The Three-Minute Universe

by Barbara Paul

  "My name is Sotek," his captor admonished mildly. Khoteth drew back the hood of his cloak, scattering rust-colored sand onto the stone floor. Such a young one—too young for a High Master, Zakal thought disapprovingly—but the responsibility had prematurely etched the first lines of age between his brows. Khoteth's severe expression had eased into one of calculated neutrality, but Zakal could see the emotion that smoldered in his eyes, the one sign of the highly passionate nature Khoteth had been born with. As a child, he had been a true prodigy at the secret arts, devouring everything Zakal dared teach him, always hungering for more. In spite of his own appetite for power, Zakal had early on glimpsed the unpleasant truth of the matter. This child would grow into a man who would surpass his teacher, the greatest of all teachers. If you cannot defeat your enemy, then bring him into your camp. Zakal designated the lad as his successor, for one day Khoteth's abilities would lead him to much more than rulership of a single city. One day, he would be master of all the western towns, perhaps someday even master of the entire continent. And Zakal, the wise teacher and advisor, would have to be content to ally himself with such power if he could not be the source of it himself.

  Even with his powerful imagination, Zakal had never thought his protege's incredible talent could be thwarted, wasted, perverted by the simple-minded philosophy of a coward.

  "Sotek," Zakal hissed, and raised his head just enough to spit on the floor in Khoteth's direction. The young master did not flinch at the ominously bright green spittle at his boots, but a flicker of dark emotion shone in his eyes. Zakal's thin lips curved upward with irony. So Khoteth was at last afraid of his teacher again … as he had been years ago, when he had first confined Zakal here. Only this time it was not mental sorcery that made Khoteth cringe. Lunglock fever made cowards of them all.

  Zakal found his breath for an instant. "What kind of name is that for a Vulcan? And what are your followers called now? Sarak? Serak? Sirak? Sorak? And how many Suraks altogether, please? Tell me, how long do you think this can last until you run out of names for your children?" He emitted a wheezing cackle that deteriorated into a coughing spell.

  He was far too weak to sit up and so lay, hands pressed tight against his aching ribs, and choked helplessly on the vile fluid seeping up from his lungs. Khoteth watched dispassionately, hands still hidden beneath the folds of his cloak, which would be burned, Zakal knew, as soon as Khoteth left the mountain stronghold.

  "How can you bear to see your old teacher like this," Zakal managed to gasp at length, "knowing that they do not permit me to ease my pain?"

  "I regret that your pain is a necessary consequence." Khoteth came no closer. "But to permit you access to any of the mind rules would be very foolish."

  "Foolish!" Zakal croaked. "Where is your compassion?"

  Khoteth's eyes were intense, though his tone remained cool. "I operate according to the principles of logic, not compassion." He struggled to keep a wry smile from curving his lips, and was not entirely successful. "And I know you, Master. You merit no compassion. I have seen you kill without mercy or guilt. Given the chance, you would murder me here and now without a second's hesitation."

  The piteous expression on Zakal's face shifted into a harder one. "I would. And that is also why you are here, to kill."

  Puzzled, Khoteth raised an eyebrow at him.

  "Perhaps," said Zakal, "not to kill my body … but my spirit. You have come to deny me the second life."

  "You misunderstand, Master." The folds of Khoteth's cloak parted, and with both hands he drew forth a shimmering globe. "I have come to keep the promise I made so long ago."

  Zakal's dimming eyes widened at the sight of the vrekatra, the receptacle in which his eternal spirit would rest for all eternity. "But Nortakh—" he began, until the heaviness in his chest left him gasping again. Nortakh, one of Zakal's initiates with no particular talent for mental sorcery, had been Khoteth's sworn rival ever since the new High Master chose to follow Surak's teachings. Zakal had been taken prisoner and hidden in the desert so that Nortakh and his followers could have no more access to the secret knowledge. Indeed, Zakal had expected the new High Master to deny him the vrekatra—for to do so was the only way to ensure the secrets would be forever lost, safe from Surak's enemies.

  "Nortakh grows more powerful each day." Khoteth brought the glowing orb a step closer to the dying Vulcan. "I will confess that at first I considered setting your katra upon the winds … but I am bound to keep my vow to you. And … I need all of your knowledge, Master, if I am to defeat him."

  Zakal found the strength to taunt him. "I thought the followers of Surak took no action against their enemies. Aren't you supposed to deal peace with Nortakh?"

  A slight grimace rippled over Khoteth's serious features. "I will do no physical harm to Nortakh or any of his Kolinahru, but that does not preclude my taking certain … precautions. Nortakh must be rendered harmless if Vulcan is ever to be at peace."

  Zakal coughed into his handcloth again and idly watched the stain spread through the fabric. "Surak's utopia of peace is a childish fantasy, a refusal to face reality. All creatures must prey on others, and compete among themselves; this is the way of survival, the way of all life. Surak would have us deny what we are." A spasm of pain clutched his chest, making him wheeze. His distress was so desperate, so unfeigned, that Khoteth forgot his composure and, alarmed, moved toward his old teacher, but Zakal waved him back with the bloody cloth. After a moment, he managed to speak.

  "Surak will not succeed. His followers will come to their senses, just as S'task did. And S'task was his closest disciple …"

  "S'task and his followers are leaving Vulcan," Khoteth said quietly, his eyes searching the old master's face for a reaction, "so that Surak may be successful. Even S'task acknowledges the folly of more strife, more wars."

  "Leaving Vulcan!" Zakal cried, enraged at the cowardice of S'task and his followers, humiliated that such common knowledge could be kept from him by the three initiated idiots in the next room. The outburst caused another spasm of pain, a hot, heavy fire that shot up from his solar plexus to the back of his throat.

  "Twelve thousand are preparing for the journey on the first ship. It is expected that more will follow."

  For an instant, Zakal forgot his anger in the face of supreme agony. The achingly heavy fluid in his lungs seemed turned to acid, burning him, eating at him … Without the mind rules, he managed for a short time to transcend the pain with sheer hatred. "So …" he gasped. "The planet is in the hands of sheep … while true Vulcans surrender their birthright. I swear to you—before the Elements—were I free, I would convince S'task to stay and fight. I would kill Surak myself—"

  "I know that, Master. That is why I have taken care that your katra does not fall into the wrong hands." Khoteth held out the globe. "It is time."

  "No!" Zakal tried to shriek. "I will not be used to help Surak!" But the words came out an indistinct gurgling noise.

  Even so, Khoteth understood. "Master," he said sadly, "would you see all of your knowledge scattered on the winds? This"—he nodded at the shining vrekatra—"this is your destiny."

  Bitterness filled Zakal's mouth and he began to choke furiously, spraying blood in all direction. In the midst of his desperate fight for air, a ridiculous thought struck him: I am drowning. I am drowning in the middle of the desert, where there is no water … And in spite of his pain, the irony of it shook him with fevered, silent laughter.

  A gentle force propelled him into a sitting position, so that he was able to suck in air. Khoteth was next to him, holding him up, and he was dimly aware that Khoteth was risking his own life to do so. The vrekatra sat at the foot of the bed.

  "I can force you, Master," the young Vulcan said. "But I will not. If you wish to join the Elements, I will not prevent you. Your knowledge would be most useful to me, but I can find a way to render Nortakh harmless without it."

  And so, Zakal realized, Khoteth had jeopardized his own life not out of a
desire to attain the secret knowledge to defeat his enemies, but out of a sense of duty, to fulfill his promise to his old master. And in the midst of Zakal's swirling, dying thoughts, one single, disgusted refrain stood out with perfect clarity: How did I manage to raise such a fool?

  Eyes closed, Zakal lay against Khoteth's strong arm and used the last moment of his life to consider his options. Attempting a mental takeover of the young master would be foolhardy; the three initiates would prevent it, and even without their help, Khoteth was likely to emerge the victor from such a clash of wills. The choice was simple: utter annihilation … or eternal life on the mental plane. Despite his fury at the idea his secrets would be used to further Surak's aims, Zakal was far too selfish to contemplate nonexistence. Perhaps Khoteth had known it, had counted on it, when making his "noble" offer. Perhaps the boy was not as stupid as he had thought …

  "The vrekatra," Zakal sighed. And as Khoteth pressed cool fingers against the desert-hot skin of his master's temples, Zakal's final thought inside his body was:

  I shall have my revenge on you, Surak, for stealing my pupil, my city, my world from me. I shall have my revenge, if I have to wait for ten thousand seasons …

  Outside, the wind became still.

  SPACEDOCK, TERRA

  Stardate 6987.31

  Jim Kirk sat in the captain's chair on the bridge and watched as Spacedock gradually grew larger, rotating slowly on its axis like some gigantic, burnished metal top. Beyond it, suspended in the void of space, hung a sphere of marbled blue-white: Earth.

  The Enterprise was coming home.

  Impossible not to feel a tug of nostalgia at the sight: It had been no fewer than five years since he last stood on Terra, five years since he last witnessed this very sight—only then, Earth and Spacedock had been receding as the Enterprise moved away toward the unknown reaches of space.

  Good Lord, Jim remarked silently. Knock it off before you get maudlin.

  The past few days, as the ship drew closer to its final destination, he'd been alternating between wistful regret and restlessness—he refused to admit that it was fear—yet there it was, full-blown, irrational, waking him in the night to stare up in the darkness. The feeling that what was most important to him—the captaincy, the Enterprise—was on the verge of slipping through his fingers.

  Not that he would let it.

  Kirk ran a finger under the too-tight collar of his dress uniform and promised himself that as soon as the ship was safely docked, he would head for his quarters and deal directly with the source of the anxiety: a certain Gregor Fortenberry, civilian, Director of Assignments at Starfleet Headquarters, more popularly known as the Detailer.

  Spacedock loomed a bit larger on the main viewscreen. Jim stared at it, feeling the self-conscious, heightened awareness that came with the realization that this was the last time for something. He'd experienced the same emotion—the need to commit every shred of detail to memory, to focus so intently on what was happening that time slowed—his last day at home before leaving for the Academy, and again, his graduation day at the Academy …

  He stopped the thought; the situation did not apply to this ship, this crew. Not the last day … I'll be back in this chair in a year or so, that's all. A year or so, and the Enterprise would be refitted, recommissioned, and, hell or high water, Kirk would be commanding her. He refused to recognize any other possibility.

  "Lieutenant," Kirk said, his gaze still on the screen. "Advise approach control, please."

  "Approach control," Uhura said, seated at the communications console behind the captain's chair. No doubt she had been poised, anticipating this particular order. "This is the U.S.S. Enterprise, ready for docking manuever." Her voice was calm, steady as always, but Kirk perceived a trace of the anticipation that permeated the bridge. Even Spock had quit pretending to be busy at the science station and had swiveled in his seat to stare frankly at their destination.

  The response signal was strong, clean of interstellar static at such close range. "Enterprise," came the young, masculine voice of the controller, "you are cleared to dock at Bay Thirteen." A pause. "Welcome home."

  "Enterprise confirms," Uhura replied, "and thank you. It's good to be back."

  Kirk glanced over his shoulder to see her smiling, and smiled himself. It was good to be back … still, it would have felt better if Jim knew that, while the Enterprise spent the next year or so in Spacedock being refitted, another ship awaited him. While he would never feel quite the same pride and loyalty he felt for this ship, his first command, at least there would be a ship; at least he would be out there, in space.

  "Mister Sulu. Slow to one-quarter impulse power." Kirk sighed. "Take us home."

  "Aye aye, sir. One-quarter impulse power." Sulu's expression was placid, but his dark eyes shone with keen excitement. Like his captain, he wore his formal dress tunic, satin-sheen gold for Command. Sulu appeared to have no regrets about returning home; within a matter of days, he would receive official notification that the promotion Kirk had sponsored him for had been granted, and that he was no longer Lieutenant Sulu, but Lieutenant Commander. It would not be many more years, Kirk reflected, before Sulu captained a ship of his own.

  The Enterprise slowed as it approached Spacedock and assumed a spiral orbit until it reached the huge hangar doors that shielded Bay Thirteen from the radiation of space. As the ship neared, the hangar doors silently parted; the Enterprise glided easily into the massive bay.

  Behind her, the great doors closed. Inside, the bay's interior was vast enough to accommodate dozens of starships, and did—some of them, as the Enterprise would soon be herself, undergoing refits; others, maintenance; still others, new ships, lay in various stages of construction.

  As the Enterprise neared Docking Bay Thirteen, the controller spoke again. "Enterprise, please stand by for final docking procedure."

  "Standing by," Uhura responded.

  "Mister Sulu," Kirk said, resisting the desire to jump up and pace until they were safely into port. He wanted no part of the upcoming festivities, wanted only for the docking to be over, for the chance to pressure Fortenberry into reassuring him that the Victorious would be his to command. "Activate moorings. Stand by with gravitational support systems."

  "Moorings activated, Captain. All systems standing by."

  Seated next to Sulu at the navigational console, Chekov did a double-take at the screen, his round, cherubic face reflecting awe. "Captain, look …" He emitted a low whistle.

  Kirk followed the navigator's gaze to the viewscreen, which showed the blinking lights of Bay Thirteen, and the row of small ports along the bay's upper level. As the ship moved closer, Kirk could just make out the crowds of people pressing against the port, all trying to catch a glimpse of the Enterprise as she arrived home at the end of a successful five-year mission.

  "Some reception," Sulu remarked sotto voce, with a pleased grin.

  Kirk did his best to appear unmoved by the spectacle. "Activate gravitational support systems."

  Sulu forced himself to look away from the screen and down at the helm control panel. "Activating now, sir."

  "There must be a lot of reporters," Chekov mused, to no one in particular.

  "Gravitational support systems locked on, Captain."

  "Disengage engines."

  At the engineering station, which sat directly opposite Spock, Ensign deRoos, a thin, angular human female, gave Kirk a grim look. "Engines disengaged, Captain."

  It seemed to Kirk that the ship sighed as she eased into the bay and then stopped, though someone who knew her less well would not have been able to tell that she was no longer moving.

  "Well," Kirk said. It seemed somehow anticlimactic. "So here we are." He leaned down to press the button for the ship-wide intercom.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. Let me be the first to congratulate you on a safe arrival home." He paused, confused by his own reaction to arriving home: He should have been exhilarated, or at the very least reli
eved, instead of this oddly nagging disappointment. And perhaps he wasn't the only one to experience it. The times he had pictured this moment in his imagination, the crew always cheered. But there were no cheers on the bridge, only smiles, and almost—or was he projecting his own feelings onto those of his crew?—reluctance.

  He continued awkwardly. "Let me also say that I am proud to have served with you, the best damn crew in the Fleet. My commendations to all of you." Another pause. "Tomorrow at 0900, Admiral Morrow will conduct a review. Until then—let the firewatch festivities commence."

  He turned off the intercom and was about to get to his feet when the entire bridge crew—Sulu and Chekov at the helm, Uhura at communications, deRoos at engineering—rose as one, turned to face their captain, and applauded solemnly. All, that is, with the exception of Spock, who nevertheless rose, hands clasped behind his back, his expression grave but managing nevertheless to convey the fact that, although he did not follow the custom, he agreed with the sentiment.

  "Not for me," Kirk said, rising. He raised a hand for silence, uncomfortable with the tribute. Modesty, false or otherwise, had nothing to do with it—but the ovation seemed to him misdirected. The applause thinned. "Not for me. For those who didn't make it back with us."

  The second round of applause was restrained; this time, Kirk joined in.

  Don't miss THE LOST YEARS, coming October 1, 1989 in hardcover from Pocket Books.

  1 Approximately 276 Earth years.

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  Star Trek®: The Original Series

  Enterprise: The First Adventure • Vonda N. McIntyre

  Final Frontier • Diane Carey

  Strangers From the Sky • Margaret Wander Bonanno

  Spock's World • Diane Duane

  The Lost Years • J.M. Dillard

  Probe • Margaret Wander Bonanno

  Prime Directive • Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens