by Diane Duane
“We know that, Captain. We have a record of Peter encoding a Priority One message for you. May we have your permission to decode it? It might give us a clue to his whereabouts.”
Kirk hesitated. They’d agreed to keep their suspicions of the KEHL being linked with the Romulans secret. “We’ll investigate on our end,” he said, finally. “I’ll let you see the message as soon as I clear it with Starfleet Security. Can you please transmit everything you’ve got on that message to my communications chief, Commander Uhura? There’s nobody better at tracing transmissions.”
“Certainly, Captain,” Anderson said. “We’ll do that.”
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I get that clearance,” Kirk said, crossing his fingers underneath the table.
“My people suspect they were waiting for him on the street,” Anderson said. “And that they grabbed him there.”
“So you’re thinking kidnapping, rather than…” Kirk swallowed. “…murder?”
“We just don’t know, Captain. But if somebody simply wanted your nephew dead, why the elaborate hoax with the faked message?”
“Logical,” murmured Spock and Sarek at the same moment.
“Abduction…possibly kidnapping?” Kirk’s mind was racing. “Has there been any kind of message? Any demands for ransom?”
“Not so far.”
“If any message comes through,” Kirk said, “I’ll let you know. Maybe we can trace its source, and learn something from that.”
“Good idea. If I hear anything, I’ll contact you immediately, Captain,” Anderson promised in his turn.
“Thank you, Commandant.”
“Rest assured, we’re doing everything we can,” the man said, before cutting the connection.
Kirk turned to the others sitting around the table. “If Scotty is as good as his word, we should be casting off moorings by now. Ambassador…you and Spock should begin working on thosevalits you mentioned. I’ll have Uhura get to work on tracing that message. I’ve got a hunch this is all going to wind up connected, somehow.”
Minutes later, Kirk was on the bridge, ensconced in his command seat. With a glint in his eye, he surveyed the cavernous interior of the Vulcan drydock through the viewscreen. “Status, s’Bysh?” he asked his helmsman.
“All moorings cleared, Captain. Docking bay doors will open in two minutes, thirty-five point six seconds,” she reported, crisply.
“Lay in a course for Freelan, Lieutenant.” Kirk settled back in his seat, his eyes level, jaw set. He watched s’Bysh’s green fingers fly. “Ready, Lieutenant?” he asked, scarcely more than a minute later. “Course laid in?”
“Aye, sir.”
Counting seconds down in his head, Kirk reached thirty-four. “Ahead one-half impulse power, Lieutenant,” he ordered, and thought he heard Chekov mutter, “Not again!”
“One-half impulse, aye, sir.”
Enterprisesprang forward like a cheetah sighting prey. The ship closed on the parting bay doors with a terrifying rush of speed, blasted through them with only a few hundred meters to spare on either side, and then they were out, into free space. Chekov’s sigh of relief was audible all over the bridge, and Commander Uhura chuckled softly when she heard it.
“Ahead warp six,” Kirk ordered grimly.
“Warp six, aye, Captain.”
Kirk settled back in his seat. No matter what speed Mr. Scott managed to coax out of the warp engines, it was going to be a long trip….
After a long day spent refiningvalit programs, Sarek was weary, but sleep eluded him. Remembering his promise, he extracted Amanda’s journal, and opened it, noting the date at the top of the page.
November 12, 2231
It is the middle of the night, and quiet. I am tired…but I am also too excited to sleep. I cannot neglect my journal tonight of all nights!
I have a son.
Sarek and I have a son. He was born in the early hours of this morning. Never having been through labor before, I worried that it might prove too much for me to bear (no pun intended) without shaming myself before the Healers, but I believe I did well….
And our son is perfect. Even though the Healers reassured me that all their tests showed that the baby was normal, still I worried. After all, I had to be treated before I could conceive, then monitored carefully throughout the pregnancy to allow me to carry to term—nearly a full month more than the human norm!
Carrying a child for almost ten Earth months is not fun, and that is the understatement of the century. I was so big yesterday that I felt as though my sides would split open. I spent hours staring in wonderment at my belly, unable to believe the size of it. I could barely waddle to the bathroom unassisted! When I felt that dull ache in my back sharpen into an actual contraction, I could have jumped for joy. What a relief it is to return to something like my normal size!
For a while the Healers were afraid I would not be able to deliver normally…my son is very large for a human infant, though not particularly so for a Vulcan baby. If it had not been for the Healer-midwife’s coaching, I might have given up in despair. But she was amazingly supportive for someone who must have been wincing inwardly every time I betrayed what I was feeling.
My labor was intense, and seemed to take forever. I was surprised that I was able to handle the pain as well as I did. It hurt, yes…by all the gods that ever were, it felt as though some diabolical presence were trying to hammer a spike into the base of my spine, while simultaneously squeezing my belly in a vise. But, unlike hangnails, stubbed toes, barked shins, and sprained ankles, this was pain with a purpose. As long as I could focus on that purpose, the pain did not…couldnotoverwhelm me. I vaguely remember the midwife encouraging me, reminding that my suffering was for a purpose, and that helped me to focus on the results, not the pain.
Sarek was there for most of the time, holding my hand and thus sharing what I felt. In a way, that seemed to lessen the agony. Perhaps he used a meld to mind-block some of the worst of the pangs…or perhaps it was simply the quiet strength he projects that gave me courage.
I wish I could have my child with me tonight, but they have taken him to the Science Academy, to run tests and keep him under close observation.
As I held him in my arms after his first feeding, I beheld a tiny face that was so Vulcan that I wondered if there was anything of me in him. But just as I thought there was nothing human in him at all, my son opened his mouth and began to wail—sounding just like a human baby. I saw something—could it have been disappointment?—flicker across my husband’s face as he heard those infant squalls.
Vulcan babies cry only for a reason—hunger or discomfort. And our son was dry and fed…and thus had little or no reason to wail.
Which proves that he is partly mine, after all.
WasSarek disappointed? I suppose I will never know. I love our son too much to ask—and risk “yes” for an answer….
The newborn infant squirmed in his tiny, heated cocoon as his father watched every movement, enthralled by the new life that he had helped create.My son… he thought, noting the tiny veins that pulsed greenish blue just beneath the thin, delicate skin.My son…what will we name you? Your Name Day will not arrive for nearly a month, so we have some time to choose a suitable appellation. Your mother will not even be able to pronounce your “first” name….
Vulcan first names were always a combination of syllables in Old Vulcan that denoted lineage and birth order. But Sarek’s son would be called by his last name, even as his father was. Traditionally, in honor of Surak, the name would begin with anS.
The infant moved restlessly again, then opened his mouth, uttering a faint squeak. His eyes opened, moved aimlessly for a moment, then fastened on his father’s face. The birthing puffiness had lessened; the child’s eyes were now far less slitted, and Sarek could easily discern their color. Dark, like his own, not blue, as his mother’s were. Not surprising. All the Healers’ tests during Amanda’s pregnancy had indicated that Vulcan genes would prove dominant in a
human/Vulcan pairing.
The nursery attendant, noting that the child had roused from the readings on her monitors, approached Sarek and his son. “He is awake,” he announced unnecessarily.
“He is,” she agreed. “Soon he will be hungry. I will give him his supplement now. Do you wish to take him to your wife for his feeding, Ambassador?”
Sarek hesitated. His son was very small…his own hands could nearly span that tiny body lengthwise. He had never held an infant before….
“If you would prefer,” the nurse said, “I will do it.”
Sarek watched as she quickly, efficiently, lifted the baby and administered the oral supplement that would provide him with the nutrients that Amanda’s human milk did not contain. But before she could turn away, he held out his arms. “I will take him,” he said, firmly.
Obediently, the nurse placed the small, warm bundle into his arms. The Vulcan stood rigid, his arms stiff, as she settled the baby into place, making sure his head was properly supported.
The ambassador was faintly, illogically surprised to discover that his newborn son, who appeared so fragile, so helpless, actually had substance. The baby occupied space, and had mass…he was a warm, squirming, living, breathing entity. Sarek stared down at him, fascinated. Dark eyes regarded him, locked with his own in an unblinking regard.
As he stared into the child’s eyes, all at once the infant becamereal to Sarek, in a way he never had before. For all these months he had watched his wife’s belly grow, touched her delicately to feel the movement beneath her skin, observed the child’s heartbeat on the monitors…but part of him had never truly comprehended that an actual child was forming within Amanda, and that that child was half his.
Reality had not begun to manifest itself until he had grasped Amanda’s hand during labor, had directly experienced the agonizing pain that his wife was enduring. He had been amazed that a human could endure such pain without blacking out—Amanda’s fierce concentration, her comparative silence except during the worst of the birthing contractions had impressed him. His wife had always seemed frail to him, delicate, with her human constitution. His own strength had always been so much greater—and yet, today, he’d found himself admiring her stoicism as she’d endured such intense pain. Amanda was stronger than he’d ever realized. Even the Healer had expressed approval of her fortitude during labor and birthing.
Now the ambassador gazed down at the tiny face with its fuzz of black hair, noting the faint traces of the slanted eyebrows, the delicately pointed ears, the slightly squashed nose.
Looking at his son, Sarek of Vulcan experienced a moment of insight so intense it was nearly painful. Past and future, then and now and tomorrow seemed to swirl around him, blending and coming together in the small body so warm and breathing in his arms. This child was a link to the long-ago, and he would be the future. Someday he would stand up and walk the sands of his homeland, would gaze at The Watcher with wonder, would go to school and learn the logic of his forebears. He would grow to adulthood, tall and strong and handsome, and someday he might hold a son of his own in his arms….
“Our preliminary tests are complete,” the nurse said, breaking into Sarek’s reverie. “They indicate that his intelligence potential is above average, Ambassador. Considerably above average.”
Sarek was not surprised, having gazed into the infant’s eyes for these long seconds, but he felt a surge of pride that he did not trouble to repress.
The rigidity had somehow gone out of his arms. He held the child against his chest, instinctively cradling him close. “I will take him to his mother now,” he said.
The nurse nodded, and Sarek, moving carefully so as not to jostle his son, walked away….
Closing the journal, the Vulcan sighed as he recalled his encounter with his son yesterday at Amanda’s memorial service. If his wife knew the things they had said to each other, she would have been terribly distressed. Remembering how she’d begged him to try and understand his son, instead of being judgmental and always finding fault, the ambassador shook his head.
And yet…what could he have done differently? He had only done his duty. Amanda had understood…why couldn’t his son?
James T. Kirk sat in the captain’s chair, waiting.
“Captain,” Uhura said, an odd note in her voice, “I’m picking up a subspace transmission, sir. It’s on the frequency reserved for personal communiqués and mail…. ”
Kirk glanced over at her, sitting up straight. “A message?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked over at him, her dark eyes compassionate. She knew, of course, that Peter was missing.
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘To Captain Kirk. Visit Sector 53.16, at coordinates 39 mark 122, before thirteen hundred hours stardate 9544.6. A certain redhead is waiting, will die if you don’t show. Come alone. Tell no one.’ ”
Kirk drew a deep breath. “Uhura, trace that message back to its point of origin. I don’t care how many substations they routed it through, follow it back all the way. Understood?”
“Aye, Captain,” she said, her lovely features set in lines of determination that matched his own.
“And message Commandant Anderson that we’ve just received the ransom note.”
Six
Wing Commander Taryn was dreaming….
He did not dream often, but when he did, it was always the same dream…or, at least, if he dreamed other dreams, he did not remember them. The Dream (as he had come to think of it) was the only thing in the universe that he consciously feared. Each time he awakened from it, he hoped that it would be the last…but, though months and years of peaceful slumber passed, somehow, when he was least expecting it, the dream would come back….
In The Dream he was small…too short to reach the viewport in normal gravity without being lifted up. He was running, running down a neutral-colored corridor, a corridor that seemed to loom inward on him as he scuttled along. His short legs pumped harder, trying to hurl him forward faster, but he was afraid—afraid! he should not be afraid, he should be calm…he should be brave, he should not run away…but he was afraid, he was!—and his feet kept slipping out from under him. Try as he might, he could not reach the end of the corridor…it seemed to expand before him almost infinitely.
He would never reach it…never, he would always be here, trapped, knowing that horror and absolute devastation lay behind him. And he, Taryn, deserved no better. He was a coward, a fearful, sobbing, cringing coward….
Gasping, he stretched out both hands, making his short legs churn faster as he ran…ran…toward a goal that would never grow any closer….
And then, with the suddenness of dreams, he was there, at the end of the corridor, standing on tiptoe, yanking frantically at the emergency release on the airlock door. The life-support pod lay in an alcove beyond that door. He knew how to open it, how to activate it, and the button to push that would launch it. Taryn knew all this, just as he knew that it was time to abandon ship, just as he’d learned in the drills.
He punched in the code, slowly, not wanting to make a mistake, his ears straining for noises from behind him. Would they come after him? What would he do if they did?
He gnawed at his lower lip, waiting, until the airlock door indicated acceptance of his code. Finally it was time to grasp the opening bar in both hands and pull it downward.
Even as he touched it, it began to move in his hands. Horrified, he leaped back, and then the door began to slide open.
Choking in terror, he fled back down the corridor, running from this new, greater fear. He reached the end of the corridor, and there was the door from whence he had come, bolting in terror and anguish, knowing himself to be a coward. The control-room door. Placing a hand on it, Taryn began to pull it open.
No! No, don’t!His elder self screamed silently at his younger self, for all the good it did. Taryn pushed the door open, slowly, slowly, and saw—
—nothing except darkness as he jerked upright in bed, gaspin
g. Slowly, reality began to trickle in. He was back on Freelan, in his own home. His wife Jolana was not here beside him, because she had gone to Romulus to visit their two grown children.
Taryn shivered, feeling cold despite the sweat on his bare chest and arms. That had been a bad one. He couldn’t remember much about the dream…which wasn’t unusual. He had a vague impression that in it, he was a frightened child, but the details were always lost. Frankly, he didn’twant to remember that dream…ever.
Stress,he thought.I’ve been working too hard again. But the invasion is so close…nothing must go wrong! The Praetor made it clear that he has complete confidence in me. He has given me more authority than I have ever had…and I must be worthy. Nothing must go wrong…we must be victorious.
Taryn forced himself to take deep, relaxing breaths. He glanced out the window, seeing the stars, as hard and cold and sharp in the blackness as spearpoints. He knew better than to look for Vulcan’s sun from here…it was too distant.
Vulcan’s primary sun, Nevasa—or 40 Eridani, as the Federation charts recorded it. Taryn wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to walk across the deserts of Vulcan—a world that was as hot, by all reputation, as Freelan was cold. A world where logic was revered, even over power. Sarek’s world…
Taryn had known for days that Wurrl had failed to kill the ambassador—the Klingon hadn’t been fast enough, it seemed. He’d been disappointed to learn about the Klingon’s failure—but also, in a way, the officer was pleased that that particular plan had failed. It would be so much more satisfying to overcome Sarek personally; after all the times the ambassador had defeated him at chess, victory at long last would be sweet indeed.