Vulcan's Soul Trilogy Book One

by Josepha Sherman

  “You won’t make it.”

  “Ve’ll give it a good try.”

  “Come on, Pavel, you know better than this! If you somehow manage to survive, which is doubtful, they’ll court-martial you for this!”

  “Let them!” Chekov answered cheerfully. “Chekov out.”

  With that, he cut off the transmission, and grinned at the others. “I’ve been vanting to say something like that for years. So, now. That should buy us a little more time. By the time that they decide vhat to do about us, ve vill be vell on our vay.”

  “Agreed,” Spock said. To Saavik, he added, with only the very faintest edge of irony, “I believe it best for us to, as Dr. McCoy might have said it, ‘Get the hell out of Dodge.’ ”

  “Dr. McCoy,” she replied, “was a wise man, indeed.”

  Saavik’s command sent their improvised fleet zooming toward the Neutral Zone.

  “All ships’ channels open,” she ordered, and the command raced throughout all the fleet. “Captains, if we are to survive this mission, we must all be in agreement on tactics.”

  “I agree!” said Captain Tor’Ka. “There is no greater danger in battle than an unpredictable ally.”

  “If we are fortunate, it will not come to battle,” Saavik said. “But we must be prepared.”

  With all the ships’ channels open, she and the other captains plotted an intercept course with the Watraii ships in accordance with the coordinates that Uhura had given Saavik. She and the other captains hurriedly plotted strategy for the two possibilities, peaceful or warlike encounters. It was definitely one of the most complicated and intricate group transmissions that Spock had ever thought to help arrange.

  The actual plans of action were relatively easy: Since they didn’t know how many of the enemy there were, or what firepower they carried—move quickly and keep moving.

  It was the cultural and linguistic differences between captains that were causing problems.

  “We will keep the code words simple,” Saavik said to them all, “since we all know what the heat of battle does to the remembering of elaborate codes even in Vulcans.”

  “We are used to battle fury,” cut in the Klingon captain, JuB-Chal with a harsh laugh. “It does not cloud our minds.”

  “Congratulations,” Captain Butterworth retorted. “It must be nice to have such clear heads.”

  “Did you call us empty heads?”

  “No, Captain JuB-Chal,” Saavik said smoothly. “I’m sure you agree with us that the plans must be followed precisely?”

  “We understand battle plans!” roared the other Klingon captain, Tor’Ka.

  “Then you understand that there must be no ‘loose cannons.’ ”

  That silenced everyone until Spock explained, “It is a term dating from Earth’s nineteenth century, and meaning someone who is dangerous because of his or her unpredictability. A cannon that had broken loose from its moorings on the deck of a wooden oceanic sailing ship was a danger.”

  The term seemed to strike both Klingon captains as hilarious, for whatever Klingon reason, and Spock suspected from their enthusiasm and the way that they kept repeating “loose cannon” that he had just added a phrase to the Klingon language.

  But even they agreed that it made good battle practice for all the captains to hold their fire until they knew for certain what they were facing. There would, indeed, be no “loose cannons” here, but a unified fleet.

  “And,” Saavik added, “since there can logically be only one person giving the orders, the orders you follow will be mine. And no, gentlebeings,” she continued before there could be any arguments, “I am not trying to grab power or to insult anyone. It is simply the fact that my ship is the only one to carry an expert on the Watraii.”

  Surprisingly enough, the first to agree with this were the Klingons. “You are the one who first called together this glorious adventure,” Tor’Ka said. “As war leader, it is only right and honorable for you to be the one to give the orders.”

  The Vulcans and Starfleet personnel agreed without argument. One by one, the others grudgingly fell into line.

  “They will follow my orders,” Saavik muttered to Spock, “until I give one they don’t like, that is.”

  Judging from his wife’s suddenly fierce eyes, Spock thought that Saavik’s Romulan side was in perfect agreement with the idea of having taken leadership of the fleet. But at the heart of it, she was a true Vulcan, not someone to let herself be swayed by any emotion, particularly not one as dangerous as pride. No danger of any errors of judgment due to emotion.

  “Now that one problem is solved,” Spock said to Saavik, “I must try to solve another.”

  He retreated alone to Saavik’s ready room, where he prepared and sent a careful message. The channel he deliberately used was one that was years out of date, since it was a frequency rarely in use now and as a result one less likely to be traced, and the message was scrambled with codes that only Spock and one other knew.

  He added one word, a name, to the message to show its authenticity—a secret name, one that had been whispered to him once, back when he was still Spock of the U.S.S. Enterprise: Liviana.

  Liviana, whose public use name was Charvanek. Charvanek, widow of the Romulan praetor.

  Spock had first met Charvanek back when he was still a member of Enterprise’s crew and she was the enemy, a Romulan commander…a commander whom he had, in the name of Starfleet, seduced so that he could steal what had then been a cutting-edge secret device.

  But what had happened between them during that time had not been all utterly cold duty.

  Nor had it been all cold duty between them ten years ago on Romulus, when Spock, on a secret mission there, had worked together with Charvanek—with Ruanek’s aid—to overthrow the corrupt Praetor Dralath and put the more honorable Narviat in his place.

  The Narviat whom Charvanek had wed. And who was now deceased. Assassinated, which was the usual way for a Romulan praetor—and sometimes even an emperor—to die.

  It didn’t matter now whether Charvanek was wife or widow. Saavik—ah yes, she was his true mate, she always would be his true mate, and there would never be any doubt at all in his heart or mind about it.

  But now Charvanek was both Narviat’s widow—and the head of Romulan intelligence.

  Would she answer him?

  Was she even receiving the message?

  She was, indeed, receiving it. The contact was made with such swiftness and clarity that Spock suspected Charvanek was already offworld. It would seem, from what he remembered of her fierce Romulan nature and utter honor and love of her people, that she was already trying to go after the Watraii.

  However, she cannot logically have the number of ships for any effective action.

  As her image formed on the viewscreen, Spock, even though he was most happily married, even though he knew who and what Charvanek was now, did feel that odd, familiar little twinge of what could almost have been regret shoot through him.

  How very ridiculous.

  Being of Vulcan stock, she had not changed notably in such a relatively short time, but her strong, handsome face had hardened ever so slightly more than it had when last he’d seen her, which was not a surprising fact considering her current twin occupations.

  “Spock,” she said, as casually as if they had only recently been having a conversation. “It is…quite agreeable to see you again. But I must be brusque: We are very busy here just now.”

  “It concerns the colony.”

  “Of course it does! Do you think the Federation is the only force to have received word of that massacre?”

  “No, such thinking would hardly be logical.”

  “Ah, Spock!” Her voice softened the tiniest of bits. “You are still so very much a Vulcan.”

  “I could hardly be otherwise, Charvanek. And you?”

  “I am as I have always been,” she said, her tone clearly telling him not to pry into any private aspects of her life. Fair enough. “And yes, bef
ore you ask,” she continued, “I have indeed been making my own preparations—in addition to those the Empire is performing—to mobilize in defense of my people.”

  That afterthought about what the Romulan Star Empire was doing could only mean that they were doing very little, or at least less than Charvanek would have liked. “You have already launched, I see,” Spock said. “But logically you cannot have many ships.”

  “Ah? Do you think that my praetor does not trust me?”

  “Never that. But Neral would certainly have thought to keep his defenses guarding the homeworlds.”

  “Logically argued.”

  He dipped his head slightly, accepting the compliment, and then added, “A united force is stronger.”

  He saw by her slight start that she knew perfectly well what he meant by that: Her small force would be far more effective if it was united with the fleet that he and Saavik had already assembled.

  “Awkward questions might be asked,” she countered.

  “The Charvanek I knew had no fear of such things.”

  “The Charvanek you knew wasn’t the praetor’s Chief of Intelligence!”

  “And would it not be better for Praetor Neral and the Romulan image—and economy—if such uncomfortable problems as the Empire now faces were handled for him by those who are safely outside of the complication of Romulan politics?”

  “Oh, clever, Spock! You manipulate people very well.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I could not possibly manipulate you, Charvanek, if you were not already halfway in agreement.”

  She was silent for a long while. Spock waited with Vulcan patience. Then Charvanek’s mouth quirked up at one corner in wry approval. “So be it” was all she said, and ended the transmission.

  By the time he had returned to the bridge and taken his seat again, Spock wasn’t at all surprised to hear Lieutenant Abrams suddenly announce in a voice that was tight with tension, “Captain, there are six Romulan ships, warbirds, heading straight at us, closing fast.”

  “On screen,” Saavik snapped.

  Pre-Dominion War design, Spock recognized at once. Quite understandable that these wouldn’t be more modern ships. Charvanek or possibly Neral would have realized that she would not be able to appropriate any of the newer warbirds without too many awkward questions being asked.

  “They are not enemies,” Spock said.

  That earned him a quick sideways glance from Saavik, who had clearly also recognized the type of warbird and had come to the same conclusions, and a muttered “I don’t vant to know how you know that” from Chekov.

  Spock in turn thought that he didn’t want to know how ruthlessly Charvanek had overpowered any opposition to get here on the edge of the Neutral Zone so swiftly.

  It was indeed Charvanek, as she proved by instantly opening communications and letting them see her on the viewscreen: a Charvanek looking as fierce as a bird-of-prey herself. Without any preamble, she said, “Three of you know perfectly well who I am. The rest of you need not know more save that yes, my crews and I are Romulans. Let us merely say we are joining you, because of this.”

  “She is sending visual data, Captain Saavik,” Lieutenant Suhur said.

  “On screen,” Saavik ordered.

  The records that Charvanek sent were of the Romulan colony’s destruction. But these tapes contained even more details than the presumably Watraii-edited tapes that had been received by the Federation. As if deliberately composed to terrorize the Romulans, they included horrifying images of helpless people unable to fight the long-range enemy, standing and dying in final defiance or dying while trying in vain to shield their dying children.

  Spock heard the non-Vulcans around him gasp or swear softly, and someone even stifled a sob.

  No, the Watraii would not have wanted the Federation to see such details.

  “The aliens,” Charvanek added in a cold fury, “even captured two warbirds before they had time to seek refuge in Final Honor.”

  But almost before Charvanek had finished speaking, Lieutenant Abrams warned, “More ships. And…they are not recognizable kinds this time, Captain Saavik.”

  “I recognize them,” Ruanek said shortly.

  “As do I,” said Spock. “Those are Watraii ships.”

  Saavik frowned ever so slightly. “Let’s see if they will talk with us. Open hailing frequencies, Lieutenant Suhur.”

  “Hailing frequencies are open, Captain,” Lieutenant Suhur replied almost instantly.

  “This is Captain Saavik, commander of the Federation starship Alliance.”

  No answer.

  “Lieutenant Suhur?”

  He looked up from his console. “They do hear us, Captain. They are simply not choosing to reply.”

  Lieutenant Abrams added grimly, “And they’re powering up weapons. Whatever those weapons are,” she continued under her breath, her fingers busy at her own console.

  “Red alert,” Saavik ordered, sending the alarm to the entire fleet. “All ships: Go to red alert.”

  Twenty-One

  Memory

  TWENTY YEARS LATER

  A carrybag containing his limited personal allotment slung over his shoulder, Karatek waited quietly with his family until their names were called over the loudspeaker in the VSI’s auditorium. Then, it would be their turn to board a shuttle that would take them to one of the fleet of reconfigured ships that would carry tens of thousands of Vulcans offworld into the long night of deep space.

  The shuttle’s long, bronzed ramps were fully extended as people filed on. Ivek’s security force kept order in a way Surak would have found highly satisfactory. Once the shuttle lifted, its wings would extend, buoying it in Vulcan’s thin air until all air vanished and its secondary engines kicked in, taking them to their ship.

  He glanced up at the screens showing the ships orbiting Vulcan. They were immense, but even they were dwarfed by the metal blossom that was Vulcan Station, the magnificent compromise that would enable those Vulcans who had chosen not to make the long journey of exile and exploration to take a slower, more cautious way to the stars.

  How beautiful they were, he thought. The immense weapons and cargo bays that would have made them formidable ships of war had converted well to sites for hydroponics, manufacturing, laboratories, and living quarters. The layers of decks upon decks looked more crowded than they actually were. Space would be a premium. But they were Vulcans and, most of them, followers of Surak. They no longer needed the desert for isolation: they carried their privacy within themselves.

  It occurred to Karatek that the ships had only numbers, not names. There would be time, he supposed, for names to be chosen. After all, there had been time for so many other things he had not expected. He remembered watching the station being built. He remembered how his own first shuttle ride to one of the ships nearly overset the control he had attempted to learn from Surak over the past twenty years. Once he regained his composure, however, he recalled how useful that mastery of his emotions had been as he had examined the ship’s propulsion system and performed meticulous internal checks before suiting up, walking its hull, and, for a brief moment in which he succeeded in repressing fear, losing his sense of direction as he looked away from the hull into directions that were neither vertical and horizontal but only far, far off.

  Now the day toward which he, the scientists of the Vulcan Space Initiative whom he had managed to persuade, and hosts of Vulcan’s citizens had worked had finally arrived.

  They were leaving. As if he adjusted an engine, Karatek monitored his breathing and his heart rate until they were appropriate levels. And, while exhilaration at achieving his goal was logical, the emotional response would impair his judgment. Still, he thought that even Surak would consider it illogical not to take satisfaction in Vulcan’s accomplishment.

  His com buzzed, the bone induction unit relaying Torin’s voice. “Representatives of the High Command are here. Again.” Only someone who knew Torin well would have heard the irritation. An
d apprehension.

  But then, politicians who would not take no for an answer were, logically, grounds for apprehension. Karatek supposed they had a right to make a final plea: when the fleet left, it would take a substantial portion of Vulcan’s physical and intellectual capital with it. It was a good thing that Torin was almost as stubborn as Surak.

  Beside him, Solor—Kovar’s chosen adult name for himself—shifted from foot to foot. Skamandros. Sarissa. And now Solor. As Surak’s philosophies took hold, approximately 28.6 percent of Vulcan’s population had taken names starting with “S.” At this rate, the whole planet would follow suit—Karatek began to perform the calculation, then paused.

  “Where is Surak?” Sarissa asked.

  Surak’s whereabouts, and whether he would accompany the fleet into Exile, had been fascinating topics of discussion. So many people had chosen to go whom Karatek would not have expected, while others, like Torin and the high priestess of Seleya, had refused.

  “Perhaps he is polishing the last volume of his Analects,” said T’Vysse. She had all but memorized the first two, and had been one of the few people Karatek knew who found Surak’s long absences from the VSI or the chambers of the High Command promising. It was a pleasurable thought. Karatek liked to think of Surak, wearing the coronet he had received on Mount Seleya, creating great art as he contemplated the chance he had won for Vulcan to have peace. Never mind his Analects: the hope that Vulcan would survive was Surak’s greatest achievement.

  So many people had taken S-names. How curious it was. Karatek remembered how his own thinking had evolved from skepticism to advocacy—right about the time that two warring parties had united to send assassins after him. Governments had fallen, along with bombs. That was when he had begun his work of persuading a critical mass of the space scientists living and working near the Forge to leave Vulcan.

  For all that, however, he had not chosen to forsake the name his parents had given him. Nor had Torin or many others. Perhaps, the diversity was better than the tribute to Surak, whom so many on Vulcan regarded as a philosophical, even a spiritual, master. He suspected Surak would agree.