STAR TREK: TOS #44 - Vulcan's Glory

by D. C. Fontana

  Lieutenant Commander George Meadows caught him in the corridor just outside Transporter Room 3. “Sir, if you have a moment?”

  “Is it urgent, Meadows? Surely Number One or Mr. Spock can deal with any problems or questions ...”

  “This should come from you, sir, if you know what I mean.”

  “Frankly, Meadows, I don’t.”

  Pike usually had only routine dealings with the ship’s geologist. Though Meadows ranked Spock, the second officer headed up all science divisions on the ship and logically would be the person Meadows consulted. Meadows was short and thin and tended to be slow and economical in his movements. Pike had found the man’s information on planetary geology and mineralogy accurate, detailed, and valuable each time he had called upon him. Meadows had always seemed a calm, even placid, man. (“Rather like his precious rocks,” Phil Boyce had commented on one occasion.) Now, however, he looked anxious and tense.

  [111] “It’s the stone, Captain—Vulcan’s Glory. I’ll need permission from you to study it.” Before Pike could respond, Meadows rattled on, his ardor rising as he spoke. “An emerald that size is unprecedented. And it’s reported to be virtually flawless, another precedent. This is the opportunity of a lifetime to catalogue it, measure it once and for all, holograph it for posterity ...”

  “No, Meadows.”

  “What? Sir?”

  Pike shook his head. “I can’t allow it. Vulcan’s Glory belongs to them. You can apply to the Vulcan High Council through Starfleet channels for permission to catalogue and record it. That’s as far as I’ll go.”

  “But, sir, it’s a geologist’s dream.”

  “And an object of historical reverence for Vulcan.”

  “Sir, you have to understand ...”

  “Commander, the answer is no, and it is final. Is that understood?”

  Meadows looked like a disappointed child, his face crumpling in near tears. “Yes, sir.” He walked away stiffly, muttering half under his breath. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Geologist’s dream ...”

  Pike watched him leave, then turned and punched a nearby wall comm, “Pike to Spock.”

  The answer came back almost instantly. “Spock here, sir.”

  “Spock, I’m ordering you to keep the Glory in the security vault until we can properly return it, unless we receive other orders directly from the Vulcan High Council. Clear?”

  On the bridge, Spock curiously arched an eyebrow and glanced at Number One, who was seated in the [112] command chair. The first officer arched an equally curious eyebrow back at him. What was this all about? “Clear, sir. I will also relay your order to Security Chief Orloff.”

  “Good. Pike out.”

  Pike turned back toward the transporter room and his interrupted mission. He beamed down into the desert under the friendly cover of night, as he had planned. No one had seen him; the nomads seldom stirred out of their camps after dark. Pike had chosen coordinates near the primary herding and grazing routes of the tribe with whom he had first made contact. Sensors had shown a fairly large group camped four kilometers away. In all likelihood, it was the tribe he knew, the one led by Farnah, a shinsei of great stature. Pike decided he would walk toward the camp directly after he beamed down. There was little chance of anyone questioning his comings and goings, but he wanted to leave a fairly well-marked trail for some distance, in case someone happened across it.

  He had covered almost two kilometers before he felt confident enough to make his own camp for the night. Pike’s possessions bag provided a personal tent of soft, compactly folded material that would ward off the sun during the day and keep body heat in during the chill desert nights. There were a few natural predators in the desert, but they were inclined to seek prey less combative than the tribespeople—or Pike. The smaller creatures that hunted in the night were no danger to him, and the tent was sealed to keep them out. He set it up swiftly, scooped out a comfortable hollow for his hips, pushed up a pile of sand for his [113] pillow, and prepared for sleep. He could do nothing more until morning.

  Pike dreamt of Janeese, clearly seeing her honey-blond hair as it curled softly around her face, creating a frame for her dark brown eyes, pert nose, and gently smiling mouth. She wore the dress she had worn when he asked her to be his, a gossamer thing in a shade of old rose, material that shifted and shaped and clung to her body sensuously. But that was wrong, because in the dream their friends were just introducing them, and she was looking up at him with an interested sparkle in her eyes that told him she liked what she saw. Someone was murmuring her name to him—Janeese Carlisle—and he felt himself smiling back at her, responding to her with an emotional jolt he had not felt for some time, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Then the scene seemed to shift, and she was introducing him to someone, the instructor at the Academy to whom she had become engaged. She was pressing Pike’s hand, dropping into his palm the friendship ring Pike had given her before he left on his mission. “Sorry, Chris,” she was saying with tears in her eyes, her voice shaking. “I’m so sorry ...” They were riding in the mountains on the two quarter horses Pike kept at his parents’ home. Janeese was a good rider and handled her mount well. She was asking him questions about Starfleet, about the Academy, telling him her dream of venturing among the stars. She was looking at him adoringly as they rode side by side and saying, “With you, Chris. I want to be out there with you.” She and Pike were curled together in bed, bodies still moist from making love, his hands [114] running through her tumbled hair as he told her how much he cared for her. “I love you, too, Chris. I love you, I love you.” And then she was shaking her head, sobbing, saying again, “I’m so sorry, Chris. I’m so sorry. You weren’t here ... I was lonely ... Tom was a friend. A friend at first, and then more. You weren’t here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Chris ...”

  Pike woke up sweating, and he abruptly pushed the folds of the tent aside to let in some of the cold night air. He sat cross-legged, staring out at the brilliant, star-flecked sky. Janeese had affected him more deeply than any other woman, had gotten in under the skin. Losing her—and in so mundane a way—bothered him a good deal more than he let on. He had walked away from her tears, casually pocketing the ring she had returned as though he had accepted her rejection. He sighed and admitted he wasn’t as tough as he made himself out to be. Not about Janeese. That one had hurt deeply.

  T’Pris had not planned to work late in the lab until a line of research inquiry had not given her the answers she anticipated. She stayed at her station, her curiosity piqued by the new questions raised, following where they led. She was concentrating so intensely on her screens and her science computer that the inquiring cough behind her surprised her. She whirled in her chair to find Meadows standing there.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He didn’t look especially apologetic, but then T’Pris hadn’t been frightened, either.

  “Is there some way I can assist you, Commander?” she asked politely.

  [115] “Maybe. Could I ask you some questions about the Vulcan’s Glory?”

  She eyed him neutrally, weighing it up in her mind that these were natural concerns of a geologist who also doubled as a mineralogist. The Glory was a legendary stone, and she understood Meadows had been denied the opportunity to study it. She nodded slightly, just once. Meadows promptly showered her with a barrage of questions about its diameter, its weight, its shape, the placement of its natural rough facets. She answered as best she could, but she finally lifted her hands in defeat.

  “I am sorry, Commander Meadows. You desire too much technical information. I have no expertise in gemology.”

  Meadows pushed in closer to her, reaching out eagerly to almost touch her hand. She withdrew, uncomfortable with the human closeness of the man, but he ignored it. “Don’t you see, that’s exactly what I was trying to tell the captain. No one on this ship can research that stone, capture it on holograph and in a technical log, no one but me. I have the knowledge to a
pply. Surely you Vulcans don’t deny the rest of the Federation a record, a mere look at the Glory?”

  “I cannot say. It would be a matter for the High Council.”

  “On this ship, it’s the captain’s word that’s law. If you could put in a good word with Pike for me, that would be all. You’re a Vulcan and a scientist. Your word would mean a lot.”

  “I am sorry, Commander. Captain Pike has given explicit instructions for the security and handling of the Glory. To do as you suggest would offend my [116] personal honor. It would be a defiance of the captain’s orders.”

  Meadows stepped back, hastily apologetic. “Yes. Yes, of course, Lieutenant. You’re absolutely correct. Captain’s orders. A matter of honor. Naturally, you couldn’t interfere. I’m sorry I intruded on you. Please forget I said anything at all.” He half bowed and left her alone, scurrying out the door that just barely slid aside in time for him to clear it.

  T’Pris stared after him thoughtfully, a small frown crinkling a V between her eyes. She turned back to her science computer and began to renew the line of research that had so interested her, but she found herself pausing again and again, considering the incident with Meadows and not liking it.

  She finally set her research aside and went to Spock’s quarters, but she hesitated outside the door. She had interrupted him once before. What would he think of her calling on him at this late hour? Still, she felt he should know of Meadows’s approach to her. She was also an honest woman, and she admitted to herself that she wished to see Spock again, alone and off duty. She had loved Sepel deeply. They had been childhood playmates and friends all their lives. His death had left her alone and lonely for companionship for the first time in her memory. The year since his passing had been empty, except for the saving grace of her work. Spock, with the aura of mystery created by his half-human heritage, with his very correct manner, with his attractive mien, had touched her as Sepel had not. She frankly admitted to herself that Spock roused in her desires that her lifelong friend and husband had not. That surprised her and also pleased [117] her. T’Pris reached out and touched the annunciator at the side of the door. Almost immediately, Spock’s voice called out through the speaker, “Enter.” The door slid open.

  She stepped through the door and found him waiting for her. “Mr. Spock.”

  “T’Pris.”

  “Something happened a short time ago which I think you should know. It bears on the Glory.”

  “Tell me.” He led her to the low couch in the sitting room area of his suite and politely waited for her to seat herself. “Something to drink?”

  “No, not now. I thank you for the courtesy.”

  Spock lowered himself to the couch beside her. “What is it that disturbs you?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Meadows came to me in the lab. He requested that I take his part with Captain Pike, that I ask that he be allowed to examine and catalogue the Glory. I told him that was impossible. He must know the Glory is sequestered in the security vault, as the captain ordered. The only change in those orders must come from the Vulcan High Council. I refused to assist him.”

  Spock studied her for a moment, their eyes locking. He nodded briefly. “Your actions were entirely correct.”

  She hesitated, then slowly said, “Yes.”

  “There is a problem you perceive.”

  “Not a problem. But it should be considered that perhaps the commander has an equally correct argument. The Glory is unique, precious, and possibly the most rare stone in the known galaxy. All he wishes to do is holograph and measure it, catalogue it for [118] posterity, for the knowledge of the Federation planets. Can that be wrong, Spock?”

  Spock hesitated, considering it. “No, not if that is the only thing Meadows wants. But he is a human. He is subject to a certain personal conceit, something that might even be called greed—academic greed. He is the ship’s senior geologist. If he is the one to do the cataloguing, the holographing, the measuring of the Glory for the historical records, his name becomes associated with it. He may be asking for this permission for entirely personal reasons and personal gain, which is, perhaps, why Captain Pike has invoked the security requirements he has and why he has said only the High Council may change his orders. The captain is an intelligent and perceptive man. You were correct in refusing Meadows’s request, as I have said.”

  “Then I have disturbed you for nothing.”

  “I was not occupied. When the chime rang, I thought it might be you.”

  T’Pris glanced away, almost shyly. “Why should you think that?”

  “You have a way of knocking at my door when I have been thinking of you.”

  “Of me? Not T’Pring?”

  “You also have a way of asking difficult questions.”

  She nodded, quietly acknowledging the fact. “So my parents said, and so said my husband. But now I am T’Sai T’Pris, Aduna Sepel kiran. For humans, a widow. For Vulcans, free to choose a new mate.” She turned to look directly at him. “Or a lover. That is a difficult question to consider.”

  “I am betrothed,” he said softly.

  “But not wed,” she said as softly. “Not yet.”

  [119] Spock studied her for a long moment, considering what he knew of her, what he felt for her, the surprising emotions she called up in him. And he remembered what he knew of T’Pring, what he felt for her. The only emotions T’Pring brought forth in him were duty and obligation laid on him by others. Slowly, he reached out his hand to T’Pris.

  Lightly, gently, almost fearfully, their fingers touched and caressed.

  Night had fallen on the city of Sendai, wrapping its narrow streets in shadows. The twin moons of Areta had not yet risen, and only the stars lit a figure in black clothes moving quietly and stealthily from one pool of darkness to another. A few unshaded lamps still shone out onto the walks, making oblong slashes across the streets. As the figure in black slipped swiftly through one such slash, the light caught its face for a moment, revealing a handsome youth of perhaps eighteen seasons. His name was Bardan Aliat, and he was the heir and pride of the prosperous merchant Melkor Aliat. What he was doing now would certainly not fuel his father’s pride but rather his outrage. It was late enough that the only people Bardan might encounter on the walks would be those who had tasted a little too deeply at the local drinks shop, none likely to recognize him.

  His greatest fear of discovery came from the watchguards, who patrolled the high walls that circled the city on an irregular time schedule. Bardan, however, had taken the trouble to cultivate friendship with a young guard named Andor Clite and had learned his duty times. The great gates were still ajar, waiting for [120] any last stragglers from the fields and the road to come in for safety. Mutants never came this close to the city, but they had in the Bad Times, and the townsmen never forgot it. There was still time before the Closing, but once the gates were locked for the night, they did not open for anyone or anything until morning light.

  Bardan found shelter in an alley mouth in the street beside the wall and squinted up to make out the figure approaching along the walk on top. He could just see the watchguard silhouetted against the starlit sky. It was not his friend; it was the woman with whom Clite shared the watch. Bardan pulled back a little farther into the shadows and studied the street. It was wider than the ones he had traveled to reach this point. This was one used for the carts that moved their produce and merchandise to the markets. He would have to cross to the gate without cover. He reached under his jacket and brought out the timepiece his father had given him just two weeks ago. If Clite had been correct, he should be reaching this point on the wall very soon. He stared up again, saw the woman almost opposite him, and yes! Clite was recognizable approaching from the opposite direction. Bardan slunk back into the alley shadow until the two sets of measured footsteps merged as they passed each other and then separated again, moving away.

  As soon as both watchguards had paced far enough past, Bardan ran for the gate on the balls of his feet, a
lmost soundless. He had crossed only half the street when he heard one set of heavy ringing bootsteps suddenly stop. Why? Bardan could not pause; he pelted on, stopped gasping in the looming dark of the gate recess. He couldn’t see from there what the [121] watchguard was doing or which one it was. Had he been seen? If he had, why hadn’t the watch raised a challenge? A townsman running out of the city at night was suspicious enough. He could bluff his way through somehow, saying he was restless and had come out to share part of the watch with Clite. Then he heard a striker and the distinctive puff puff of a chooka. Bardan let out his breath. It was Clite, who “suffered the vice” of smoking. The young watchguard had only stopped to light his pipe. The booted steps resumed their rhythmic pacing.

  Bardan touched his hot face and found he was wet with a sweat so heavy it was streaming in rivulets. He mopped himself with a nose cloth, took a deep breath to steady himself. Clite’s steps could still be heard going away. In the opposite direction, he could hear the faint sound of the woman returning on her rounds. Clite would be a little slower because he had stopped for that moment to light his pipe. Bardan had to go now. Quickly, he slid around the edge of the huge gate, paused in the recessed shadow of the outer gate portal for just an instant, and then quietly ran through the night. The giant kerra tree that stood sentry outside the gate hid him from view as the female watchguard solemnly paced by. Another moment, and she and Clite would pass on the wall, heading for the opposite ends of their duty round again. Bardan waited, shivering in the warm night as his muscles tensed nervously. The two watchguards met, crossed paths again, and walked on. Bardan left the protection of the thick tree bole and ran down the road toward the desert, the night wrapping its web around him. No cry was raised behind him. No one had seen him. He had done it!