“My compliments on your companion’s reasoning,” said the high priestess.
“What good is a transmitter without receivers?” Skamandros demanded.
Karatek was tracing the wiring. No, this was no intricate ornamentation: it was circuitry.
“I think it can receive as well as transmit,” Karatek replied. But what signal?
Surak nodded toward the high priestess and the crown she wore, with its gem, like the beak of a shavokh, jutting from the plain metal band that circled her brow.
Swiftly, Surak placed the crown on his head, stiffened, and fell. Skamandros’s shout of “no!” resounded through the Hall of Ancient Thought, shattering its holy silence.
Thirteen
Memory
“This is your fault!” Skamandros shouted at the high priestess. He flung himself forward until he crouched beside Surak like his shadow. “If my master dies…”
“You will extract my katra from this crown and bring it, if you can, to the Halls of Ancient Thought,” came Surak’s level voice. “For now, however, you will apologize to this worthy priestess for your lack of control.”
Surak rose to his feet, the crown glowing on his head.
Not even a “thee.” Skamandros’s face went dark. “I ask pardon,” said Surak’s shadow.
The Unbonded clustered around the high priestess, clearly prepared to defend her. Most of them, Karatek remembered, were Healers-in-training. Who better to know a man’s vulnerabilities than those who knew best how to preserve life?
“Thee had great provocation.” The high priestess inclined her head, accepting Skamandros’s apology despite its patent insincerity.
Karatek reached out to take the crown from Surak’s brow, then let his hands fall.
“I didn’t think such a thing was possible,” he whispered. “It’s a telepathic recorder, isn’t it? Night and day, I would not have thought the te-Vikram were far enough advanced to develop such a thing!”
Everyone knew that the adepts of Seleya and Gol could touch one’s thoughts—and more. But for that skill, for an intimacy that profound and secret to reside in the gems and wires of a machine…
The adept of Gol, who had long forgotten his own name, cleared his throat in what Karatek, to his amazement, recognized as disgust.
“Thy wonder is ill advised,” he rebuked Karatek and Surak. “Consider what this…this instrument cost. Not in gems, but in the total number of minds the te-Vikram violated in creating it.”
Karatek flinched at the thought. In his passage through the desert, he had seen enough of te-Vikram violence by conventional means. All he wanted now was to survive the trek home to ShiKahr and take up his old life. He had not needed Surak’s calculations to know how improbable that second ambition was, especially now.
“An interesting moral point,” the high priestess cut across his chill voice. “Sacrifice was inflicted on many Vulcans to produce this device, which records thoughts, memories, and even emotions—although T’Kehr Surak here”—her voice went ironic—“would claim we should suppress them. I myself am reluctant to destroy what is a work of great craft and, potentially, much use, for good or ill.”
“It should be smashed beyond the ability to reconstruct!” snarled the adept.
“Why?” asked Surak. “If, out of a sense of moral outrage, you destroy it, you pay no tribute to the sacrifice forced upon the men and women whose minds were violated in creating this coronet. If you use it, however, in the enhancement of science or philosophy, it would seem to me that you create a memorial.”
“I do not doubt,” said the high priestess, “that this is a fascinating new ethical speculation. I can think of no one better equipped to pursue it than Surak of Vulcan. It can be the subject for thy Second Analects,” she added with a bleak smile. “I shall look forward to them. Take the coronet, then. Remove it from our presence. Create a record. And then, if it seems logical to thee, return the device.
“I grow weary now,” she added after a pause in which even Surak’s control was tested as he thanked her. “This audience is ended. Thee has leave to remain here for the night. My daughters will bring thee food, fire, and water.”
As ordered, they departed in the morning after the dawn chants. The sky had already begun to redden toward full day. As the winds subsided, they filed over the narrow bridge, trying not to waver.
Once again, Karatek crossed last. As he touched down onto the plain by the stairs, he looked out across the plain and saw, circling below him, a sundweller. It gleamed in the sun, banked, and took wing toward ShiKahr.
Fourteen
Now
VULCAN
The lecture hall, like all the halls that lay within the buildings of the Vulcan Science Academy, was a tranquil room. There were no ornaments, no statuary, nothing that could distract the eye or mind from the lecturer, and yet the very purity of the room’s clean lines was soothing.
The walls were made out of huge blocks of smooth gray volcanic stone. In the practical Vulcan style, the outer wall was thicker than the others to keep out the intense desert heat, and had a row of high-set windows that allowed the easy flow of air and kept the hall comfortable in all but the hottest of summer days. The careful, gradual slope of the floor from the speaker’s stand up to the rows of students allowed all who were in attendance to clearly see the speaker, and at the same time the natural acoustics ensured that no amplified speech was necessary.
Convenient, that last feature, Ruanek thought, especially for someone like himself, who’d had two lectures to deliver this day. And who was just now coming to the end of the second of them.
“…and so,” Ruanek continued to his all-Vulcan audience, “it can logically be concluded that the phrase ‘T’kal ni narak alat N’garkar Ack,’ or, in modern colloquial Vulcan, ‘Midday sun, Soul Eater come,’ can be directly traced back through modern Romulan to archaic Vulcan and to the folk beliefs of the pre-Surak era.”
He put down his data scrolls and stepped back from the podium, signaling in Vulcan fashion that he was done, and stood looking about the stoic faces and sharply alive eyes of his audience, waiting. Of course there was no applause or any other relatively emotional outward sign of approval; that was not a Vulcan custom. But Ruanek knew by their very stillness that they were giving him a sign of their appreciation, waiting a few moments before asking their questions out of respect for his scholarship. Since several professors of linguistics and folk belief were in the audience, that was high praise indeed.
Flattering, Ruanek admitted.
That there would be questions was without doubt. Vulcans, emotion-controlled though they were, were still every bit as curious as Earth cats. It was one of the traits, Ruanek thought with an inner smile, that he and they shared in common.
Ah yes, here came the questions.
“Have you ever heard ‘ni narak’ pronounced ‘ni nurak’ as it is in the Kora Scrolls?”
“That is a regional pronunciation from Romulus’s Parak Province, yes,” Ruanek answered. “They also tend to slur their vowels, ‘ni’nrak.’ ”
“Is the belief in the Eater of Souls strictly a rural phenomenon or is it also prevalent in cities such as Ki Baratan?”
The Eater of Souls was an archetypal figure in ancient Vulcan mythology, a demon that ate the soul of anyone foolish enough to be out in the midday heat.
“Ki Baratan had about twelve million citizens when I…left,” Ruanek said carefully. “Logically, I could not speak for them all. I have never heard any codified folktales about the Eater of Souls the way there are some here on Vulcan. But I have, indeed, seen and heard mothers in Ki Baratan scold their children with ‘Behave, or the Eater of Souls will get you.’
“On Romulus, with its lack of any sizable desert regions, the demon has been softened into merely a figure with which to frighten children into behaving. However, it has not completely lost its power among adults, since there are even some protective amulets against the Eater of Souls sold in the poorer sections
. For reasons that should be obvious,” he added, “I do not have any of those amulets to show you.”
For a moment, Ruanek was caught off-guard by an unexpected stab of memory, overcome by a rush of nostalgia so bittersweet and strong that he could almost see the maze of streets in the market quarter of Ki Baratan, hear the noise of ordinary people living ordinary lives, and smell the hot, slightly bitter scent of brewing khavas….
No matter how you might wish it otherwise, the past was just that. You couldn’t go back to what had been, Ruanek reminded himself sternly. And the hard and bluntly honest truth was that life hadn’t been so wonderful back then. He was far happier here.
But his background was, of course, one of the reasons for the questions; he was, after all, the only one on Vulcan with a working knowledge of the most current Romulan idioms and dialects. It was an open secret on Vulcan that he had not actually been born on Vulcan, but was…or had been…a Romulan. He had not defected, akkh, never that. He had come here perforce while working to save Spock’s life—and then, by Romulan law, been unable to return home.
But Vulcan had given him refuge, Vulcan, where he no longer had to kill or worry about guarding his back. Vulcan, where he’d found the peace of the desert that he’d so badly needed. And where he had first met T’Selis…lovely wife of his heart and soul….
“If there are no more questions, gentlefolk…?”
As he and they filed out of the hall, Ruanek had to admit that he was rather amused at himself. Or was that, perhaps, bemused? Born into a Romulan House Minor, he’d been trained only to be a warrior, since that was the only career allowed for someone like himself. Yet here he was now, a scholar and a linguist as well, someone who had actually come to enjoy intellectual sparring as much as the martial arts.
What would the noble ancestors have thought?
Hah. The noble ancestors probably would have disowned me on the spot. Or maybe just tried to have drowned me like an unwanted arark.
He stopped short at the sight of a small, familiar figure in the brown robes of a Healer, and felt a surge of sheer delight rush through him at the sight of his wife. But her work as a Healer usually kept her busy at this time of day. “T’Selis! What are you doing here?”
She looked up at him with a Vulcan’s tranquil face, but her eyes were shadowed. “My husband, there is news that you must know. It seemed only logical that I be the one to tell you.”
“Wife? What’s wrong?”
“The news…concerns your birth world. Come home with me now and you can view it for yourself.” With a Healer’s gentleness, she added, “I will stay with you while you watch it.”
Much later, after he had watched the tape of destruction over and over again in utter silence, Ruanek had rushed from their house, still without a word. T’Selis, understanding, left him alone for a time.
But as the day began to darken into twilight, T’Selis sighed soundlessly. He has had more than enough time for solitude, she thought. It would not be healthy for him to begin to brood.
Slipping back into her hooded brown cloak, since the evening chill came on swiftly in the desert, T’Selis went looking for her husband. She found him where logic told her he would be. Ruanek found a greater peace in the desert than did many Vulcans.
Husband and wife stood together in silence in the reddish blue light of the fading day, not quite touching, looking out over the vast tranquil sweep of red sand and gray rock, the only sound the thin whisper of the evening breeze rustling grains of sand.
“When I first arrived on Vulcan,” Ruanek said suddenly, “I couldn’t get over the wonder of realizing that this, all this, actually existed. Living on a world like Romulus, a warrior in the barracks of Ki Baratan, I’d thought I’d merely dreamed it: a beautiful, wild, free place, one where nothing terrible had ever happened, nothing ever would.”
“There are predators,” T’Selis reminded him.
“Natural ones. Animals doing what they must do to live. They do not kill on orders, or for pleasure, or to exterminate a colony of defenseless people. T’Selis, I must leave.”
“To join Spock.”
“Yes.”
“And are you truly the only expert on Romulan affairs that Starfleet can find?”
“This…will not be a Starfleet mission.”
No, she realized after a moment of logical consideration, it would not be. It could not be. “Ruanek, tell me this: What do you expect to achieve?”
“The truth. Honor. Justice.”
Only Ruanek, T’Selis thought, could say that without sounding sanctimonious or false.
And you, my husband, are still, deep in your heart, a Romulan. But then, she corrected herself silently, those goals were not, after all, so very far from Vulcan ideals.
It would be illogical for her to mention any danger. Ruanek would know there would be danger. It would be even more illogical for her to mention that he was risking their life together—and his own, should he once again set foot on Romulan soil: He might have left Romulus only to save Spock, but that act still made him a condemned traitor in the eyes of Romulan law. But he would know all that, too.
T’Selis was not a human to say emotionally, Come back to me. Of course he would come back, were he able.
“I do not approve,” she said at last.
“I know. But—”
“But you are a free and”—with the ever so slight hint of a smile—“mostly logical being who is able to make your own decisions. Do what you must, husband. I shall wait.”
Fifteen
Memory
As they descended from the shrine beneath Mount Seleya’s peak, the Forge shivered. Rocks toppled down from the high plateau at Seleya’s base, ringing in the silence. Karatek shrank against the rock wall, sheltering Kovar and Sarissa with his body. When the tremor ceased, Surak picked up the pace once more.
Karatek met his eyes with complete understanding. That had been no natural tremor. Who had attacked, and where?
Though it was perilous to take a descent too fast, they made what speed they could down to the basin’s floor. With each step, Karatek felt as if he were changing identities once again. In ShiKahr, he had been an engineer, a father, a husband, a householder. Then, on the Forge, he had become something else: an explorer, a member of a small, endangered tribe, even, for one terrible moment, a warrior who stood in a holy place and shivered as his chieftain dealt with matters he did not wish to comprehend. Now Karatek shivered despite the heat as his old identity slipped back onto his shoulders like a familiar cloak. Once more, he was husband, father, householder, and scientist, oppressed by the thousand tiny but overwhelming questions of T’Kehr Karatek’s daily life.
How would T’Vysse accept the children he had brought her? How would their surviving two adapt? He fumbled in a pouch for the radiation badges he had carried out of ShiKahr but not worn on the Forge. As they returned to the city, such things became important once again.
“Put these on,” he instructed Kovar and Sarissa. His voice was harsh enough that they did not try to protest or question. A new anxiety possessed him as he watched the badges darken…no, their exposure was well within the limits a healthy Vulcan could tolerate. Though he could breathe again, reassured for now, his fosterlings would need full medical examinations, perhaps treatment to help them adapt to the lowlands. He only hoped they did not become ill after all they had endured. He had not rescued them only to lose them to radiation poisoning or biocide.
No pilgrims trudged along the sand track to or from Seleya, and that was strange. Skamandros, scouting ahead, loped back in the shimmering haze and pointed. Dust clouds puffed up at the horizon, wavering in the heat.
“What is it?” Kovar asked, speaking up in the presence of his elders as he had not dared while on the Forge.
“Ground vehicles,” Skamandros said, taking a sip of water. “Heavy personnel carriers. I would assume they carry armor.”
Even before the First Dynasty, when Seleya’s shrine had been no more tha
n rocks thrown up on the heights, pilgrims had always taken this road unarmed!
Karatek’s outrage must have showed in his eyes.
“It is illogical to assume that times will not change,” Surak said. “I am no foreseer, but I suspect that we will find ShiKahr much changed. I would suggest you retrieve your identification now, in case we are stopped.”
“That is,” Skamandros eyed him with his customary irony, “if you are still willing to tolerate us as guest-friends.”
If they were stopped by patrols—patrols along the pilgrimage route! Karatek thought with a sense of outrage he would never have expected, as a secular man, a man of science, to feel—he was the one who would have to negotiate their release.
It might have been easier to endure thirst and potential attack on the Forge.
There being nothing to say, Karatek bowed.
Smoke overpowered the tracks of the groundcars as they neared ShiKahr: sullen, dark puffs of it. Kovar pressed against Karatek’s side.
“What sort of attack causes that?” Sarissa whispered.
What sort of world produced children who knew to ask questions like that?
Karatek drew her and her brother close. He met Surak’s eyes over their heads. As usual, Surak was right. But Karatek knew the answer.
“It looks like an explosion,” Karatek said. Or an implosion, he added silently.
Skamandros’s head came up. “Flyer overhead,” he reported.
Kovar’s shoulder tensed under Karatek’s hand, as the boy prepared to run for cover. Sarissa clasped Karatek’s arm.
“As Skamandros reminded us, he and T’Kehr Surak are my guest-friends. I am a citizen here, and citizens have certain rights,” Karatek told Sarissa. “Even if it is illogical to assume that all things remain the same.”
“Besides, they can use sensors keyed to our body readings to track us,” Sarissa said, and flushed olive at Surak’s nod of approval.
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