Sand and Stars

by Diane Duane

  “In a way, miss,” Spock added, “the Vulcans on Freelan can be considered prisoners of war. The fact that you were born and grew up on that world does not change the fact that you reside there due to acts of terrorism and piracy committed by the Romulan military. Have you studied history?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Then perhaps you can tell me…how often are prisoners of war actuallyreturned to their native soil after such a long passage of time?”

  “I cannot think of a single instance,” Sarek said, in answer to his son’s rhetorical question. The Vulcan ambassador gazed around him at the closed, hard young faces of the bridge officers. “It is far safer—and politically sounder—to kill them or allow them to die.”

  Savel turned to the wing commander, her dark eyes full of distress. “Would they do that,Vadi?” she demanded. “Would you allow that?”

  “If he does nothing, that is very likely what will happen,” Spock said.

  “Taryn,” Sarek said, his voice deepening, “if we do not take your people off Freelan, the chances are excellent that they will be considered a failed experiment—or prisoners of war—and eliminated. Will you risk a pogrom, Taryn? Will you allow your own people to be slaughtered?”

  “My own people…” the commander repeated tonelessly. His face was expressionless, but Sarek did not miss the tension in his jaw muscles. “I do not understand what you mean.”

  “Certainly you do,” Sarek said, holding the commander’s eyes with his own. “You are as Vulcan as I…and as Vulcan as they are,” he said, his eyes flicking from one to another of the bridge officers. He pointed to Savel. “As Vulcan as she is.”

  Silence fell on the bridge. Sarek glimpsed the surprise in Spock’s eyes, quickly masked. One by one, the young bridge officers turned to regard their commander. Only Savel did not betray any amazement.She knew, Sarek thought.

  Taryn shook his head, unable to summon words. The commander was pale beneath the weathering of his features. “No,” he said, forcing the word out. “No!”

  “Come now,” Sarek said, gently. “It is illogical to deny the truth. Will you continue to deny your heritage, knowing that you risk death for the other Vulcans on Freelan?”

  The young officers were recovering from the shock of Sarek’s revelation. They stirred and murmured among themselves.

  “Even if what you say is true, what could possibly induce me to relinquish the Vulcans on Freelan?” Taryn demanded, his expression darkening. “If I did that, I would be committing treason!”

  “If you do not, you will be committing murder,” Spock said quietly. “And, in a manner of speaking, genocide. Is that what you wish for them? Imprisonment and eventual death?” He indicated the officers.

  “And for her?” Sarek nodded at Savel. The ambassador was impressed at how well Spock was handling his part in this—obviously, he had underestimated his son’s abilities in the field of diplomacy.

  “No!” Taryn cried, in what was almost a howl of pain. He smashed a fist down on the arm of his command seat, bending it visibly. “I willnot betray my adopted people. I amRomulan, NOT Vulcan. I have dedicated my life to the service of the praetor! My Vulcan blood is nothing but an accident of birth—it means nothing to me!”

  “Does Savel mean nothing to you?” Sarek asked, quietly. He was thinking quickly, wondering what other inducement he could offer. There was one possibility: Taryn, he knew, would not allow himself to lose face before his crew. “We have known each other for a long time,” he said. “I know you, Taryn. I am willing to offer you what you want most, in exchange for the lives of the Vulcans.”

  “What—what do you mean?” Taryn demanded. Whatever the commander had expected, it obviously wasn’t this.

  “The chance to defeat me. Does that tempt you? You have wanted to win in a contest between us for decades, Taryn.”

  The ambassador knew he was treading a very delicate line. “One final contest, Taryn. One last chance to beat me.” Sarek fixed the commander with an intent gaze. “I will wager with you for their lives. A game, Taryn. If I win, you allow them to go free, you agree to help me in any way necessary to free the Vulcan captives. If I lose…” The ambassador drew a deep breath. “If I lose, you will get the battle you desire. I suspect your fleet is on the way. Time, at the moment, is my enemy…but it is your friend. A game will take several hours. Will you gamble that your fleet will reach here before endgame?”

  “A game?” Taryn actually laughed. “Agame, Vulcan? Are you insane? We play for far higher stakes than simply a mere game! We play for lives here. Are you willing to play the game as it should be played?”

  Sarek suddenly realized what Taryn was talking about, even as Spock did. His son gave him a warning glance. But the ambassador squared his shoulders. “I am willing to do whatever is necessary to gain the lives and the freedom of your captives, Taryn. I have the courage to do what I must.” He paused for a long, significant second. “Do you?”

  Taryn was clearly taken aback. The officer glanced around at the faces of his officers, seeing their waiting expressions.

  “Old man, you surprise me,” Taryn said, and then he smiled…a predatory, dangerous smile. “No one has ever before dared to question my courage.”

  Slowly, the wing commander got to his feet. Standing, he was taller and heavier-built than Sarek—and probably at least thirty years younger. “Very well, then, Ambassador. I challenge you!” His voice rang out so loudly that Savel jumped.

  “I challenge you by the ancient laws and rite of theToriatal. T’kevaidors a skelitus dunt’ryala aikriian paselitan…Toriatal,” he intoned solemnly. Sarek recognized the language as Old High Vulcan. Taryn faced him, head high. “So…you want their lives, Sarek—then fight for them! Win their lives, or your life—and that of your son’s—are forfeit!”

  Sarek recognized the words. This was a challenge so old that it was still common to both the Vulcan and Romulan cultures. TheToriatal dated back to the days before Surak had brought his message of logic and peace to their mutual homeworld.

  In the ancient days of theToriatal, two warring Vulcan nations would, in a land already devastated by conflict, choose champions to represent them in battle, and agree to victory or defeat on the basis of that single-combat-to-the-death outcome. At least now theEnterprise would be safe from any Romulan ship in Taryn’s fleet, Sarek thought. Under the terms of theToriatal, a truce remained in effect until the champions had completed their fight. No Romulan vessel would initiate hostilities once he agreed to theToriatal —until the battle was concluded, and either he or Taryn lay dead.

  “State the terms of the challenge,” Sarek said, buying time while he thought. Was this the only way? In any kind of physical contest, Taryn would be the undisputed favorite. He was a full-blooded Vulcan, younger, stronger than the ambassador—and a soldier, in fighting condition. The odds were not good.

  “Very well. If you win, Ambassador, I agree that I will release any of the Vulcans residing on Freelan should they wish to go. I will help you in whatever way is necessary to allow you to offer them that choice. I will break off the planned attack, and not initiate hostilities with theEnterprise. Acceptable?”

  Sarek nodded. “I understand.”

  “And, ifI win, Ambassador, you agree that your life—in the unlikely event you survive the challenge itself—and the life of your son are mine to do with as I please. The ship you callEnterprise and its crew will be fair game for my fleet, when it arrives.”

  The ambassador turned to look at Spock. “I am willing to wager my own life in this challenge,” he said. “But I cannot ethically stake the life of my son.”

  “What I am staking is far greater than what you are willing to wager, as it is, Ambassador,” Taryn pointed out, truthfully. “A challenge is a challenge. Do you accept, or not?” The Romulan exuded confidence as he stood there.

  Sarek drew a deep breath.The needs of the many… he thought, but he could not do it. Not with the life of his son at stake. Slowly, he sh
ook his head, and opened his mouth—

  “Do it,” Spock said in an undertone, without turning his head. “Accept his terms. If you do not, our lives are forfeit in any case.”

  Sarek glanced at the first officer, then straightened his shoulders. “Very well, Commander. I accept your challenge. I will fight you in theToriatal.”

  “As challenger, the choice of type of combat is mine,” Taryn said, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  All around him he heard murmurs of anticipation from the young officers. Only Savel seemed distressed by what was happening. Out of the corner of his eye Sarek saw her shaking her head as she whispered, “No,Vadi!”

  Sarek wondered what kind of duel Taryn would choose. He hoped Taryn’s arrogance would lead him to choose unarmed combat. The ambassador was an expert at several Vulcan martial arts, includingtal-shaya. In unarmed hand-to-hand, he might stand a chance. Although Sarek had trained with traditional Vulcan weapons in his youth, and had become proficient with them, he had not done any sparring with weapons for years.

  Also…if they fought without weapons, there was a good chance that neither of them would die. Sarek did not want to die—nor did he want to kill Taryn.

  “I choose weapons, Ambassador,” Taryn said, and paused for a beat. “Specifically, thesenapa.” The commander sat back with a faint, cold triumphant smile.

  Sarek took a deep breath. Thesenapa… the deadliest, most painful of weapons in the ancient Vulcan arsenal. A combatant could survive one cut, or perhaps two—if he was strong and received an immediate blood filtering and transfusion—but three was almost always a death sentence. “I will prepare myself,” the ambassador said.

  “You will need a second,” Spock said. “I offer myself, Ambassador.”

  Sarek turned to look at his son, and, finally nodded. “I accept.”

  Turning back to face Taryn, Sarek gave him the ancient, ceremonial salute. “As soon as you are ready, Commander.”

  Taryn nodded. “Fifteen minutes, Ambassador. Savel will guide you to the gymnasium.”

  In one corner ofShardarr ’s gymnasium, Spock quickly prepared Sarek for the coming combat. Swiftly, efficiently, he stripped off the heavy, formal robe and hung it on the wall, carefully arranging the folds so the jeweled borders faced the combat square Poldar and Tonik were marking off. When his son leaned close to unfasten the ambassador’s undertunic, Sarek whispered quietly, “How long will it take Kirk to send the message and return?”

  “Approximately an hour, from the time we left,” Spock reported, sotto voce. Then he added, “You are not in any condition to attempt this.”

  “I am well aware of my limitations,” Sarek agreed, bleakly. “If I can hold out long enough, perhaps Kirk will return. If I am only wounded, the estimable Dr. McCoy might be able to save me.”

  “The closest supply ofsenapa poison antidote is on Vulcan,” Spock whispered grimly. “It is hardly standard provisioning for starships. I do not like this. A duel withsenapas… Taryn will have a definite advantage. He is younger, taller, and doubtless far quicker than you.”

  “Do not think that knowledge has escaped me,” Sarek admitted, with a flare of mordant humor. “But, as the challenger, it was his right to choose the contest and the weapon to be used.”

  “When was the last time you trained?”

  “It has been several months,” Sarek admitted. “Since before…before your mother’s illness was diagnosed.”

  Sarek heard his son’s indrawn breath, sensed his apprehension. It echoed his own. All the commander had to do was stay out of range, and use his greater reach and faster reflexes to cut Sarek several times…and it would be all over. Even one cut, the ambassador reflected, would eventually slow him down…and, as the minutes went by, and the poison permeated his system, Sarek would grow dizzy and drop his guard, thus becoming an easy target.

  When he saw Taryn walking toward the improvised challenge square, Sarek quickly rose to his feet. As was traditional, both combatants were clad only in short, loose trousers, so that most of their bodies would be bare—and thus more vulnerable to the poisoned blades.

  Accompanied by Spock, Sarek walked to meet his opponent. The centurion Taryn had addressed as Poldar—another of the transplanted Vulcans—stood impassively awaiting them in the center of the combat square. In his arms rested a carved display case, and within it, in recessed niches, the twosenapas. When he reached the middle of the square, Taryn, with a mocking salute, indicated that the ambassador should take the first choice of weapons.

  Sarek studied the twosenapas. They appeared identical; a curved, half-moon blade, wickedly sharp, with a handgrip and a padded rest for the knuckles, so they would not touch the blade. Sarek selected the weapon nearest him, grasped it, then stepped back, waiting while Taryn took the other. He hefted thesenapa… it had been a long time since he’d practiced with one. It was, of course, a slashing weapon rather than a stabbing one.

  Poldar motioned the two seconds, Spock and Savel, to back away from the square. Sarek took a deep breath, trying to loosen his muscles. He rolled his weight onto the balls of his feet, and assumed a balanced stance, right foot slightly ahead of the left.

  “Begin,” said Poldar, and Sarek was surprised to hear the centurion say the word in Vulcan. He glanced at the young Vulcan—and that nearly proved his undoing, for Taryn, moving with the silent deadliness of ale-matya, sprang forward. Only his son’s reflexive gasp made the Vulcan leap backward, and he avoided Taryn’s blade by centimeters.

  Backing away cautiously, keeping one eye out for the boundary lines of the combat square (for to step over one was to lose automatically and face execution), Sarek was careful to stay near the middle of the marked-off enclosure. A square enclosure was far more dangerous than a circular one—a combatant could be trapped in a corner, and it was a rare fighter indeed who could fight his way out of that situation and remain unscathed.

  The Vulcan tried a few experimental swipes with hissenapa, getting the feel of the weapon. At one time, Sarek had been able to flip thesenapa in the air and catch it by the handle with either hand—but that was over a hundred years ago.

  Taryn had evidently been sizing his opponent up, for he came in again, low and fast, feinting to the right, then slashing quickly left. Again Sarek managed to dodge and twist, avoiding the blade by a hairbreadth. But the effort left him short of breath…and Taryn, seeing that, smiled.

  The ambassador continued his slow circle in the center of the enclosure, watching for an opening. “Step over the line, old one,” Taryn said, mockingly. “Make it easy on yourself.”

  “Did no one ever teach you that insulting your opponent is the mark of a coward and a bully?” Sarek asked, keeping his voice maddeningly calm.

  Taryn’s face twisted with anger, and he lunged again at Sarek. The ambassador sidestepped, his foot lashing out, tripping Taryn, even as he brought his unweaponed fist down on the back of his opponent’s neck. With a grunt, Taryn fell forward, but he had been well trained—the commander turned the fall into a roll, and was back on his feet before Sarek could take advantage. Taryn eyed his opponent warily, and the smug, overconfident expression in his eyes had now altered to a look of respect.

  Sarek began planning his next strategy—until he saw Taryn’s eyes widen, and then gleam excitedly. At the same moment, he felt a faint, stinging burn along his left side, over his ribs. Looking down, he saw the thin line of green. A tiny slash—but, over time, it would be enough. The ambassador’s breath hissed between his teeth. Deliberately he began circling again, hoping that Taryn would be content not to close with him for the moment.

  Centering himself, the Vulcan reached inward with his sense of his physical self. Like all Vulcans, he’d been trained in biocontrol and biofeedback. The poison…yes, it was spreading outward from the little wound. Just a tiny amount, but it would make him sluggish, and, eventually, disable him. Concentrating fiercely, the ambassador managed to slow down his circulation, stemming
the spread of the poison. It was all he could do….

  Tired of waiting for Sarek to succumb to the poison, Taryn attacked again, lashing out in a hard, flat arc that would have slashed the Vulcan’s throat had he not ducked under it. Sarek came in close, his elbow up and out, and it struck the commander hard, not in the throat as he’d planned, but on the side of his jaw. Taryn grunted and staggered back, but when Sarek attempted to follow his advantage, the commander kicked him hard in the left patella.

  Pain seared through Sarek’s leg, and it nearly buckled beneath him. Somehow, the Vulcan managed to stay on his feet, but he was gasping painfully. Fire shot through his veins, and for a moment he couldn’t decide whether it was from the poison, or lack of air. Blackness hovered at the edge of his vision, but several deep, gasping breaths forced it to retreat.

  “You are better than I expected, Ambassador,” Taryn said. Sarek was too winded to be gratified by the sweat that shone on the commander’s face and chest. “But you are in no condition for this and you know it. Step out, and I guarantee you a quick, clean death with honor. Why prolong this?”

  I must end this soon,Sarek thought. Then a possible strategy occurred to him, and he began shuffling toward the commander, feigning (he did not have to playact much, actually) weakness along his entire left side.

  Right-handed as usual, Sarek aimed an awkward, underhand slash at Taryn’s shoulder. The commander, as he’d planned, leaped to Sarek’s left, closing in for the kill. Sarek pivoted away from the other’s blade, and then with every ounce of control he could muster, the ambassador flipped thesenapa into the air—

  —and caught it left-handed.

  Taryn was still leaning into his swing, unaware that his entire side was now a target. With a flick of his left wrist, Sarek slashed him lightly, along the ribs, once…and then again.