Vulcan's Soul Trilogy Book One

by Josepha Sherman

  Now the second reason for them all being outdoors was made clear. Overhead, three sleek flights of ships—Federation, Klingon, and Romulan—roared by, each in perfect close formation.

  A great deal of diplomacy had gone into which planet’s squadron should go first, and how many ships should constitute a squadron. The Klingons had agreed to leave it to chance, and the Romulans, great gamblers that they were, had agreed. So first, by the luck of the draw, zoomed four sleek silver ships of the Federation in perfect diamond formation, then four fierce dark green vessels of the Klingons, also in diamond formation (“Anything you can do, we can do better”), and last, the deadly blood-green Romulan ships in their own formation. That it closely resembled diamond formation was, of course, merely coincidence.

  As each squadron in turn dipped down toward the sweeping orange arc of the newly rebuilt Golden Gate Bridge, one ship from each government peeled off in the human custom of the “missing man” formation. The Federation personnel stood at attention. The Romulans and Klingons had been briefed about the meaning of the gesture; both cultures understood far too well the custom of giving honor to fallen heroes. The Romulans saluted, clenched fists to chests, all of them as one, in perfect precision, and the Klingons threw back their heads and gave wild howls of tribute.

  Spock and Saavik exchanged glances, saying a great deal without words. For that instant, the three powers had actually been acting and feeling as one.

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the moment could last?” Saavik asked. “If we could all stay so amazingly unified. Of course,” she added, “that is logically not possible.”

  There was less than a .00035563 chance of such an intense feeling of unity lasting any longer than it took for the ships to zoom out of sight. But Spock had spent so much time and effort in bringing the three powers at least this far that he felt obliged to defend them.

  “It is logical to postulate that some form of the alliance will continue,” he said. “The Klingon Empire, under Chancellor Martok, continues to favor a partnership with the Federation, at least. And the Romulans, we both know, are pragmatic enough to see a continued alliance as useful.”

  Saavik, half-Romulan herself, raised a wry eyebrow. “At least for now. Assuming that nothing goes wrong.”

  “Worry about the future,” Spock told his wife, “is a human trait.”

  She smiled ever so slightly and retaliated by seemingly accidentally brushing a finger across his hand. To a touch telepath, that was as powerful as a passionate kiss, and it sent an involuntary little shiver down Spock’s spine.

  “That,” he said, “is not the issue.”

  “It can be,” she said demurely with a sly little sideways glance. “I do have leave right now, after all, and I believe you are not on assignment just now, either, my husband.”

  He crooked up an eyebrow. “Fascinating.”

  “Is it not?”

  But suddenly there was a roar of static that stopped their gentle flirtation and silenced the crowd. “Look!” someone yelled.

  An image was forming on the great viewscreen, crackling and flickering with interference. Part of the celebration, surely, sent in from some distant Federation world.

  But then the crowd cried out in shock, the Romulan voices fierce above the others, as one figure suddenly was clear on the screen:

  “A Romulan woman,” Saavik said sharply.

  “A Romulan officer,” Spock added, then corrected himself. “More precisely, a proconsul; that is a proconsul’s uniform.”

  The woman was disheveled, her uniform torn and stained, and a long green streak of blood trailed down the side of her face. Smoke and flames surged up around her, hiding the rest of the image.

  “I am Proconsul Terik,” she reported against a background of steady explosions and gunfire, “of the Romulan Star Empire colony Nemor. This day, at Third Hour, a fleet of alien ships was sighted crossing out of the Neutral Zone into Romulan territory, heading toward Nemor. When they were challenged by Nemor’s forces, the alien vessels offered no communication but directly opened fire.”

  At her gesture, the scene shifted to a taped view looking out from the colony into space.

  What are those ships? Spock wondered. The design…it is not like any I know, and yet…there is something almost familiar…something out of history, perhaps…

  Spock dropped surmise, watching, as shocked as everyone else, as the aliens took out each Romulan ship that challenged them, destroying the ships with blasts of eerie green flame, with what seemed contemptuous ease.

  The image returned to the despairing proconsul. “The attackers do not appear Klingon…” (“They are not!” the Klingons roared.) “…or Federation, and certainly not Vulcan. No one on our colony has ever seen such bizarre ship configurations—and no Romulan has ever died like this!”

  A horrendous blast shook the image, and for a moment it was lost to wildly shifting bands of interference. Then it cleared, at least enough to show Proconsul Terik grimly facing the screen. “That last attack destroyed the colony’s shield generators,” she said. “Our land-based defenses cannot hold out much longer. It is the end for us. I send this message to Praetor Neral on the homeworld: He must know what happened here! All the Empire must know! This cowardly attack against a colony world must be avenged.”

  Terik’s eyes widened. Her face hardened in resolution. “Life to the Empire!” she cried.

  A blazing nova of green flame engulfed her world—and then the screen went dark.

  The crowd exploded into chaos, everyone shouting at once, and the Romulans’ shouts were even fiercer than that of the Klingons.

  But before anyone could say anything constructive, a new image formed on the screen. The crowd fell deathly silent, staring. This was the eerie, shell-like face of an unknown alien—

  No, Spock thought. What they were seeing was some form of ceremonial mask, a perfect, featureless oval of so dark a green that it was almost black, and ornamented with etched zigzags from top to bottom like so many lightning bolts. The mask covered the alien’s face so completely that only the occasional hints of dark blue eyes could be seen.

  The alien’s voice boomed out, cold and utterly without emotion, “I am a Watraii. You do not know this name yet, but you shall. You will come to learn it and to fear and respect it as well. For we are a wronged people, a race denied its rightful home. Hear me, you who watch. My people lay claim to the homeworlds of our kind. We lay claim to nothing less than the worlds you call Romulus and Remus.”

  “No!” a Romulan cried.

  “Impossible!”

  “This cannot—”

  “How dare they—”

  “Who are—”

  “Ours is a right and just claim,” the alien who called himself Watraii continued relentlessly. “Hear and understand: These two worlds you claim are not your property or heritage! You are mere beggars, homeless wanderers—you are not native to our worlds!”

  That much, Spock thought, was true—but that did not justify the destruction of innocents.

  “Those worlds once belonged to the Watraii,” the masked figure continued fiercely. “It is our people who are the wronged ones, our people who were forced into exile by the usurpers and killers who now call themselves Romulans. But hear me, all of you, and know I speak for the Watraii. These worlds will belong to us again!”

  The screen went blank.

  The crowd erupted into a wild new roar of shouts, screeches, screams, yells, and trumpetings. Over it all, the Romulans could be heard shouting in what seemed genuine outrage, “Lies! Foul lies!”

  Are they lies? Spock wondered. If they are not…

  Were he human, he would no doubt have been despairing right now. If the aliens really could prove that the Romulans were guilty of atrocities, it would end the hope of any Romulan-Federation alliance. The Romulans didn’t have the might to fight a war over what to them would be a horrible loss of honor—and the resulting chaos might not just destabilize their government, it
might destroy them. But if the Watraii had no just claim after all, if it turned out that they had destroyed the colony without even the flimsy argument of revenge—that could lead to a hopeless war as well.

  We cannot let either catastrophe happen. Those who live today cannot be blamed for what happened in the long-ago past. We cannot let destruction come in any form, for any reason, not to the Sundered, our own cousins, not to the Federation, not to any of our allies.

  Spock and Saavik exchanged a second quick, understanding glance. For all the fine words of alliance that both sides were de-claiming right now, he and she knew perfectly well that the Federation was not going to get involved in this, especially not right after a war. Besides, there were too many hard memories between both sides, and too many in the Federation who wouldn’t want to help Romulans.

  But…there is someone who might be able to help. In fact, the only one who might.

  As soon as he could, Spock slipped away to contact Admiral Uhura.

  Four

  Memory

  “You can’t do that!” The tallest guard whirled just in time to stop the lean man Surak had called Skamandros from edging up behind him and catching his neck in viselike fingers.

  A second guard took young Varen and began to fit his wrists with binders. Prudently, he offered no resistance.

  The tall guard chuckled. “That’s a good one, T’Kehr Karatek. I thought they kept you scientists too busy down there working on the gods only know what sort of demon’s snare to remember the old ways. Didn’t you, Subcommander?” He turned to his superior officer, who was moving in on Surak, binders in hand.

  As Karatek met his eyes, the subcommander deactivated the binders’ charge.

  “Will you still dare to arrest them now that I stand as their host, Ivek?” Karatek asked. Subcommander Ivek and he were old acquaintances: schoolmates, in fact, and friends until the last war, when an argument over politics had divided them.

  “Your own subordinate’s reaction gives you away. I know you know that law is still on the books,” Karatek told him. “But, if you don’t believe me, call in to headquarters. You never did have much of a memory. And history was never your subject.”

  “There is no logic in shaming a man as he seeks to perform his duty,” Surak spoke up in the pure High Vulcan for which ShiKahr had been famous before the Vulcan Space Initiative had focused on technology, not ancient learning. “To save the subcommander the trouble, here is the relevant citation: ‘Once a freeholder and citizen offers fire and water, claiming a stranger as guest-friend, he stands surety for the guest-friend’s conduct and his debts.’ ”

  Ivek burst out laughing. “You! Here we all hear that Surak is supposed to be the great one for logic! So, here we are, trying to arrest you. Karatek here has offered to take you in; and you reprimand him, then quote me the law? That’s not just illogical, that’s incongruous!”

  “I but speak the truth,” said Surak. “Laughter in the face of truth is superfluous emotionalism.”

  Ivek subsided, flushing green at the reprimand. The blade of Surak’s wit carries two edges, Karatek thought.

  The newcomer raised his hand, his fingers parted. “Live long and prosper, Karatek of ShiKahr. I am Surak. I come to serve. Your offer honors me.”

  “And your service honors me,” responded Karatek, raising his hand and struggling somewhat with the formal salute that few educated, city-dwelling Vulcans used these days, except when taking oaths. Generations ago, the greeting had meant that you held no weapon in your hand. But now that most weapons were fired from a distance, many sophisticated people claimed the old greeting was obsolete—to say nothing of dishonest. There were many people whom one did not wish to live long and prosper or to enjoy peace and long life.

  Did Surak know what he was saying? Karatek thought he did. But did Karatek? Clearly, Ivek at least had some doubts.

  “Karatek, think about what you’re doing!” Ivek hissed at him. “These men have come to ShiKahr to break the peace as they’ve broken it halfway across the North Continent.”

  “A more accurate estimation of our distance traveled is 42 percent. 42.85 percent, to be more precise,” Surak said. “Subcommander Ivek, if you accept that we are under T’Kehr Karatek’s recognizance, may I ask you to release my associates?”

  “My life answers for their acts.” For the first time, Karatek spoke the ritual words in comprehension of the risks that lay behind them. Once uttered, his promise could not be withdrawn.

  Ivek shook his head at his comrades. “You heard the T’Kehr. He always was a rash one, even when we were in school. It’s his blood on the sands if these people…disappoint him. So we’ll just let him unbind these…these guest-friends of his. Peace and long life indeed, Karatek. It would make more sense to wish you good luck, but I daresay this philosopher you’re taking in off the sands would say luck wasn’t logical either.”

  “People make their own futures,” said Surak, inclining his head to the guards. “They call you T’Kehr?” he asked. As he turned to Karatek, the scientist was struck by the intensity of his eyes in his controlled face. “May I ask…?”

  “Senior research scientist at the Vulcan Space Initiative, though I’ve been doing a lot of engineering these days. High-performance engines.”

  “Then your claiming my associates and me as guest-friends is indeed a desirable outcome,” Surak said.

  “Perhaps you will explain tonight,” said Karatek. “But only after you have received water and fire, as the law says, and you’ve had a chance at a meal and some rest.”

  Varen, years younger than the other two and of the sort whose courage and strength flared up brightly, then subsided, looked up at Karatek’s words. Visibly, he suppressed a smile. Even Skamandros unbent slightly.

  “If you will lead the way…T’Kehr?” Surak suggested to his host. Behind him, the guards straightened to attention, while Ivek, their commanding officer, shrugged.

  What have I let myself in for? Karatek wondered.

  He suspected that Surak would consider second thoughts illogical.

  Smaller than the classic villas built during the height of the nomad raids, Karatek’s house had high walls that resembled those much older dwellings. The entry bridge that arched over a deep trench lined with sharp stones creaked beneath their feet. Traditionally, those creaks served as a warning to those inside, but it was a warning augmented now by modern locks and sensors embedded in the fire-hardened wood gates, reinforced by panels of metal weathered almost blood green and etched by sandstorms.

  The gates opened as Karatek’s small party approached. He led them past the protective outer wall, through a shaded entryway’s pleasurably cool shadows, and into the courtyard around which his home was built. He had only the one courtyard that must serve for guests as well as for more private family life; these days, however, most Vulcans’ time was so caught up in work or the war effort (frequently related) that the ceremonies of welcome, of meal preparation, of relaxation had all but vanished from their routines.

  At the far end of the courtyard was a garden of blood-green plants, some spiny, some blossoming, interspersed with standing stones. On one side of the garden, the sand was raked into traditional patterns. On the other, Karatek saw heat-shimmer rising above the raised firepit with its broad lip that could serve as a table.

  In the center of the courtyard was the fountain, symbol of the presence of water that made this home possible. Seated on a heavy bloodstone bench beside it was Karatek’s wife, T’Vysse.

  Didn’t her modern history classes meet at this hour? Karatek thought. It was a matter for reproach, he confessed to himself, that he no longer knew T’Vysse’s schedule as well as his own. So, Ivek had apparently not regarded Karatek’s promise of guest-friendship as closing his inquiry. He must have taken it upon himself to call T’Vysse at the Academy.

  “My wife,” Karatek intoned properly. He walked to her side and touched his fingers to hers with more warmth than was strictly necessary. Logic
be damned to the Womb of Fire, a man had a right to enjoy coming home, and he’d been sleeping in his office for the past three days. As always, he marveled that his wife’s patience still held. Their marriage bond had been a family arrangement that could have been dissolved at any time after both Houses had been supplied with heirs. Instead, it had blossomed into something that delighted and awed Karatek every time he looked at T’Vysse.

  She was tall and slender, with hair that gleamed like obsidian, secured by jade clasps. Her face was serene, her movements collected. And, as she straightened the fold of sleeve his gesture had disarranged, she awarded him a look that clearly promised that later on, they would have Words.

  Later for you too, my own, he thought, meaning something altogether different. Her fingers moved against his, a sign she understood.

  “I am T’Vysse, consort of Karatek,” she told his three companions. “I welcome thee to the sanctity of our home.”

  The old, formal words. Trust a historian to know them, or, at the very least, to have looked them up fast.

  Surak went formally to one knee, bowing his head. Not as deeply as for a matriarch or a priestess, but enough to show respect.

  T’Vysse inclined her head, put out her hand, but did not touch her guest’s head: that benediction was reserved for priestesses. From the carved stone lip of the fountain, she took up three stone cups. They were ancient, carved from a tree petrified so long ago that none of its descendants survived, and so thin that the setting sun shone crimson through them. Filling them with water from the fountain, she held them out to Surak, Varen, and Skamandros.

  “Fire and water be thine, my guests,” she said in the Old High Vulcan of ceremony. “Thee shall be taken to guest rooms where fresh clothing awaits while a meal is prepared.”

  Karatek cast T’Vysse a puzzled look. They had only the one guest room; the other bedrooms were for their children, the two sons and the daughter whose loss to a terrorist “incident” still made T’Vysse flinch at loud noises.