Vulcan's Soul Trilogy Book One

by Josepha Sherman

  T’Raya, seated beside Torin, flinched. She had a son preparing for the kahs-wan and a husband who was an agronomist. Even his laboratory was outside.

  Her fear sparked Karatek’s. Had T’Vysse made it to shelter in the Vulcan Science Academy? His wife was no one’s fool, Karatek reminded himself. If radiation traces grew any higher, everyone in ShiKahr would have to go on potassium iodide, at least. Karatek closed his eyes, thinking of the last pilgrims he had seen. If they could make it to Seleya, assuming the Exiles in the Waste and te-Vikram raiders did not pick them off, the shrine’s Healers would tend them.

  Logic. Logic, Karatek reminded himself. Surak clearly had a point. If he could reason through his emotions, he could achieve control.

  Was that why their world—their splendid world with its passionate emotions like a rising and ebbing blood-green tide—had gone so wrong?

  Torin, wonder of wonders, was inclining his head in approval. “Thank you, T’Kehr…”

  “Surak will suffice,” the man cut in so smoothly that Torin did not register the fact he had been interrupted. “May I continue, sir?”

  “I am sure that you will continue to reassure us in your own peculiar way,” Torin consented. So, he had been aware of Surak’s rhetorical tricks. Been aware, yet permitted them. That permission might actually constitute approval, although Karatek suspected Torin would later have acerbic words for Karatek himself. Surak’s presence at the meeting had been prepared for, but nothing could have prepared them for what Surak might choose to say. And Torin had never tolerated surprises at staff meetings before.

  But, Karatek rationalized as if he already stood in Torin’s private office with the door closed, surprise was a valuable element of warfare. Because Torin had been a warrior, he might accept this analogy. That is, if he were thinking logically.

  A fascinating possibility. Surak’s logic clearly had potential Karatek had not foreseen.

  “Varen,” Surak said in an undertone, “will you please operate the viewer our host said we might use?”

  Reminding them that he had a right to speak. Clever, Surak, clever.

  If Varen had moved any faster, he might have incurred a rebuke for being overeager.

  “I am obliged,” Surak raised his voice slightly, “to T’Kehr Karatek for his invitation to join your staff meeting at the Space Initiative. I hope you are as aware as I am of the illogic of an installation designed to take Vulcans to the stars needing to cower beneath rock and soil.”

  Now, he acknowledged his obligation, albeit in a manner calculated to annoy everyone, Karatek thought. His decision had been made. It was pointless to second-guess himself. Illogical, even. Karatek suppressed a sigh.

  Varen projected an image of a star field.

  “Would you not call ‘cowering’ an emotionally laden term?” Torin asked, as if stepping out on the sand to challenge an adversary to single combat.

  Surak swept his glance about the gleaming room, with its heavy rock tables, the computers set into them, and the men and women leaning forward attentively in tubular metal chairs. He flicked it over the seismograph, the radiation detector, and the communications gear, then over the scientists, whose glances seemed fixed upon these links with the outer world rather than on the screen on which Varen flashed a series of (declassified) prototypes of ships built from VSI designs.

  “I consider ‘cowering’ an accurate description, not an exaggeration or insult,” Surak said.

  No “I regret to say” or “it seems to me.” Surak might be logical, but he was blunt almost to the point of discourtesy. And no one could call him modest. But then, no zealot ever was.

  “What is, is,” he added. “Expressing regret that is illogical to feel not only compounds the illogic, but wastes your valuable time. During my travels, I became aware of the ships that you have been building for the Northeastern Alliance. I have come here to propose that you repurpose these vessels. As it stands, they face a variety of uses, all undesirable. They might be subject to sabotage by agents of the te-Vikram; or the High Command might decide that the time for deterrence has passed.”

  “We have agreements of neutrality with the Southern Hegemony as well as the te-Vikram,” T’Raya pointed out. “Including the right to pass over the Forge unmolested not just for religious pilgrims, but for trading convoys.”

  “Have you indeed?” Surak half-bowed. “The lady T’Vysse, consort to my host, is an historian of some note. She could tell you better than I how often in Vulcan’s history such agreements have been broken. As matters currently stand, I calculate a one in 93.56 chance that neutrality will become an untenable position, even here in ShiKahr. While your city’s position as a trade center has enabled it to maintain neutrality while cities around it have fallen into war, history has shown us there invariably comes a time when enemies become stronger and seek to renegotiate agreements. Either in the council chamber or in blood.”

  “In other words…” Torin broke in, impatient as a student who deserved a reprimand.

  “In other words, I think the VSI will face a choice within 10.9 years: to become either a combatant or a target. And because of the expertise here, your entry into hostilities…”

  Lights flared on the communications panel. “May we have your attention? Security has received reports of missiles detonating north of us. Initial threat assessment is that they will explode harmlessly over the Sea. Meteorological reports indicate that radiation levels should rise 0.003 percent. Please remain inside and stay calm.”

  T’Raya leapt from her chair, then, with a great effort, seated herself. Her son’s teacher would lead the survival class to shelter in one of the caves outside the city. Her husband would take shelter. What would be would be, and she would have to endure it.

  But what of the others? What of their entire world? Karatek closed his eyes on his memory of Vulcan’s one sea, which he had visited once on pilgrimage. Now he saw it transformed, its shallow tides replaced by an image of a hideous, irradiated wall of water, rushing toward the shore, obliterating all it touched….

  No. What was, was. He looked down.

  Varekat stirred in his chair. Of middle height and age, but great personal assurance, Varekat was their arms expert. Most of the VSI kept silent on his research, but the Womb of Fire beyond the Forge was mute testament to the efficacy of the research of his colleagues from prior generations.

  When confronted by the evidence of history, Varekat had always retorted that Vulcan had survived those wars. It had rebuilt, using what technology and what scientists remained as a base. In fact, it had rebuilt stronger than before. This time, however…Just because Vulcan had always survived did not mean that one quantum leap of technology might prevent them from surviving the next war.

  Now, Varekat too looked down and to the side, as if Surak had spoken of the blood fever to a celibate of Gol.

  He rose and bowed. “I apologize,” he said.

  “For showing emotion?” Surak asked. “For shame? Or for the type of research you have made your lifework?”

  “I cannot say,” Varekat muttered. “But my resignation will be on T’Kehr Torin’s console after this meeting.”

  “Superfluous,” said Surak. “You jump to conclusions. Your learning is valuable. Listen to what I propose. From our earliest days in exploring our system, we have faced the possibility that, one day, we might meet another race even more violent than ourselves. That is, however, no reason to…cower here on Vulcan and wait for our own wars to destroy us.”

  “Do you really think that’s going to happen?” asked T’Raya.

  “I calculate odds of three hundred and fifty to one,” Surak said. “Unacceptably high when the subject under discussion is the survival of our species and even our world. As a result, I have been speaking to every Vulcan who will listen. My goal is to wage peace as aggressively as the warring clans have waged war as far back as our history runs. But, should that fail, I think we must consider the possibility of sending some critical remnant of the
population to journey far, far offworld.

  “In other words,” he said, gesturing at Varen to flash images of ships reconfigured as colony vessels, augmented life-support systems that included vast green areas of gardens and hydroponic tanks, “it would be logical to turn your warships into generation ships. Send out those who are willing to go, who are weary of the constant battle, the poisoned air, the desolate ground.”

  Karatek glanced around the room. Torin’s brow was knitted in deep thought. T’Raya stared intently at the images of the sorts of hydroponic engineering that generation ships would require before her eyes lit with hope. Varekat glanced away, and covered his face, while others brightened at Surak’s phrase “those who are willing to go.” Like Zerin, who always had been more politicized than the rest of them, more prone to advocating the sorts of general theories that would sweep hundreds of thousands of Vulcans into action.

  “Should total war erupt,” Surak said, “should the weapons created by the Varekats—if you will forgive me, sir—of this Mother World all be used, it may be that these people become all that might remain—anywhere in the universe.”

  Karatek heard himself gasp. He was not alone.

  “Madness,” shouted T’Arvot, a much older woman whose work on navigation had so preoccupied her in the sixty years since she had finished her training that Karatek suspected she didn’t know the names of their allies, much less their enemies. For her, the stars programmed into her guidance models had become a replacement family.

  “That I am mad is a possibility you must factor into your risk assessment,” Surak said gently. “But will you run the risk that our lives, our culture, our world itself be destroyed because you find the thought unpleasant? Or”—he eyed her shrewdly before sweeping his gaze across the room—“will you rise to a technological and scientific challenge greater than any your discipline has ever confronted?”

  T’Arvot chuckled. “You are shrewd, stranger. I would have given much to see you persuade Karatek to yield his presentation time to you. Ordinarily, we cannot keep him quiet. And now?” She fixed a glance like a laser on Karatek. “What have you to say for yourself, young man?”

  Karatek rose from his chair. “Let me have that thing,” he muttered to Varen as he replaced him at the viewer’s controls. “I am a propulsion engineer, a competent one, I hope, but I became an engineer because the High Command told me there were not sufficient jobs for pure physicists.”

  He raised a hand. “Regret is, as our guest would say, illogical. Inevitably, the study of propulsion leads me to engines, to quantum mechanics, and then it brings me up against a barrier: the speed of light itself. Now, it might be logical”—he inclined his head sardonically at Surak—“to assume that we are bound by that number. However, history points out that we are not a species that accepts bounds readily. Nevertheless, thus far, we have found no way, no funding, to conduct the research to try to exceed that velocity.”

  “The High Command has said that the speed of light cannot be exceeded,” Zerin reminded him. He was probably sending his patron on the Council a message right now. His computer beeped, and he gave it a betrayed, hostile look, then glanced at Torin, whose face had darkened at his discourtesy.

  “ ‘Cannot’ is not a word to be used to princes,” Torin quoted. “Some of our ancestors died to prove that axiom untrue. But ‘cannot’ is a word that should be forbidden to scientists. Proceed, Karatek.”

  “If,” Karatek found himself almost stammering as he fought to bring out thoughts that he had only half-formulated, “if…we headed out to the stars, it might be that that isolation would force us to concentrate upon the problem. Freed of the constraints of justifying our funding and adapting our best designs for war, we might…I cannot calculate the odds as quickly as my guest, but…”

  Surak bowed, but did not supply a number.

  Karatek flashed through the presentation he had hoped to make, of how their current propulsion systems could be boosted to eighty-five percent of the speed of light.

  “And if these generation ships of yours ran out of resources?”

  “We have suits,” Varen cried. “There are star systems along the way. We do not need Minshara-class worlds to mine for metals or tap for gases. And catalytic chemistry…”

  “Kroykah!” Torin commanded. “We are getting off the main subject, which is our guest’s overall plan. Have you anything else to add?” Anything else outrageous, his tone indicated. As he swept his gaze around the room of tense, excited scientists, Torin’s gaze was as expressionless as Surak’s own.

  “If my host will allow me, I do have one more thing to say,” Surak said. “Karatek raises the question of how propulsion systems might be augmented to break the barrier now imposed by the speed of light. As you may know, when I laid aside my research into computer science, I went to Seleya and, thence, to Gol. Are you aware that the work that the adepts do there is more than religious? They can manipulate minds, true. Time spent working with a Seleyan Healer can coax the sick at heart toward renewed purpose. I have spoken to the adepts and the Healers, and I am convinced they work not just with thoughts and minds, but with the very energy that minds produce. Like the rest of us, they are touch telepaths, although they have developed their skills to a degree the rest of us have not. But some of them are equally adept in moving matter and hearing at distances: telekinetics and clairaudience. So, without offending anyone’s faith, I would consider it logical and desirable to see if they were willing to offer solutions drawn from their own expertise.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “Then we should attempt to persuade them. Logically, and persistently.” Surak inclined his head.

  “In short,” said Torin, “you require more information. How much more?”

  Now it was Surak’s turn to look down, almost abashed.

  “I ask pardon. I do not know,” he admitted.

  “So,” asked Torin, “you do just not wheedle your way in here, the latest mad prophet from off the Forge, demanding we change our way of life or the world will end. Your message is much the same, but your method…”

  He ran his hand over the left side of his face, where a scar slashed down one cheek and continued past where the high neck of his sandsuit and laboratory coat concealed it. Karatek had once asked him why he had not had the scar removed and had never forgotten Torin’s answer. “When I got these injuries, I was sent to Seleya to be healed. They left me this mark. At first, I cursed them. Now, I see that they wished me to remember and to learn from my memories.”

  “I confess, I am intrigued by your suggestions,” Torin said. “Oh, don’t look so horrified, Zerin. Yes, I would be tempted to hire our guest as a consultant, but I know we don’t have the budget for it. So, instead, I will do the next best thing. I am sending Karatek on a fact-finding mission—no, he is not going on administrative or personal leave, but as a fully accredited representative of the VSI and at full pay. Surak, if he wishes, may accompany him. I gather he travels light: Karatek may find himself wanting to upgrade his survival skills,” he added wryly.

  With an effort, Karatek kept a rueful grin off his face. Torin had managed, simultaneously, to discipline him and hand him the freedom of research he had always wanted.

  “We will do everything we can to help our host!” offered Varen.

  Skamandros, sitting in the shadows, raised an eyebrow at the younger man, silencing him. Then he saluted Torin with his water flask and drained it, accepting the chairman’s instructions.

  Torin turned back to Karatek. “Karatek, here is your assignment: Accompany Surak. Listen to what he says, to what people you can respect say to him. Learn what he learns. If you can find us no answers, at least, find us some better questions than the ones we’ve been dealing with since the last war.”

  Again, the ground shuddered. Harder this time than the earlier quake. A wall panel buckled, and the table jumped. Torin held up his hand, keeping his people in place.

  Threat assessment must have bee
n wrong. Either that, or a missile had triggered a landslide that activated a fault.

  “You’d think you never felt a quake before,” said T’Arvot. “And you are the people who want to go to the stars.”

  “Correction,” said Torin. “You wish to go. I suspect Karatek wishes to go. And I think T’Raya might persuade her husband that he wishes to go.

  “Still, I would deny no others their vision—and would gain their knowledge.”

  Again, he cocked his head, as if he listened to words no one else could hear.

  Possibly a bone implant, linking him to High Command, Karatek thought. Would I allow such a thing? I would not. But at least, it means that whatever I do is sanctioned, at least until yet another New Order replaces the current one.

  “When the all-clear sounds, depart in peace. And return,” Torin told Karatek, “assured of my welcome and your position back—with whatever information you find.”

  Karatek rose and held up his hand, showing palm and split fingers in the most formal greeting.

  “Live long and prosper,” he wished Torin and his fellow scientists.

  He did not see how they could wish him peace and long life in return. Nor did they try.

  As Karatek might have expected, Torin managed the last word. “May your life be interesting,” he wished.

  “That,” said Surak, “is self-evident.”

  Now that Surak had obtained precisely the concessions that Karatek realized he had wanted all along, he rose and bowed deeply to Torin. Then he swept from the underground conference room, closely followed by Varen and Skamandros.

  I’m damned if I’m going to scramble after him, Karatek thought. Surak, Varen, and Skamandros, though they wore security badges, would have to remain in the VSI’s underground complex until the alert passed. So Karatek rose with as much composure as his guest-friend, bowed with slightly less formality, and turned to escort his guests to the nearest dining room.

  “A moment,” said Torin. “I wish a word with you.”

  Even though Karatek had expected just that, he sighed.