Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [20]
He waited. Few of the traitors were meeting his eyes. Instead, they wore a blank expression—one reminiscent of the pitiful Vulcans.
Many in the highest levels of the Empire believed there was something to gain by conquering the Vulcans, by taking their world and subjugating them. Tharrus did not share this view. To him, those who believed that foolishness were little better than these traitorous unificationists.
The Vulcans had lost the very essence of the two races’ joint heritage, a glorious one that celebrated the achievements of those bold enough to take what they wanted. The Romulans, on the other hand, had forged an empire from their own courage. They’d been right to leave their weakling brothers behind, shedding them like old skin.
For the same reason, the subjugation of Vulcan would be wrong now—as it would surely dilute the Romulan ethic through constant contact with a passive, even timid culture.
The governor noted that one of the traitors, a middle-aged specimen, was watching him closely—almost studying him. The individual did not even have the true Romulan’s heavy brow. Though many highly placed and honored Romulans had the smooth brows of their Vulcan ancestors, Tharrus had always seen that feature as a sign of weakness.
And yet, this pathetic, traitorous weakling had the gall to stare at one who ruled a world for the Romulan Empire.
Moving forward, fired by his frustration with the prisoners’ reactions, Tharrus approached the smooth-brow. Phabaris and one of his personal guards followed him, staying close—as was their duty. The other prisoners parted before the governor, but the middle-aged one stood his ground.
He seemed impassive. Almost disinterested, Tharrus observed.
When he reached the traitor, the man maintained his infuriatingly calm expression. His only gesture was to raise an eyebrow, as if appraising the governor. As if sizing him up, as one might do to an adversary of equal standing.
Tharrus could feel the blood rush to his face. He was tempted to order the traitor’s death on the spot. Resisting the impulse, he reminded himself that the prisoner would die soon enough. For now, the governor would have to content himself with pointing out the pitfalls of such behavior.
He addressed the smooth-brow. “What is your name, traitor?”
“I am called Selek,” the Romulan replied evenly.
“Do you wish to confess your crimes, Selek?”
The prisoner shook his head. “No, I do not.”
Tharrus struggled to keep his anger from overflowing. He would not be provoked by this arrogant weakling.
“Confession will assure you a quick and painless death,” the governor reminded him. Then, making no effort to hide his contempt, he added, “Surely, as a student of the Vulcans, you can see the sense in avoiding unnecessary discomfort. You might even inspire some of your friends here to do the same. Such behavior would spare them a very unpleasant future.”
But the prisoner didn’t take the bait. “I see no logic,” he answered, “in confessing to crimes I have not committed. Like everyone here, I only seek knowledge.”
Sneering, Tharrus used the voice that had made hardened soldiers cringe before him. “You dare claim your treason is no more than a quest for knowledge? You would consort with our enemies and destroy the purity of the Romulan way of life by polluting it with weakling philosophies. You are the worst kind of criminal.”
The prisoner spoke as if they were having a polite conversation at the Praetor’s dinner table. “The Empire cannot rule by crushing all opposing philosophies and ideas. AH living things must grow and change. If the Empire insists—”
The governor lashed out with the back of his hand, which made a most satisfying contact with the prisoner’s face.
As the smooth-brow’s head turned from the force of the blow, Tharrus heard the hiss of his guards drawing their weapons. He motioned for them to hold their fire and waited to see the