented on it, even to each other. Or maybe they’re too polite. I don’t mention it because I’m afraid someone might see my sensitivity as odd and start asking the kind of probing questions that would earn me a one-way ticket to headquarters—especially from the overeager Bashir. The most inane factoid sets the man off on a rabid quest. I can only imagine how he’d respond to my “smell” issues:

  Me (innocently): “Has anyone else ever said anything about the strange smell that permeates every corner of Deep Space 9? You know the stench?”

  Dr. Bashir (concerned): “Hm. That’s a potentially troubling symptom. We absolutely should run a complete neurological and genetic scan on you, Seret. Who knows what could be wrong with you? Maybe you’ve contracted a horrible, debilitating disease and we have a limited time to save you.”

  Me: “Oh, no. That’s fine. Don’t worry. Really.”

  Dr. Bashir: “No, I must do this.” (Applies neuro-sensors to my scalp, runs scan.) “Say, this is interesting: You’re a Romulan.”

  That would be bad.

  Or maybe not. Under those circumstances, Bashir might have me deported. Could be less complicated than trying to steal a runabout.

  Entry #1038

  A double shift prevented me from studying the station’s docking logs. Damn. Must do tomorrow.

  As I’ve mentioned in at least six hundred of my over one thousand entries, if the Tal Shiar ever found out I was keeping this journal, I would probably meet a very mysterious and undoubtedly terminal fate. Well, fine. If it meant I could get away from here, death would come as a profound relief. If I have to eat one more of Quark’s “vegetarian” casseroles, I may be forced to bake him into one of his own “flaky crusts.” Tonight, when Stok is at the gym, I’m going to order a steak from the replicator in my room. A rare steak. A raw steak and I’m going to eat it with my fingers.

  Entry #1039

  I’m feeling much better today. The protein infusion obviously helped. Or it helped psychologically.