by Diane Duane
He nodded. “Sure! I’d be glad to help. I can take it to work tomorrow and…”
She shook her head. “Oh no, this can’t possibly leave here. In fact, Jay’s not real happy with my even letting you see it. But…for some reason…I can’t help but trust you, Peter Church.”
Lisa leaned forward almost imperceptibly, at the same time Peter felt his own body drawn toward her. When their lips met, his face flamed with embarrassment that his body had so little regard for his own internal ethics.
“I’ll…be happy to work on it here,” he said huskily, when they drew apart. “I can probably…tap into my workstation…use my files at work to decode some of the lost material.”
She nodded. “That would be great.” And kissed him again.
They both jumped when they heard the door behind them whoosh open. Jay stood there, frowning disapprovingly.
Lisa moved away from Peter self-consciously. “I…didn’t think you’d be back so early,” she stammered.
Jay didn’t respond, merely glanced at Peter and said to the woman neutrally, “Can I see you in my office a moment? Something’s come up.”
“Is it Induna?” she asked worriedly, standing. They’d found out that the president of KEHL had survived Sarek’s “assault,” but had been hospitalized (at his own insistence, Peter knew). “Is he all right?”
“Let’s…talk in my office,” Jay reiterated, nodding his head in that direction.
“Wait for me,” Lisa said to Peter, “and I’ll show you the problem with those files.”
He nodded and watched her walk toward Jay’s office with the other man. The moment they were both out of sight and earshot, Peter snatched up the “conspiracy” tape and plugged it in. Grabbing one of his empty ones, he downloaded the whole thing, sight unseen. After copying the secret cassette, he copied the extensive KEHL membership lists, and the propaganda films as well. He had just finished copying the annual agenda, and sliding his tapes back in his pocket, when Lisa came back into her office. Jay was not with her. Peter stood to greet her.
“Everything all right?” he asked. “Is Induna okay?”
Lisa nodded, smiling warmly. She slid her arms around him and he returned the embrace. “Jay is such an alarmist! Induna’s out of the hospital, and will be back here tomorrow.”
“Great! Why don’t we get started on those Vulcan files?”
She pulled him closer and murmured, “Is work all you think of, Mr. Church?”
He swallowed, unsure of how far he could take this charade. “Well…this would be the best time for me to access my workstation…” There wouldn’t be many students in the Academy library at this time. He hadn’t quite figured out how he was going to log on without revealing who he “worked” for…or his real name.
“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” she assured him, and reached up for another kiss.
He obliged her, realizing uneasily that his body was responding to her, even if his mind wasn’t. Hastily, he raised his head, staring down at her. “Okay. Tomorrow. It is late. I’d better go.”
“See you tomorrow, then,” she agreed, and released him, smiling warmly as he let himself out of the basement.
With a twinge of regret, he thought,Not bloody likely. In spite of the late hour, he made a beeline for the Starfleet Security offices on the Academy’s campus. Those offices were staffed all night. Someone would be there that would be interested in his story. And then he’d never have to go back to that basement again, never have to war within himself over Lisa’s feminine charms and her absurd, even dangerous politics. One thing was for sure—no matter how many mixed feelings he might have about taking the Command track at school, he was now certain that he had no interest in working in Intelligence!
Twilight on Vulcan.
Sarek stood alone on his terrace, watching T’Rukh at full phase. The ambassador had returned from Freelan the previous night, and the day had been taken up with visits to the med center and consultations with his wife’s physician. Now, gazing at the full, bloated sphere, Sarek reached out and grasped the stone balustrade so tightly that his knuckles shone greenish white in the eerie glow of The Watcher.
Silently, the ambassador struggled for calm.
As he watched The Watcher, the gigantic world seemed to loom even closer, as though it were about to topple out of the sky and crush him. The chilling breeze stirred his thick, iron-gray hair, as refreshing as the touch of a cool, human hand on his brow. Sarek swallowed, feeling dull pain in his midsection. Surelyhe was not ill…
A quick assessment of his physical condition assured the ambassador that he was physically healthy…the pain he was experiencing had no physical cause.
Sarek leaned heavily on the railing, experiencing again that rush of vertigo at the thought of Amanda. Amanda was with him now, for the moment, but soon, the Healer said, she would not be here anymore. Because Amanda…Amanda was dying.
Dying. His wife was gravely ill, and, even though they were attempting to treat her condition, T’Mal held out little hope of recovery.
Dying…
Amanda. Dying. So the Healer said—and one glance at his wife’s face yesterday had convinced him.
Sarek stared blindly at The Watcher, thinking of all the times he had stood here, during many of the epochs of his life.
How many times had he stood thus? Absently, the ambassador retrieved the number. He had not seen the giant world until he was an adult, when he had built his villa here. Also, he had spent much of his working life off-world. Still, Vulcan’s days were shorter than Terran days, and Sarek was 138 Federation Standard years old. 122,474 times.
122,474 times…
The ambassador had watched T’Rukh the night that his firstborn had been declared outcast and departed his homeworld, and known within himself that he would probably never see Sybok again. Nor had he.
He’d watched T’Rukh during the early hours of his secondpon farr, experiencing the heat of desire, concerned that human flesh and bone might not withstand the flames consuming him. But human flesh and bone had proved more resilient than he had thought. During that night, his secondborn had been conceived.
The ambassador had watched T’Rukh the night that Amanda had delivered their son, and again when Spock had announced that he had passed the entrance requirements for Starfleet Academy, and was forsaking the Vulcan Science Academy to go off-world. Memories of that “discussion” still had the power to make the ambassador’s jaw muscles tighten. T’Rukh’s light had illuminated his son’s tall form as he’d walked away without looking back. His father had thought never to see him again, either. But that time he had been in error, and never had he been more pleased to be mistaken.
Sarek drew deep, slow breaths of the cool air as he let his consciousness sink down, deep inside himself, seeking that place of quiet repose that every Vulcan was taught in childhood to retreat to during times of trouble.
He could not find the place. Calm acceptance continued to elude him. With a sigh that was almost a moan, Sarek sagged against the railing, raising both fists to press them against his temples in a gesture he would never have permitted himself had he not been alone. Every muscle in his body was taut; his indrawn breath hurt his lungs. Logic…his logic was gone, the core of his mental balance was gone—and in its place was pain…and fear.
And grief. Sorrow filled him, until he felt that he could hold no more. There was no quiet center that would release him from his pain, this fear, this grief. How could he stand it, if he could not find his center? How did humans manage, with no silent retreat or sanctuary to shield them from the constant onslaught of emotion—howcould they stand this? No wonder some of them broke with reality, retreating into insanity because they could not deal with their pain, their fear, their grief.
Sarek stared at T’Rukh unseeing, unblinking, until his eyes began to burn. The physical pain distracted him, and he found a brief respite in it.
Sarek…The call resounded softly within his mind.Sarek …
&nb
sp; Immediately the ambassador turned and left the balcony. He strode swiftly through the living room, down the short hall; then he hesitated before the carven portal. The call came again.Sarek …
Quickly he sent back a wordless reassurance, a sense of his proximity and imminent arrival. Then, drawing a deep breath, the Vulcan put out a hand and rested it against the carven portal, seeking strength from its solidity, its age. Letting the breath out slowly, he summoned calm, seeking—at least outwardly—control. When he was certain that his features betrayed nothing of his inner turmoil, he straightened. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed the door open and stepped into the room he had shared with his wife for more than sixty Earth years.
The chill of the air-conditioning struck him immediately. Amanda’s physician had insisted, over her protests, that she must not tax her remaining strength by enduring her adopted world’s notorious heat. Cold air blasted against his face, driven constantly so a pressure lock would not be necessary.
The ambassador’s gaze rested first on the bed, but it was empty, the light, silver-blue coverlet Amanda had woven decades ago thrown back. Even as he turned toward the small sitting room that looked out over the rear garden, he sensed her presence, waiting for him.
Quickly, Sarek strode through the bedroom and into the adjoining sitting room. Amanda occupied her favorite chair as she gazed out the window at her garden, her pale skin seeming doubly un-Earthly in T’Rukh’s light. She sat quietly, not turning her head. During the past days she had lost even more weight…now she seemed little more than a wraith. Only Sarek’s iron control kept him from betraying his distress at her appearance.
Sarek…Her mental “voice” filled his mind. “Amanda,” he said, allowing just a touch of reproach to shade his voice, “you were supposed to rest for the remainder of the day. The Healer emphasized your need for rest. Logic demands that you heed her advice.”
When he reached her side and stood looking down at her, only her smile was unchanged…gentle, full of affection. “I’m tired of resting,” she said, holding up two fingers toward her husband. “And you know how I love to watch The Watcher shine on the garden at night.”
“I know,” Sarek replied, touching her fingers with his own.
“Is it pleasant out tonight?” she asked, a hint of wistful eagerness tingeing her soft voice.
“Yes, it is,” Sarek replied. “However, to answer the unspoken corollary to your query, no, it is not cool enough for you to go outside, my wife. The Healer’s directions were quite specific on that point. Logic dictates that you must husband your strength…and the heat depletes it.”
“For heaven’s sake, Sarek,” Amanda said, her eyes flashing with indignation, “I’ve lived here most of my adult life! Iknow it’s hot outside! But I have been cooped up in this house for nearly a week, and I amtired of seeing nothing but these four walls,tired of resting. I want to sit in my garden, damn it!” Her voice gained strength and volume as she spoke, but faltered and cracked on the last line.
Sarek was taken aback at her vehemence—he knew Amanda had a temper, had known that since before their marriage, but he could have numbered on one hand the occasions when his wife had resorted to profanity. “Amanda…” he began softly, then stopped.
“Besides,” she added, her eyes filled with weary resignation, “what difference will it make, really?”
The ambassador gazed down at her. Under the circumstances, he could not find it in himself to deny her wish. It was such a small request….
“Very well,” he agreed. “Do you have your respirator with you?”
Smiling, Amanda patted the pocket of her robe, indicating that she did. “What about the logic of following the Healer’s orders?” she asked him.
“Logic tells me that you will expend far more energy arguing about this than you will in a brief interlude outside,” Sarek retorted as he bent over and scooped her up as he would have a child. She was hardly heavier than one. Perhaps, Sarek thought, a brief excursion outside would bolster her flagging appetite.
When Sarek reached the garden, he carefully lowered his wife’s slight form onto a stone bench, then seated himself beside her. Amanda’s eyes shone as her gaze took in the beauty of the night, the garden, and the hovering planet that dominated the sky. “Itis lovely,” she breathed. “I knew it would be.”
“It is good to see you here again,” Sarek said. “The garden’s appearance is not aesthetically complete without its creator.”
Amanda, recognizing the compliment despite its subtlety, smiled roguishly at her husband. “Sarek, I do believe you are getting sentimental,” she teased.
Her husband’s lips curved upward as he permitted himself the faint, answering smile that few besides his wife had ever seen. “Nonsense, my wife. My comment was entirely logical. This is your garden; you designed it, planted it, and nurtured its growth. It is a reflection of your creative instincts, so, logically, it appears at its most attractive when you are present to complement and complete it. There is nothing ‘sentimental’ about that—I was merely stating a fact.”
Amanda chuckled, and to Sarek’s ears the sound was more welcome than any strain of music. “Now you’re rationalizing, my dear—as well as teasing me. It is a good thing our son isn’t here to hear you. Spock would be shocked.”
Despite Sarek’s control, the muscles in his jaw tightened fractionally at the mention of his son’s name. Amanda was watching him intently, and her husband realized that she had not missed that tiny betrayal. Her smile faded. “Have you heard from Spock?” she asked anxiously. “You didn’t—”
She broke off at her husband’s nod, and her eyes flashed again, this time with anger. “You didn’t!” she exclaimed. It was an accusation, not a question.
Sarek gazed up at T’Rukh fixedly. “I sent a subspace message to Spock before I left the Freelan system,” he admitted quietly.
“How could you?” Amanda was furious—as he’d known she would be. “We had a bargain! You gave me your word! I did not want him told, you knew that! I—” She sputtered indignantly for a moment, then subsided, too angry to speak. Finally, her chin lifted and she glared at him, her eyes now cold. “Your action was entirely illogical, my husband,” she said in slow, careful Vulcan, using one of the ancient, formal dialects. Then she turned away, staring fixedly at The Watcher. It was no longer full; its upper limb was now shadowed.
Sarek was taken aback by her accusation—in ancient days, it would have constituted an insult. “Amanda—” he began, then waited patiently for two point six minutes until she finally looked at him. “My wife,” he said softly, hearing the tension in his own voice, “Spock had to be informed. If anything happened to you, and I had not told him, he would never speak to me again—and I could not fault him for his decision.”
Amanda sighed, and Sarek immediately knew that her anger had turned to resignation. “You’re probably right,” she said quietly.
“Amanda,” Sarek said slowly, “I regret going against your wishes, but logic and duty demanded that I make my own decision.”
“But our son has been through so much in the past couple of years!” she murmured, twisting her wasted hands in her lap. “He lost his ship, Valeris betrayed him, my God, he lost his verylife —he needs to finish putting the pieces back together, not have other concerns added!”
“Would you deny him the chance to see his mother again?” Sarek said, and the phrase “for the last time” seemed to fill the quiet garden.
It was a long time before Amanda replied. “No, I suppose not. I suppose you did the right thing, as well as the logical thing. But I wanted Spock to—” She broke off on a ragged breath.
“You wanted him to what?” Sarek asked, quietly.
“I don’t want him to see me,” she admitted, dully. “I thought it would be better if he remembered me the way I used to be…. ”
“That never occurred to me,” Sarek said, slowly. “Your attitude is illogical, Amanda…and vain. Human vanity, I believe, is as foreign to
my son as it is to me.”
“I know that,” she said softly. “I’ve lived here for decades, and never yet managed to figure out how Vulcans can be so arrogant without being at all vain.”
“You have learned much about my people,” Sarek conceded, quietly. “It is possible that no human understands us better.”
Sarek crossed her fingers with his, but, in addition, he gently traced the contours of her face with two fingers of his other hand. The intimacy of the caress, outside of their bedroom, made Amanda’s eyes widen; then she closed them, concentrating on their bond, and the closeness it gave them.
Finally both stirred, and Sarek dropped his hand. “We should go in, my wife,” he said gently. “I sense your fatigue. You must rest.”
Amanda nodded, but, when he would have risen, put out a hand to forestall him. “Just five more minutes,” she pleaded. “Who knows…when…or…” She hesitated, but did not say “if” aloud. “Anyway, there is no way to know how long it will be before I’ll be able to be with you in the garden again. Five minutes more, Sarek…please?”
Sarek gazed down at her, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “But you must agree to put on your respirator, Amanda.”
She frowned, but then her features smoothed into serenity once more, and she obediently slipped the little mask over her mouth and nose. Together, fingers once more touching, they gazed at The Watcher, while the night breeze caressed their faces.
Three
Spock felt the surrounding heat even before his body was completely rematerialized. Nevasa was almost directly overhead, blazing furiously.
The transporter chief had beamed him down into the gardens behind his parents’ mountain villa. It had been nearly five years since his last visit here, and Spock noted absently that Amanda had expanded the cactus garden to include species from the deserts on Andor, Tellar, and Rigel VI. The plants were brilliant shades of lime green, amethyst, and turquoise, doubly arresting next to the dusty greens and reds of the Terran and native Vulcan plants.