Sand and Stars

by Diane Duane

  The protesters closest to their leader obeyed, but others, farther back in the crowd, continued to hurl abuse.

  “Go back to Vulcan!”

  “Vulcans go home! Vulcans go home!”

  The crowd surged wildly, and then someone threw a clod of dirt. Other refuse followed. Sarek smelled rotting vegetables.

  “Stop!” Induna shouted, and the missiles halted—but the crowd was clearly getting out of control. “Quiet down!” the leader commanded. The noise abated slightly.

  “We have no designs on your world,” Sarek cried, raising his voice to be heard above the demonstrators. “Our species have been allies for decades. We—”

  “Go back to Vulcan, damn you!”

  The angry shriek cut through Sarek’s voice like a knife. The crowd swelled and heaved like a storm-tossed sea. “She’s right! Go home!” screamed another protester. “Devil’s spawn!” yelled yet another.

  “Quiet!” Induna roared. “Let us speak—”

  But the leader’s words were lost as the crowd surged forward. Missiles filled the air. An egg spattered against Soran’s robe. “Filthy aliens!” screamed an old woman.

  The missiles grew harder, more dangerous. A rock struck Sarek on the arm with force enough to bruise. He flinched back, realized that Induna was still yelling for the crowd to quiet down, and knew the KEHL leader had lost all control of the mob—for mob it now was.

  Federation security officers moved in with crowd-control stunners and forcefields. Sarek was shoved, hit hard on the back; he turned and grappled momentarily with his attacker. With a quick thrust, he shoved the woman aside.

  As the mob surged, shrieking and yelling, the Vulcan and Induna were thrust almost into each other’s arms. Sarek struggled to free himself, felt the KEHL leader flail at him, whether out of fear or anger, he couldn’t tell. It no longer mattered. Sarek’s hand came up, searching for the correct location at the juncture of the human’s neck and shoulder. Steely-hard fingers grasped, then squeezed—Induna sagged forward bonelessly.

  But Sarek did not release his grip on the leader’s shoulder. He fell to his knees, half-supporting the big human, his breath catching in his throat. He, like most Vulcans, was a touch-telepath, and the moment his fingers closed on Induna’s flesh, Sarek had received flashes of the human’s mental state—

  —flashes that literally staggered him.

  Induna was not acting entirely of his own volition, Sarek realized, stunned by his discovery. The KEHL leader was under the influence of a trained telepathic presence. Using expert mental techniques, the unknown telepath had inflamed this man’s tiny core of xenophobia into a raging firestorm of hatred and bigotry.

  On his own, Induna would never have been more than mildly distrustful of Vulcans and other extraterrestrials. Someone had exploited his incipient xenophobia, someone expert enough to enter his thoughts and influence them so gradually, so patiently, that the subject came to believe that everything in his mind had originated there.

  Someone had molded and influenced and delicately reshaped this human’s innermost desires and fears into all-out species bigotry—

  —and that someone was Vulcan.

  Sarek could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses. Such mental influence was contrary to every ethical and moral tenet his people had developed over millennia of civilized existence.

  But he could not have been mistaken about the mental “signature” the telepath had left on Induna’s mind. Sarek came back to the here-and-now, blinking, and realized that he was crouched in the center of a fighting, trampling mob. Induna still sagged against him. The ambassador struggled back to his feet, heaving the KEHL leader up with him, lest his unconscious body be crushed in the frenzy.

  Even as he gained his feet, he was nearly knocked down again by the panicked rush of retreating demonstrators. Federation Security was routing the mob, stunning many and taking them into custody. Others were running away at full speed. In only seconds, it seemed, he was left alone, still supporting the KEHL leader’s unconscious form. Soran and Surev were still on their feet, nearby. Both young Vulcans had obviously been in the thick of the fray—their robes and hair were disheveled, and Soran was bleeding from a cut over his eye.

  “We’re terribly sorry about this, Ambassador Sarek!” exclaimed the head of the Federation security force, as he was hastening toward the Vulcans. “But we warned the consulate against having any contact with the demonstrators!”

  “Your warning was received,” Sarek said. “I chose to attempt to speak with the protesters personally. The decision was mine alone. I take full responsibility.”

  The human glanced sharply at the unconscious KEHL leader. “Is that Induna?”

  Sarek nodded.

  “We’ll take him into custody, Ambassador,” the officer said, reaching for the leader’s limp figure. Sarek surrendered him to the authorities.

  “I wish to state for the record,” the ambassador said, “that this man did not order the mob to attack us. In fact, he ordered them to desist, but they did not obey.”

  “Okay, Ambassador,” the officer said, beckoning to a subordinate with a stretcher, “I’ll be sure to put that in my report.”

  Sarek stood for a second longer, watching as Induna was placed in one of the emergency vehicles. Then he turned back to the two young Vulcans. “Let us go back inside,” he said.

  Safe once more behind the closed and electronically locked gates, Sarek dismissed young Surev to his duties, then turned to Soran. “As the humans would say, ‘One more piece has been added to the puzzle.’ ”

  The young Vulcan raised an eyebrow inquiringly. “Indeed, Ambassador? To what puzzle are you referring?”

  “The puzzle that has occupied me for over a year now,” Sarek said. “There is a great deal to tell you, Soran. Let us walk in the garden, and talk. The weather is pleasant, today.”

  The young Vulcan seemed surprised. “You do not wish to go inside, Ambassador?”

  Sarek shook his head. “I will be able to speak more…freely…in the garden, near the water sculpture,” he said.

  The youth stared at him for a moment; then his eyes widened fractionally. “You suspect listening devices, sir?”

  “Under the circumstances,” the ambassador said, gravely, “I would prefer to take no chances that what I am about to impart to you will be overheard.”

  Together, they walked around the curving path that circled the consulate, and were soon in a stone garden modeled on those on Vulcan. Sarek was reminded vividly of Amanda’s garden, and wondered, briefly, what her visit to the Healer might have revealed. “What do you know of the Freelans, Soran?” Sarek asked.

  The youth cleared his throat slightly. “Freelan…an isolated world located in the middle of the Romulan Neutral Zone. Perhaps surprisingly, the Romulans have never laid claim to the planet, possibly because it is so inhospitable and remote. Freelan exists in the grip of an extensive ice age, with only the equatorial regions supporting life and agriculture. The technological level of the inhabitants is high, especially in the cryogenic sciences and related products, but Freelan is resource-poor.”

  “Correct,” Sarek said. “For someone who has only been my aide for forty-seven point six Standard days, you are well informed, Soran.”

  “You have been the diplomatic liaison between Freelan and the Federation for seventy-two point seven Standard years, Ambassador. It is my responsibility to be familiar with all your duties,” the aide responded. Sarek nodded approvingly.

  “Freelan,” Sarek said quietly, “is, as you probably also know, something of an enigma.”

  Sarek was deliberately understating the situation. Freelan was unique in the explored galaxy. The Freelans did not possess space travel of their own, but their contacts with the Federation had, for decades, led to their world being included as a regular stop on local trade routes. The planet had never affiliated itself with any political or diplomatic alliance. Freelan was not a member of the Federation, though it did s
end delegates to many trade, scientific, and diplomatic conferences. Its delegates, however, remained scrupulously neutral in all their dealings and contacts with other planets.

  Cultural exchanges between Freelan and other worlds were virtually nonexistent, due to the Freelan taboo—religious or cultural, no one knew which—that prohibited Freeland from revealing their faces or bodies. When the natives had any contact with anyone not of their world, they shrouded themselves in concealing garments. Their muffling cloaks, hoods, and masks were made from material impregnated with selonite, which prevented them from being scanned by tricorders or medical sensors.

  Those wishing to meet with a Freelan on business or diplomatic matters had to travel to the mysterious world, where the Freelans maintained a space station to accommodate “guests.” The station was fully automated, and all meetings were conducted via comm link with the surface below. Other than that concession to outside contact, Freelan remained a closed world. No off-worlder had ever landed on Freelan.

  All that was known of the reclusive race that lived there was that they were bipedal, and roughly humanoid-shaped, with two arms. All else was conjecture.

  “I had never encountered a Freelan personally,” Soran said, “until I attended the conference at Camp Khitomer last month.”

  “Did you actually speak to the Freelan envoy?” Sarek asked.

  “No, sir. As you know, the Freelans are not noted for mingling with people from other worlds. I did, however, meet the envoy’s aide, a young Vulcan woman who introduced herself as Savel. During the evening break, we passed time by playing a game of chess.”

  The ambassador raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? It is common for Freelans to employ young Vulcans as aides. So you played chess with this Savel? Who won?”

  Soran cleared his throat. “I did, sir. However, I found her a…challenging…opponent.”

  “I see,” Sarek remarked, mildly, noting, with amusement, that his young aide was not meeting his eyes. “I have, for years, played chess with the diplomatic liaison from Freelan. Taryn is a formidable opponent. This…Savel…I believe I recall her. Short hair? Slender figure? Wearing a silver tunic and trousers?”

  “Yes, Ambassador,” Soran said, shifting slightly on the bench. The young Vulcan was clearly uncomfortable under Sarek’s regard.

  The elder Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. I am not surprised that you…enjoyed your game. You are…unbonded, are you not, Soran?”

  The young Vulcan nodded. “Yes, Ambassador. My family does not ascribe to the ancient tradition of bonding while children. My parents chose each other as adults.”

  “I assume from her name that Savel was also unbonded?” Sarek inquired, blandly. Most young Vulcan women altered their names with the T’ prefix when they became betrothed.

  “That is what I gathered from our time together,” Soran said, somewhat puzzled by the ambassador’s continuing interest in his brief encounter. “I found the information that she was unbonded…to be of interest.” He cleared his throat again. “Of interest to me personally, that is.”

  Sarek nodded encouragingly. “I do not find that fact surprising. Savel appeared…quite intelligent.”

  “Yes,” Soran agreed. “However, Ambassador, there was something…odd about her.”

  Sarek was not surprised to discover this. Under the circumstances, he had been expecting as much. “What was that?” he inquired.

  “I…enjoyed…the time I spent with Savel,” Soran admitted. “I wished to encounter her again, but I realized, when the conference ended, that I had no way to contact her. Freelans curtail their interactions with the outside world, as you know. So, when we returned home, I made inquiries, intending to discover Savel’s family, in the event they would consent to forward a message from me.”

  Sarek leaned forward, suddenly intent. “And what did you discover?”

  The youth took a deep breath and met the ambassador’s eyes squarely. “Sir, there was no record of a ‘Savel’ being born on Vulcan within the last thirty years. According to Vulcan records—and you know how complete they are—no such person exists.”

  Sarek nodded, his suspicion confirmed. “Soran…what I have to tell you now must remain strictly between us.”

  “Understood.”

  “For some time I have become increasingly suspicious of the Freelans. I believe they are…not what they seem. During the last year of studying them and their system, I have come to believe that Freelan presents a serious threat to the peace that currently exists in the galaxy.”

  “The Freelans, sir?” Soran did not succeed in concealing his surprise. “How could that be?”

  “I do not wish to prejudice you any more than is necessary to gain your help, Soran. I would prefer that you draw your own conclusions, as a check on my own logic,” Sarek said. “Suffice it to say that I believe the Freelans constitute a threat to the Federation, and I intend to gain proof of that threat before I can present my findings to President Ra-ghoratrei.” Sarek paused. “When I first arrived, I had thought to speak with the Federation president of my suspicions…but he is currently off-world, and will not return for nearly a week. By the time he returns, I anticipate having the proof I need.”

  “But surely you could speak to the undersecretary, or Madame Chairman of the Security Council,” Soran asked, “if this threat is as grave as you believe?”

  Sarek hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Soran…today I gained proof—not demonstrable proof, except to a telepath, unfortunately—that undue mental influence may be at work on this world…and possibly others. As a matter of fact…” Sarek stared intently into the other’s face. “If you will permit me?” He raised his hand in a meaningful gesture.

  Soran, catching his intention, nodded permission. Sarek gently touched the side of his face for a moment, then nodded. “Your thoughts are entirely your own,” he confirmed.

  Soran nodded. “So you intend to gain proof while the president is off-world, then present it to him upon his return?”

  “If possible. I will require your help, Soran,” the ambassador said. As the youth started to speak, he held up a warning hand. “I must caution you, before you agree too quickly…gaining the proof I seek will require that we travel to Freelan and infiltrate the memory banks of their planetary computer system.”

  Soran’s eyes widened. “Espionage? You intend to commit espionage, Ambassador? But that is…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  “An interstellar crime, as well as a violation of every law of diplomacy. I know,” Sarek said, heavily. “Nevertheless, I have determined it is necessary in this instance. Will you help me? If you say no, I will understand, and ask only that you say nothing of this to anyone.”

  The youth took a deep breath, and his eyes never left the ambassador’s. “Serving as your aide is an honor I have aspired to for years, sir. If you have determined that your intended course of action is necessary to preserve the safety of the Federation, then it will be my privilege to assist you in gaining your proof.”

  Sarek nodded at the youth, genuinely touched by his loyalty. “Thank you, Soran. I will contact Liaison Taryn and arrange a meeting to review the current trade policies between Freelan and Vulcan. If he agrees to the meeting—and there is no reason why he should not—I wish to embark for the Freelan space station tomorrow.”

  “I will make the necessary arrangements, Ambassador.”

  Sarek nodded, and remained sitting in the garden as his aide left, moving quickly. Slowly, the ambassador climbed to his feet, and walked back around the consulate to stare thoughtfully at the area outside the gates. Discarded holosigns and placards still littered the area, but all the demonstrators were gone…where?

  Sarek, remembering the shock of touching Induna’s altered mind, repressed a shiver. The sun had vanished behind clouds, and the breeze was now chilly….

  Peter James Kirk rifled through the selection of clothes available to him and swore impatiently.This is ridiculous, he told himself, and reached for a
clean uniform.You don’t spend this much time dressing for a date! Or did he? It’d been long enough since his lastreal date that it was hard to remember. Running a hand through his sandy-red hair, he sighed disgustedly.Well, maybe you do. Who cares? Make a decision, and let’s get out of here. He’d be late if he didn’t hurry.

  Your big chance to finally meet Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan,he thought, feeling a flare of nervous excitement, followed by chagrin.Yeah, and won’t he be impressed if you’re late?

  He’d first become acquainted with Sarek through the Vulcan’s writings and speeches, some of which were mandatory reading at Starfleet Academy, where Peter was currently a senior cadet. Then, when he’d attended a talk the diplomat gave at the Academy two years ago, Peter had found Sarek’s approach to diplomacy so interesting, he’d studied the ambassador’s eminent career during his spare time. Having met the ambassador’s son many times gave his interest a personal aspect.

  It was ironic, really. His uncle, Jim Kirk, had spent years working beside Sarek’s son, Captain Spock. If things had worked out right, no doubt Spock, whom he’d met many times during his uncle’s sporadic visits, would’ve been happy—or the Vulcan equivalent—to have introduced Peter to his father. If things had worked out right…

  Well, Peter mused, things had worked out well enough for someone who’d lost his parents tragically at the age of seven. He glanced at their picture, taken on Deneva just months before their deaths. George Samuel and Aurelan Kirk were laughing, their hands on their gangly son’s shoulder. Their twenty-five-year-old mementos still traveled everywhere with him, and thanks to family albums and vid records, Peter had a clear recall of his mother’s voice, his father’s sense of humor, although his actual rearing had been entrusted to his late grandmother, Winona Kirk.

  Peter was nearly half a head taller than his uncle, and built on slender, rather than stocky, lines. His hair, which as a boy had been a deep auburn, had lightened over the years to a sandy red. Much to his relief, his freckles had also faded, though any exposure to the sun brought out a rash of them across his nose and cheeks. His eyes were a bright, clear blue, like Earth’s sky at midday. Until his mid-twenties, he’d been gangling and awkward, but the years—and Starfleet’s self-defense training—had solved most of that. These days Peter moved confidently, even, at times, gracefully.