Star Trek: Starfleet Academy #1: Crisis on Vulcan

by Brad

  Chapter 9

  Night, thick and dark outside. The house was quiet, with no hint that wakeful guards waited at strategic points beyond the walls and manned a security station inside. Spock, alone in his room, finished the last adjustment. “Computer,” he said.

  “Working,” responded a soft, disembodied voice.

  “I have integrated a Series 15,000 Artificial Intelligence Module with your operating unit. It is an experimental design, but I believe it will augment your operation. Please test all functions.”

  For the space of a heartbeat the computer was silent. Then it reported, “All functions are normal.”

  Spock leaned back. “Very well. I need to access the security visuals grid on the south side of Space Port Prime. Take steps to conceal the link from anyone who might be monitoring the security system.”

  The machine had no sense of legality or illegality, and it did not question the order. “Working. Visuals grid is available. The link is secure.”

  “Give me a visual display beginning …” Spock thought and then gave a precise time estimate: that afternoon when he and his father had passed the space port.

  “Working.” The display flickered into existence. Spock studied the still picture.

  “Advance in standard seconds,” he said.

  The display changed, a series of still pictures. All were from one vantage point, and since they flicked into and out of existence at the rate of one per second, Spock saw a kind of jerky motion picture of the street, with people hitching along. “Stop,” he ordered after only seven seconds. The air car that he and his father had used was visible, nosing into the picture from the right side. Spock scanned the crowd. “Advance in standard seconds, but hold each view for five seconds,” he ordered.

  The air car moved to the center of the field, then off the left edge of the picture. “Next vantage point.” The field of view shifted northward. Now the car was in the right corner again, but a different section of the street appeared. “Stop. Overlay a coordinate grid.”

  A yellow network of lines appeared over the picture. Spock isolated the figure he had seen. “Enlarge sections Alpha 3 to Alpha 6, Beta 3 to Beta 6, Gamma 3 to Gamma 6.”

  The squares enlarged to fill the whole screen. “Delete grid.” Spock leaned back. He was looking at Cha—and Cha seemed to be looking at him. In his hood and mask, he would pass for a young Tellarite male, but his eyes were unmistakable. “Computer,” Spock said. “Isolate this subject in your memory. Access security networks as necessary. Follow the movements of this subject and let me know where he is at this moment.”

  “Working.”

  “Display a map of his movements.”

  A glowing map of the city appeared, with the route of Spock’s target marked in a fluorescent green line. Cha had reversed his direction a moment after spotting Spock and his father. He had taken a winding path across the city as if unfamiliar with its streets—or as if trying to throw off any trackers. The line came to rest in a block of buildings equipped with special environmental controls for atmosphere and gravity, the domiciles of alien traders and visitors who liked some variation from the Vulcan conditions.

  Spock laced his fingers together and brooded. He could tell his father, or he could alert the security forces. Or …

  Taking a deep breath, Spock weighed the alternatives. What if Cha were not a willing visitor to Vulcan? Could he be a hostage, perhaps, and disguised in an attempt to escape from the militant faction of Marathans? Or was he here as a spy? Or perhaps had he come to warn Spock?

  “Computer,” Spock said, “display the original picture of the target.”

  And there was Cha again, his eyes staring out of the Tellarite mask. “Computer, interpret the emotions of the target.”

  “Unable to complete the task,” the computer responded.

  “Do you need more data?”

  “Affirmative,” said the artificial voice. “Please give a complete working definition of the term emotions.”

  “Cancel the order.”

  “Canceled.”

  The night was well advanced. Spock had to make up his mind, and yet how could he? Who knew what a Marathan’s emotions were like? Spock only remembered that Cha, like himself, had felt like an outcast.

  The young Vulcan lowered his head for a moment, then spoke with decision: “Computer, I give you this task. Currently this house is under surveillance of an advanced security and detection system. Find a way for me to disable the system just long enough to get away from the house undetected.”

  “Working.”

  “Estimate of time required for the task.”

  “Three hours, thirty-nine minutes, eleven point fifty-five seconds, standard.”

  “Wake me when you have completed the task.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Utterly weary, Spock leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and in less than a minute, he was asleep. Such relaxation called for the careful discipline of a Vulcan mind—or for the absolute exhaustion of a human one.

  Spock woke to the gentle jingling of a chime. “The problem is solved,” the computer said. “Time elapsed: three hours, thirty-seven minutes, three point zero one seconds, standard.”

  “Less than your estimate. Very efficient.”

  “Yes. I will cause a minor malfunction that will engage the attention of the guard on the northwest side of the property. While he is attending to the problem, you may leave the environment at any time within the next two minutes, moving quietly. As soon as you are outside the detection field, I will reactivate the security system. The security monitors will be altered to give a false reading indicating that you are safely asleep in your bed.”

  “Very good.” Spock rose, instantly alert, and hurried outside, taking with him only a portable communicator. From the front, he could see the guard bent over a handheld read-out device, trying to adjust the controls. On silent feet, Spock hastened away from the house, descending the flank of a bare, rocky hill. Dawn was approaching fast, and already the eastern sky showed a tinge of red. Spock hurried without quite running until he was four kilometers or so away from the house. Then, using his communicator, he summoned an air car from the public transportation authority in the city. A few minutes later, the vehicle hummed into sight, flying on autopilot. It landed on a flat, sandy expanse, the floor of a long-dried lake, and Spock climbed into the pilot’s seat, hoping he was not about to make the worst mistake of his life.

  By the time he reached the outskirts of the city, the sun was up, throwing long, sharp shadows over plain, market squares, and streets. Spock landed the air car on a public transportation pad, indicated on its control panel that he would not need the vehicle again, and walked several blocks. The low sun sent its rays hot and almost horizontal along the side streets. In between the intersections, the shadows were still crisp and dark. When Spock came to a halt, he stood in an archway that looked out toward the block of alien domiciles his computer had isolated. The morning chill was dissolving under the fierce rays of the sun. He hoped that Amanda and Sarek would decide to let their son sleep. He needed as much time as he could steal to carry out his plan. Spock settled into the shadows and waited.

  But not for very long. Within the hour, a stocky figure emerged, looked both ways, and then blended in with the early-morning pedestrians. Spock followed the hooded, robed individual, gradually coming closer. When they cut through a section of the city given over to a green park, its walls breaking it up into mazelike squares, Spock hurried ahead, coming almost close enough to tap his quarry on the shoulder. “Cha!” he said loudly.

  The figure six steps ahead of him bolted and ran, cutting to the left and crossing a street. Spock ran after him. Vulcan heads turned sharply—Vulcan boys of Spock’s age no longer played, and it was unseemly to run. Spock ignored them, his eyes locked on the hooded, cloaked figure ahead of him. A zig, a zag, and Spock’s prey made a serious mistake, diving into a narrow alley between two blank-walled stoned buildi
ngs. Spock reached a point where the alley bent at a right angle and saw that Cha was at a standstill, his back to the wall. “Cha,” he said, “we must talk.”

  The Tellarite vanished. Cha stripped off the hooded cloak, the lifelike prosthetic mask, and stood revealed as himself. “We have nothing to talk about, Vulcan!”

  “On the contrary,” Spock said, stepping forward. “I think that the two of us may be able to avoid—”

  Cha roared out, an inarticulate bellow, and dived forward, reaching for Spock. Fast as he was, Spock was too slow to react. Cha’s strong arms gripped him, and the two fell to the ground, Cha raging as he tried to pin the Vulcan. He fumbled at his belt, at a curved scabbard. Spock gripped the Marathan boy’s wrist, desperately trying to keep him from drawing his weapon.

  Spock was on his back. He bent his knees and got his feet into the pit of Cha’s stomach. Rolling, Spock kicked at the same time, flipping Cha heels over head. The Marathan landed on his back with a gasp, but immediately he scrambled up again. Spock crouched, facing him. Cha’s eyes were wild, furious. “Cha,” Spock said, “I must ask you—”

  No good. Cha charged again, but this time Spock was ready. He seized Cha’s shoulder at the base of the neck, spread his fingers, and manipulated the nerve junctions that virtually all humanoid species had at those points. He felt Cha stiffen, then collapse. Spock caught him, eased him to the ground. He looked behind him. No one was in the alley, and from here, they could not be seen from the street. He waited.

  After a few minutes, Cha groaned. He sat up suddenly, reaching for his belt.

  “I have removed your weapon,” Spock said. He held up the carved curved Marathan dagger.

  Cha backed away, sat with his spine against the blank stone wall. “Well, use it then,” he growled. “Kill me.”

  “I have no desire to do that: To injure you would be illogical.”

  Amber-colored tears brimmed in Cha’s eyes. “You have humiliated me,” he said in a gruff voice. “It will be a disgrace to my family if you do not kill me.”

  “Killing is not the Vulcan way,” Spock replied. “You can trust me.”

  When Cha did not respond, Spock gravely offered him the dagger, grip end first. Cha darted a look of wild suspicion at the young Vulcan. “What kind of trick are you playing?”

  “No trick,” Spock said. “I did not mean to humiliate you. Here is your weapon. I hope you will not use it.”

  Cha took it from Spock, stared at the curved blade, ran his finger over the Marathan glyphs. Then he replaced the weapon in the scabbard. “Go.”

  “Not yet,” Spock insisted. “Cha, permit me to say that the warfare in the Marathan system has been illogical. Over the centuries, many thousands of your people have died in battle, and many millions have died indirectly from warfare. It is illogical for a species to destroy itself. Now the treaty has offered your people a way out of their hostility and hatred. Why has your clan and that of the rebels turned against it?”

  “I cannot speak of such things!” Cha’s face wore a baffled expression. “You can’t possibly understand. Some things are not permitted—”

  “The same is true here,” Spock pointed out. “By finding you, I have violated my father’s wishes. Yet I have the hope that finding you can produce a greater good.”

  For a moment, Cha seemed on the verge of some confession, but then he half-turned and stared at the ground. “A Marathan man may not speak of certain things,” he muttered. “It is forbidden.”

  Silence. From the hidden mouth of the alley, murmuring voices as small groups of people walked past, unaware of the two young men around the corner. The sky overhead was a sullen orange red, the shadows in the alley deep and purple. Spock said slowly, “May I point out, Cha, that neither of us is technically a man? Back on Marath, on the last night at Bel T’aan, you told me the story of Volash and Hamarka. You said you were not yet of age, and so you could tell me that.”

  “That is not True Lore,” Cha maintained stubbornly. “The secrets of our belief—those I can never reveal to an outsider.”

  “You are an outsider.”

  Cha flashed him an angry glare. “All of my clan are outsiders!” he snapped. “Thrown off our world by those who disagreed with our beliefs, our customs. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  Spock put a hand on Cha’s shoulder. “You are mistaken,” he said simply. “I know very well what it is to be an outsider.”

  Cha wrenched his shoulder away, as if Spock’s touch were painful. “You can’t.”

  “But I do. The two of us, Cha, do not belong. And yet we need to belong. I suggest that you could do your people more good than you know by sharing with me the secret cause of your clan’s vendetta against my father.”

  “Your father betrayed us!”

  Spock shook his head. “That would not be my father’s way. You do not know him, but I do. Cha, once on Marath you trusted me. Trust me again. If there is anything that my father can do to set things right, he will try. You have my word on it.”

  For a moment, Cha stared into Spock’s eyes, uncertainty flickering in his expression. He licked his lips. “Spock,” he said hoarsely, “there is a homing device in my blade. I activated it when you returned it to me. For your own safety, leave now.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t understand! My people are sworn to kill you—”

  “Then you will have to persuade them not to kill me.”

  Cha glanced anxiously toward the angle of the alley. “I am not yet a man,” he muttered. “I have not yet undergone the Ceremony of Bonding. Perhaps—but it is True Lore you ask me to speak of!”

  “I will never reveal it without your permission,” Spock said.

  “If I tell you, will you go?”

  Spock nodded.

  Cha leaned close and whispered. Spock tilted his head, listening as if he were a confessor listening to a repentant criminal’s plea for forgiveness. A momentary expression of surprise flashed across his face and one of understanding. “I see,” he said at last. “But, Cha, you have been misled. The one who must be behind this is not my father, but—”

  “Cha!” The harsh voice whirled them both around. Karos Mar Santor, wearing no disguise apart from a brown hooded cloak, stood behind them. He raised a stubby weapon, a device like a silvery test tube, closed and rounded at both ends.

  “No, Father!”

  Spock saw circles of energy leap from the end of the weapon, bluish expanding ripples in the air rushing toward him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the disruptor beam took him in the chest. Spock felt himself slammed backward. Everything happened too slowly, like actions in a nightmare. The toppling Spock stared straight up at the orange-red sky, then saw it darken and recede. He felt himself falling backward, down into a dark, bottomless pit. He struggled to breathe, but his lungs would not work. Everything around him, colors, sounds, faded. Spock wondered when he would stop falling.

  He passed out before discovering if he ever would.

  Chapter 10

  An eternity of drifting in a gray void, struggling against nothing. Is this death? Spock wondered, almost too empty to care. But something told him it was not, and something made him struggle, like a swimmer far below the surface desperately trying to rise again and gulp life-giving air.

  Then something, a blurry light place in the thick, dark fog, and a voice from somewhere faraway, speaking his name. He tried to answer and found he could not. Tow-kath. The Vulcan term floated into his mind. It described a trance state. Badly injured Vulcans could enter Tow-kath, go dormant, allow their body’s defenses to repair damage at peak efficiency. It was a learned skill, not an instinct, but Spock had learned it. Now he fought to break the trance, paying for his attempt with sudden, wrenching pain.

  He groaned, and he must have made a sound, for the blurred face was back, hovering over him in the grayness. “Spock?”

  “Fa—father,” croaked Spock. He forced his eyes to focus. Sarek, yes, and Amanda beside him, both lean
ing over Spock. The young Vulcan realized with a shock that he was at home, his own room.

  “Oh, Spock,” Amanda said, her eyes wild with worry.

  Sarek placed a hand on his shoulder. “You were attacked by a Marathan wielding a neural disruptor weapon,” his father said. “Fortunately, the security sensors picked up the discharge of energy, and the authorities captured the two assassins before they could fatally injure you. They—”

  “Codicil,” groaned Spock.

  Sarek frowned. “What?”

  “Father, you must add a codicil to the Marathan treaty.” Spock raised up in bed, gripping is father’s arm with terrible urgency. Sarek, with a flash of distaste, pulled back, away from the emotional display. Spock spoke in a tumble of words: “You were betrayed on Marath by Hul Minak Lasvor. He was to tell you of the importance of certain ancient religious sites on the planet. He did not because he wished the civil war to continue. He has dreams of conquering Marath from space, of restoring his clan to the leadership of the entire system.”

  “Calm yourself, Spock.” Sarek’s voice had a faint, displeased note, a stern tone that he almost never used. “I do not understand what you are saying.”

  Spock sat on the edge of his bed, his head spinning. He closed his eyes and forced himself to speak slowly, rationally. “Father, the Marathans have strong, ancient religious taboos. On the planet there is a high plateau called P’ik Ban Aldor. It is a shrine, the center of all Marathan religions.”

  “I have never heard that.”

  “Because of the religious taboos,” insisted Spock. “The Marathans may not mention their beliefs to outsiders. But their priests did delegate one man, Hul Minak Lasvor, to communicate their desires and demands to you. He did not, and so in the treaty you did not mention complete and free access to P’ik Ban Aldor for all Marathans.”