Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [87]
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