CHAPTER 21

Picard looked around the observation lounge table. With three of his officers at risk in Romulan space, the table appeared strangely undermanned.

Only Worf, Beverly Crusher, and Counselor Troi looked back at him from their customary places—and even they seemed somewhat diminished by their concern for their colleagues. Admiral McCoy had been alerted that this meeting would be taking place, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The captain frowned. Protocol or no protocol, he would give the admiral another minute and no longer. After all—

Abruptly, the door to the room slid aside and revealed McCoy, who seemed more frail than at any time since his arrival on the Enterprise. The admiral’s eyes flitted from one of them to the next, almost timidly, as if he were steeling himself for some terrific ordeal.

But no one chastised him. In fact, they could barely look at him. Making his way inside, McCoy quietly took the chair normally reserved for Commander Riker—on Picard’s right, halfway along the table’s length.

“Sorry I’m late,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I had some…” He drummed his fingertips on the table’s surface. “. .. some thinking to do.”

Choosing not to address that issue in public, the captain opted instead for the matter at hand. “We have received a subspace message from Commander Riker,” he said.

“He’s all right?” Troi responded.

“Apparently so,” the captain told her. “Geordi and Data as well. And they’ve found Captain Scott.”

“Alive?” asked Worf.

“Alive,” Picard confirmed.

“That’s wonderful,” murmured the admiral.

Doctor Crusher looked relieved as well. “Then Will was just reporting that they’re on their way back?”

The captain shook his head. “On the contrary. They are taking the Yorktown deeper into Romulan territory.”

“But why?” blurted Admiral McCoy.

Abruptly, he realized that all eyes were upon him. Sitting up straight in his chair, he cleared his throat and spoke in a more measured tone.

“They got what they came for,” he explained. “What are they up to now?”

Picard sympathized with McCoy’s confusion. “It seems Governor Tharrus is not the only one aware of Spock’s presence on Constanthus. Proconsul Eragian has learned of it as well—or so Captain Scott appears to believe.”

“Then that’s why Will and the others have agreed to head for Constanthus,” Troi observed. “They’re going to attempt to free Ambassador Spock.”

“That’s correct,” Picard confirmed.

Worf’s nostrils flared. “Their orders were to rescue Captain Scott.”

“So they were,” the captain agreed. “They have chosen to diverge from them, based on new information.”

“But they don’t know that Tharrus knows,” Dr. Crusher commented. “He’ll be guarding Spock a lot more closely now.”

“Also true,” Picard noted. “Which means our friends are reaching into a bigger hornet’s nest than they’re prepared for.”

“So what do we do?” asked the counselor. The captain recognized it as a rhetorical question, designed to open debate.

“I’ll tell you what we don’t do,” said McCoy. “We don’t go traipsing after them. That’s the kind of shoot-from-the-hip behavior that got us into trouble before.”

Picard turned to him, noting how the man’s timidity had suddenly vanished. “Then you think we should rely on their resourcefulness? Count on their succeeding without our help?”

The admiral’s lips pressed together. “I don’t like the idea,” he admitted. “My natural inclination is to light out after them and damn the photon torpedoes. But the way things are panning out, maybe we’re better off practicing some … hell, some restraint.”

“Restraint,” Picard echoed.

“Damned right,” McCoy told him. “If we go charging in after Scotty and the others, we’ll be risking even more lives. As for Spock …” He sighed. “Spock will find a way to avoid being used as a political pawn no matter what— even if it means his death.”

“I respectfully disagree,” insisted Worf.

He leaned forward, the muscles working in his jaw. His eyes were fixed intently on the captain’s.

“They are our comrades, sir. We cannot allow them to attempt the ambassador’s rescue on their own.”

Picard looked to Troi. She acknowledged his scrutiny, but said nothing. No help there, the captain mused. The doctor was silent as well. This was a matter of strategy, not medicine.

Picard bit his lip. It was up to him. As it always was, when one came right down to it. In the end, the captain’s decision was the only one that really counted.

“Admiral McCoy makes a valid point,” Picard remarked at last. He could see the disappointment in Worf’s eyes. “As it stands now, there are only four lives at stake—five, if we include that of Ambassador Spock.”

“But, sir—” the Klingon began.

The captain silenced him with a gesture. “Let me finish, Mister Worf. As I was saying, risking a thousand lives to save a mere handful is not only bad arithmetic, it’s bad command philosophy.”

Doctor Crusher swallowed. No doubt, she believed Picard’s words were the seal on her friends’ deaths. That is, until he added one more, very significant word to his utterance…

“Usually.”

Worf looked at him. “Usually, sir?”

The captain nodded. “Under normal circumstances, I might be inclined to sit tight and wait for Commander Riker to find his way home. Preferably, with Ambassador Spock in tow.

“However,” he said, “these circumstances are anything but normal. With Spock’s identity exposed, negotiation is no longer an option. Nor is Ambassador Spock the only one capable of being used as a pawn by the Romulans. So now, are three Starfleet officers—four, if you include Captain Scott—and that aspect of the situation is not to be taken lightly.”

Counselor Troi nodded approvingly. But then, she alone had had an inkling of how Picard would stand on this all along.

“What’s more,” the captain added, “our long-range sensor reports indicate that patrols are remarkably light in Constanthus’s sector—as they seem to be in many portions of the Empire these days. And unlike Commander Riker, we know what to expect vis-a-vis the acceleration of events there. Hence, we have an excellent chance of getting through.”

McCoy slumped back into his chair. His expression was one of surprise. No, Picard thought—of outright disbelief.

“You’re going after them?” he rasped.

“I am indeed,” the captain informed him. “There is a time for patience and a time for action. This is a time for action.” Turning to Worf, he said, “Make sure the battle bridge is in working order, Lieutenant.”

The Klingon suppressed a smile as he rose to carry out his orders. “Aye, sir.” The doors slid aside as he approached them.

Picard glanced at Troi. “Prepare the crew for saucer separation, Counselor. We will be taking leave of our civilian population in twenty minutes.”

Troi nodded. “Right away, Captain.” She, too, got up and started from the room.

Next the captain looked at Doctor Crusher. “You’ll be in command of the saucer, Beverly. I want you to wait here until we get back. That is, of course, unless the saucer is endangered. At the merest hint of a military encounter, I want you to retreat.”

The doctor frowned at the prospect, but she knew her duty. If anyone was good at making the tough decisions, she was.

“Aye, sir,” she assured him.

A moment later she was gone as well. That left Picard alone with the admiral, who was still staring at him incredulously.

“Well,” said McCoy, his voice little more than a whisper. “I guess you’ve got something in common with that friend of mine after all.”

Picard grunted, apparently cognizant of the reference. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Admiral.”

McCoy shook his head. “Just when you think you know someone …” he murmured.

“They surprise you?” the captain finished for him.

The older man nodded. “They do at that.”

Picard allowed himself a smile. “Tell me, Admiral, will you be staying on the saucer section?”

McCoy’s expression was still full of surprise, but he harrumphed softly. “Not on your life. Spock would never let me hear the end of it.”

As Tharrus emerged from the blockish command center, surrounded by a full dozen of his guards, he glanced at the sky. It was a particularly bloody looking shade of green, thickening to blue at the horizon.

It wouldn’t rain after all, he noted with some satisfaction—or at least not until the following day. That was good. Rain would have spoiled the spectacle he had planned.

Taking in the courtyard, he glanced at the stone wall that ringed it—and especially at the gate that sat in the center of it like some big, ornately shelled amphibian. Beyond the gate there were plenty of witnesses—a sampling of Constantharines from every walk of life. His men had seen to that.

Still, they were only a minute portion of the audience that would witness the day’s events. Tharrus had gone to the trouble of setting up his cameras at intervals along the wall—cameras that would broadcast over subspace channels to points as far away as Romulus.

But then, what was the point of a spectacle if there was no one to see it? Or to learn from it the determination and efficiency of Constanthus’s great Governor Tharrus—and the futility of opposing such a Romulan?

Of course, Tharrus reflected, he’d had a wide variety of choices in terms of how to proceed. There were several methods of execution the Romulans had embraced over the years.

A favorite was the poisoned cup, which generally carried some measure of dignity with it. This was the option granted to those who’d chosen the wrong side m an attempted coup d’etat, or military officers who had disgraced themselves. Even in the matter of dying, rank had its privileges.

On occasion, however, even the poisoned cup offered little in the way of dignity. The right blend of toxins could cause a man to spit out the bulk of his stomach lining over the course of several days before he finally and mercifully expired. That fate, however, was reserved for outright traitors to the imperial cause. It was one of the reasons Romulans were so very slow to consider treason.

More expedient was the simple disruptor ray. It was quick, it was clean, and it left nothing to clean up. It was far from painless, but there were few things in life that didn’t have their little drawbacks.

Hanging was a method that hadn’t been used very much in the last hundred years. Even the sternest of administrators shunned it—not for its barbarism, but for the fact that so many primitive peoples embraced it. Romulans did not like to be compared to savages.

However, thought Tharrus, as he came to stand in the shadow of the gallows his men had constructed, he would run the risk of being called a savage if it got him what he wanted. After all, hanging had the advantage of being most humiliating to the one being hanged—and a Romulan was more likely to fear humiliation than even the greatest agony.

In short, this was part of his plan. To humiliate Spock and the other prisoners, to terrify them slowly and thoroughly, until one of them finally lost his composure and gave up the Vulcan.

What’s more, he was absolutely certain it would work. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have invited the entire Empire to bear witness.

Looking off across the courtyard, Tharrus signaled to one of the sentinels on the wall. Nodding to show his understanding, the man pressed a control padd, causing the gates to open wide.

A moment later, the crowds milled in. But they didn’t show much enthusiasm after what some of them had heard at the trial.

That would change, the governor thought. Otherwise, they would soon find themselves on trial.

Tharrus shook his head from side to side. Romulan character was not what it used to be. When he had risen higher in the ranks of the Empire, he would make it his business to work on that.

But for now, he had more immediate business to attend to. Turning toward the prisoners’ quarters, the governor caught the eye of one of its several guards. As before, he gestured. As before, there was a response, and the unificationists were directed into the courtyard.

This time, however, each of them had his or her hands manacled together. A necessity for hanging, he thought.

As the prisoners approached the gallows, Tharrus scrutinized their wan and hollow-cheeked faces. After all, he had cut down on their rations since the escape attempt.

In particular, he watched their eyes. Long ago, as a child, he had realized that what the rest of a man concealed, the eyes often gave away.

One by one, the unificationists sized up the instrument of their doom, squinting in the sunlight to get a better look at it. Nor could they doubt his intentions after seeing their comrades killed during the escape attempt.

No doubt they were wondering what it would be like to feel the noose tighten around their necks. To hear the order given—and to have the trapdoor swing away leaving them to twitch and die at the ends of their ropes.

Tharrus smiled to himself. Their mouths would be turning drier than dust right about now. Their stomachs would be clenching with fear. And somewhere in the darkest recesses of their tortured minds, they had to be considering what their lives were worth.

And what was preventing them from saving them selves? Nothing but a misguided devotion to an obsessive Vulcan—a relic of another era, an empty symbol of an idea whose time never was and never would be.

The only thing that kept them from salvation was themselves. Surely, they were beginning to see that, if they hadn’t already. If they were Romulans like other Romulans, they were beginning to consider an alternative.

Would it be so terrible to turn Spock in? Would it be so bad to give him up to the governor—not only for one’s own sake, but for the sake of all those who couldn’t work up the courage to do so? In the end, couldn’t one be considered a hero for saving the lives of so many of his comrades?

Who was this Spock, anyway? Was he so important that others should perish on his behalf? And if such foolishness wouldn’t save him—wouldn’t preserve his ability to spread his gospel—what was the point of it?

Tharrus’s smile deepened. He could see these things in the prisoners’ eyes. Fear. Anguish. Resentment. Doubt. Emotions they hadn’t shown before, not even at the trial. The gallows was shaking their resolve, which formerly seemed unshakable.

He had chosen well. Truly, it was only a matter of time.

Out of the corner of the governor’s eye, he saw his handpicked executioners ascend to the platform. Each one took up a position behind a trapdoor and stood with his arms folded across his chest, an imposing figure against the blue-green sky.

Their presence would be further proof of his bloody intentions. It was only a gesture, of course, but a significant one. Any moment now, Tharrus predicted. Any moment, one of the prisoners would fall to his knees and beg for mercy, eager to rid himself of the secret of Spock’s identity.

Still, at least for the moment, none of the scarecrow unificationists complied. Without expression, without complaint, the rebels marched up to the foot of the gallows and awaited further instructions.

Tharrus took a few steps closer to them, eyeing them one by one. They didn’t shrink from his inspection, nor did they welcome it. They simply accepted it, like pack animals. Like beings too dumb to know what was happening to them.

Even the infiltrator showed no emotion—even Skrasis, who had only joined the unificationists to betray them. It seemed he had become just like them.

The governor shook his head. Once again, it seemed, he had underestimated the Vulcan’s power over them.

But he would not be beaten. Not when glory and advancement dangled almost within his reach. And certainly not by these stone-faced pacifists.

Grinding his teeth, Tharrus pointed to the woman closest to him and turned to Phabaris. “Place this one on the platform,” he said.

After all, there were several females among the unificationists, and several men much too young to be Spock. And then there was the spy.

All of these were surplus as far as the governor was concerned. Expendable. He could sacrifice them without running the risk of killing Spock.

“Yes, Governor,” Phabaris replied. With a gesture, he had one of his subordinates pluck the woman out of the line.

As she ascended the stairs, with Tharrus’s guard urging her forward, she cast a look back at the other prisoners. It wasn’t enough to give anyone away, unfortunately. But at least, the governor thought, they were beginning to make some progress.

He pointed to another female, this one older than the first and more frail. “That one as well,” he told Phabaris. He selected a young man next—almost a child, it seemed to him. “And him.”

Before he was done, he had picked out six of the rebels. Four females, two young men. Along with their executioners, they were all the gallows could handle at one time.

The spy, he decided, he would save for the next batch. That is, if he needed a next batch.

Turning to the first woman he had selected, Tharrus saw her take a deep, quavering breath. Come, he urged her with his eyes. Tell me which one is Spock and I’ll spare your life.

But she didn’t say what he wished to hear. Too bad, he mused. Looking to the guard behind her, he nodded.

Slowly the man guided the noose over the prisoner’s head and tightened it around her neck. She winced once when the coarseness of the rope abraded her delicate skin. But other than that, she remained silent.

The crowd murmured, horrified. The governor’s mouth twisted in disgust. A pity, he thought, that the populace showed little more loyalty than the rebels. He resolved again to do something about that when this was all over.

In the meantime, the guard up on the platform had finished his preparations. The woman’s nostrils flared as she stared off into the distance. All that was needed was a word from Tharrus and a lever would be pulled—and the trapdoor would fall, leaving the rope as the prisoner’s only means of support.

The governor raised his hand. Meaningfully, he turned to the other prisoners, but none of them relented. He sighed and let his hand drop.

“No!” came a cry from behind him.

The executioner hesitated, gazing at something behind Tharrus. The governor whirled—and saw that a half-dozen Romulans had beamed down into the courtyard, off to one side of the crowd. They were surrounded by the last telltale sparkles of the Romulan transporter effect.

What’s more, Tharrus recognized one of the intruders—the one whose voice still echoed in the courtyard. It was no less a dignitary than Proconsul Eragian. And beside him was his Tal Shiar watchdog.

Were they mad? wondered the governor. What was the proconsul doing all the way out here—so far from the seat of his power?

Certainly, he hadn’t come all this way just to lord it over a few captured unificationists. That would hardly have made the journey worthwhile—not to mention the risk to his honored person.

Unless, of course, he knew of the prize in their midst. Unless he knew that Tharrus had captured the greatest rebel of all.

The governor cursed under his breath. That was it, wasn’t it? By his ancestors, Eragian knew about Spock.

The proconsul strode forward, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. The Tal Shiar and his guards came after him. When Eragian spoke, his voice was honey-sweet, though it carried just a hint of a threat.

“Greetings, Governor Tharrus.” The proconsul tilted his head to indicate the gallows. “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

With a gesture, Tharrus signaled to his men to turn off the cameras. Then he glared at Eragian. “Let us not play games, Proconsul. What are you doing here?”

Eragian’s expression changed. His eyes took on a steely cast. “Is this not part of the Empire?” he asked. “And am I not proconsul? I go where I please, Governor. And right now, it pleases me to be here.”

“For what purpose?” asked the governor.

The proconsul smiled and indicated the rebels with a sweep of his arm. “For the purpose of taking these unificationists into custody.”

“They are already in custody,” Tharrus reminded him. “Mine.”

Eragian shrugged. “A jurisdictional technicality. I’ll see to it that it’s taken care of after I return to the homeworld.”

“It’s more than a jurisdictional technicality,” the governor insisted. “I am the authority on this world. I have a right to these prisoners.”

The proconsul’s smile faded away, leaving a lean and determined visage in its place. It must have been clear to him then that Tharrus knew what kind of prize he held in his hands—and that he was not eager to let it go.

So they both knew the truth. And each of them knew the other one knew. The lines were drawn, it seemed.

“You are the authority here because the homeworld made you so. Do not forget that, Governor Tharrus.”

“I haven’t forgotten a thing,” said the governor. “Not who appointed me, certainly. And if memory serves, it was one of your rivals.”

“Who no longer enjoys a voice on the Senate floor,” Eragian countered. “I don’t think you should count on any assistance from him anymore.”

Back and forth—not unlike a Senate debate, thought Tharrus. Except in a debate, there were only occasionally true winners and losers. Usually, the matter ended in some kind of compromise.

And here? This day, in this courtyard, would there be such a compromise? He eyed the proconsul. Not likely, he told himself.

The governor frowned. It seemed he had a decision to make.

He could yield to the proconsul’s authority and avoid further confrontation. Or he could refuse and leave himself open to all manner of punishment, including a prolonged and uncomfortable death.

Everything hinged on the chance that he could identify Spock and turn him over to the Senate. If he could do that, Eragian would be powerless to carry out his retribution. But if he failed …

Tharrus set his teeth. He would never have a chance like this one again. And besides, he would rather die than let Eragian have Spock on a platter.

“Phabaris,” he cried out, still intent on Eragian.

The proconsul’s smile was restored. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” he commented. “You will not regret it.”

“Yes, Governor?” replied Phabaris, from his place by the remaining rebels.

“Take Proconsul Eragian and his escort into protective custody,” Tharrus bellowed, his voice ringing from wall to wall. “I’d hate to see them get hurt as we carry out the executions.”

Eragian’s eyes opened wide. “You wouldn’t dare,” he snapped.

“Wouldn’t I?” asked the governor. “You heard me, Phabaris. The proconsul and his men need not be exposed to the unpredictability of the crowd.”

“Yes, Governor,” came the reply.

At a sign from Phabaris, every guard in the courtyard drew his weapon and trained it on the proconsul’s group. Many of them actually closed in on the intruders, cutting down on the chances of their missing.

But Eragian’s men were trained to give their lives for their proconsul. They drew their disruptor pistols at the same time. The Tal Shiar made a point of training his weapon on Tharrus.

Not an unexpected development, the governor mused. But despite their response, the proconsul’s escort wouldn’t fire on him. Not when any melee at all was likely to end in Eragian’s demise.

Of course, the proconsul’s vessel could intervene. Its crew could begin transporting Tharrus’s men into its prison facilities, a few at a time. Or it could simply retrieve Eragian and his escort.

But the proconsul would have to give the order first. And the governor’s guards would make sure to prevent that.

“Well,” said Tharrus appraisingly, “it seems we have a difference of opinion here.” He looked at Eragian meaningfully. “If I were you, I’d drop my weapon and surrender myself. But then, you may prefer to die in a bath of disruptor energy instead. It’s up to you, Proconsul.”

Eragian’s mouth twisted. He hesitated, obviously reluctant to give up without a fight. But what choice did he have?

None, the governor decided.