Barracks living had not proved to be the best of arrangements. Aside from the temporary hardship of bunking with six others in a single room (so much for a private life, Sulu had thought, tossing and turning on the spartan sleeping mat), he had always talked in his sleep, and under the circumstances, that could get him killed. He'd had several sessions of hypnotherapy to ensure that he would dream in Rihan, but that didn't assure him. Still, as an unbonded male of his class he was barred from any other housing within the Capital, and he'd had to make the best of it.
He had at his disposal several identity changes and escape routes, some of them quite ingenious, but it was a question of when to jump. There was still so much he had to do, but if he let himself get boxed in …
A noise at the juncture ahead froze him and he doubled back, dodged another monitor, listened. Footsteps, echoes of footsteps, echoes of echoes down the endless corridors. Gods! McCoy had equipped him with aural enhancers and infrared implants to mimic Rihannsu hearing and sight; now if he'd only arranged for green blood and a trebled heartbeat …
No problem with that last, Sulu thought grimly. Much more of this and my heart may never slow down.
He glanced to either side, swallowed hard, pushed away from the wall with his sweaty hands, and hurried back in the direction he had come. If he could hot-wire one of the aircars in the Royal Armory's auxiliary hangar and at least get out of the Citadel …
"Speak to me of love," T'Shael had said. "You as a human have experienced this emotion on a number of levels."
"What makes you think that?" Cleante demanded too sharply, suddenly defensive. "Just because I've slept my way from Earth to Colony Seven to Vulcan?"
She saw a hardness come into the Vulcan's eyes and stopped. Oh, T'Shael, why must I do this to either of us?
"Such words are unworthy of you," T'Shael said evenly. "I refer not to such fleeting gratification, which is at any rate not my concern. I refer to deeper things."
Cleante did not answer. She got up from the sleeping couch and began to roam restlessly about the small flat that spoke so eloquently of its inhabitant. She thought of her own suite, which also reflected the taste of its owner, though perhaps to her disadvantage. It was much bigger than these rooms, much more cluttered, filled with mismatched, overstuffed furniture and worn mementos of the childhood she had yet to outgrow, clothing and jewelry flung about everywhere, one entire wall naturally dominated by the latest in audvid equipment for instant sensory gratification.
The Vulcan's flat had no audvid screen and no clutter. It was bare without being barren. Aside from the intricately carved doors of the cabinets containing her vast collection of linguatapes, there was little ornament of any kind. There were a few exquisite examples of the renowned Vulcan glasswork ("A logical craft from a world blanketed in silicates," T'Shael had said the first time Cleante admired them, offering the guest any one of her choosing as was proper. Cleante, knowing the protocol by now, had as politely declined); the expected IDIC print on one wall (as ubiquitous in Vulcan households as a crucifix in a Terran nunnery); and nothing more. The floors were not carpeted as most interiors were, but covered with soft mats woven of fragrant grasses. Glassless casements allowed the breezes in; unobtrusive sensors set into the window frames regulated temperature and warned off insects and night-flying birds. It was a peaceful, harmonious setting for a like individual.
But was T'Shael as peaceful as her surroundings? Cleante wondered. Would she be asking such questions if something weren't troubling her? Cleante stopped her restless prowling and looked at her companion, who had returned to the restringing of her ka'athyra as if to mask the human's embarrassment and perhaps her own.
"If you prefer not to answer—" T'Shael began at the same time Cleante said, "When you say 'deeper things'—"
"Forgive me," the Vulcan said, and waited for the human to continue.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Cleante said. "But if I can tell you anything at all, I'll try."
It was all anyone could ask. T'Shael fastened the final string at the neck frets of her instrument, stilling all of the strings with her hand so that they would not resonate in sympathy with her voice.
"You were once a teacher," she began. "Such service as you offered on Gamma Erigena—"
Her celebrated year among the aboriginal inhabitants of what had come to be known as Earth Colony Seven, Cleante thought wryly, and also wistfully. It had been a strange year in a lifetime of strange years.
A lush and unspoiled world, Gamma Erigena was inhabited primarily by an utterly non-belligerent, childlike species who welcomed the more advanced Terrans, eager to learn their ways. Teachers were needed, and Cleante had been quick to volunteer.
She was only a student teacher, another of her reckless career changes, and she had volunteered for Earth Colony Seven partly to escape from her mother, who was not yet High Commissioner but no less overbearing, and to extricate herself from a series of love affairs that would culminate in her fling with Rico Heyerdahl.
She found herself becoming more attached to these primitive, gentle aborigines, especially the children, than she could have believed possible for the daughter of Jasmine alFaisal, holder of the patent on cold professionalism. They were so totally non-aggressive, found joy in the smallest things, sharing that joy so readily with others. They were extremely tactile, embracing their teachers constantly, superlatively grateful for the instruction they received. Cleante had left them when their attentions became cloying. She could not be tied down to anyone, anything, for too long. Yet she had wept as Gamma Erigena spun out of sight of her port on the starliner going back to Earth. She often wondered what might have happened to these gentle, uncomplicated beings had Klin or Rihannsu stumbled on them first. But had she really loved them?
She had spoken to T'Shael about them, particularly about the grammatical structure of their language, which had no distinguishing pronouns, only a universal "we." The Vulcan had listened with great interest, but neither had spoken of any emotional attachment. It was not like T'Shael to jump to conclusions. What did her question mean?
Or was she not talking about the Erigenians at all?
Their world had also been where Cleante had first encountered Rico Heyerdahl, but she had never mentioned him to T'Shael, had she? Randy Rico with his ready laugh and come-day-go-day manner, who with his patched and juryrigged scout was on layover for an overhaul—
Rico! Cleante thought with a pang, scarcely listening to what T'Shael was saying. Rugged, wonderful Rico, scion of an old Argentinian family by way of a Nordic freighter pilot, possessed of the Latin fire of one and the insatiable starlust of the other. Green-eyed, brown-skinned, flaxen-haired and wonderful in bed, though not much for talking either before or after; he was just literate enough to pass the pilots' license exam and proud of his ignorance. Rico, Rico, I had to leave you before you left me, Cleante thought. It was that simple. And I haven't thought about you since, but all this talk of love—
T'Shael was watching her curiously. Allah only knew what emotions were playing havoc with her face. Cleante tried a little Mastery of the Unavoidable and forced herself not to apologize.
"I wasn't listening," she managed to say.
T'Shael, thinking she had been misunderstood, attempted to clarify.
"The Way of the Vulcan is based upon duty. From duty springs service, and the Vulcan considers this sufficient. But as I understand the human way, service—such as your service to the inhabitants of Erigena—may sometimes evolve into that which, for want of a better term, I shall call dedication. And from such dedication, I believe, can sometimes spring love."
Cleante shook her head, all thought of Rico forgotten, grateful for once that she was not Vulcan. Such tortuous reasoning to arrive at a conclusion about that which humans came by naturally.
"Are you asking me if I loved my students?" Cleante asked, and before T'Shael could answer, "Maybe I did. I've never stopped to think about it. But I never said anything to you. How did you k
now?"
"In the same way that I am aware of your love, despite ambivalence and a strong desire to deny it, for your maternal parent," T'Shael responded hesitantly, dropping this particular bombshell with inordinate softness.
Cleante's eyes widened as she understood several things at once: understood why Vulcans in general were so standoffish, and why T'Shael in particular was so reluctant to touch; understood why they had not gone to the ruins together since the storm; and understood, or thought she did, T'Shael's reasons for asking such questions.
"The day we were caught in the rainstorm," Cleante said slowly, all her fears about that day suddenly realized, "you read my mind, didn't you? You know everything there is to know about me, yet you can still—"
"Do not misunderstand," the Vulcan said. "No one can know 'everything there is to know' about another. To learn the depths of another's soul requires prolonged mutual sharing in mind-link, not so brief an encounter as my mind had with yours."
"You seem to have gotten an awful lot from your 'brief encounter,'" Cleante said ironically. Like most humans, she did not entirely understand the Vulcan telepathic gift, and it frightened her.
"I merely read those thoughts uppermost in your mind at the moment of danger," T'Shael explained carefully. "At such times one is drawn toward that which one most values. In your case it was toward your work on Erigena, and toward she who is your mother. In the first instance I sensed pride of accomplishment, a warmth of reminiscence, and a sadness at departure. In the latter I sensed what I can only describe as a great sorrow. An incompleteness. A need for that which she could not, or would not, give. I believe this need was love."
T'Shael stopped, a little breathless, as if it had cost her as much to relate the experience as it cost Cleante to live it. Her next words were tinged with something akin to embarrassment.
"I ask forgiveness for my intrusion into your mind. I return your knowledge of yourself to you, as if it had never passed to me."
Cleante crossed the room and drew quite close to the Vulcan. She was about to risk a great deal.
"T'Shael, this—mind-link. How does it work? Can a Vulcan have such a link with … with another species? Say a human?"
"It is possible," T'Shael said honestly, wishing she did not have to be so honest. Knowing what the human desired and knowing she could not give it. "But it is reserved for instances of very close friendship."
"I see," Cleante nodded. "And of course that's not possible for us."
"Regrettably, it is not."
"And why not?" the human demanded, as she had demanded before without getting a satisfactory answer.
"It is not to do with you," T'Shael said almost gently. "It is that I am one who cannot aspire to such friendship. I must remain alone, that is all."
"And the why is not for me to know?"
"Precisely."
With that T'Shael withdrew into herself and began to tune the ka'athyra as if she truly were alone. Like most of her race she was possessed of perfect pitch, and had intrigued Cleante with this ritual before. But the human was not to be distracted this time. She sat uninvited beside the Vulcan in the windowseat and took her hand away from the strings, holding it firmly in her own.
"T'Shael, you can't just give a human back the knowledge of herself." The strings of the instrument, unconstrained, set up a plaintive resonance to her voice. "I won't accept it. You have to offer me a fair exchange."
The Vulcan gently but firmly extricated her hand from the human's.
"I do not understand," she said. The ka'athyra responded to her voice in melancholy tones until she stilled it.
"Oh, I think you do!" Cleante said sharply, and before the Vulcan could close in on herself she went on. "I want to know as much about you, T'Shael, as you know about me. You've taught me a great deal about Vulcans, but precious little about the one Vulcan I'm most interested in. The Vulcan I choose to be my friend."
"Perhaps you choose unwisely," T'Shael suggested, not meeting her eyes.
"I don't happen to think so!" Cleante flared, then forced her temper down. "I will be your friend, T'Shael. Whether or not you choose to be mine."
The noise assailed T'Shael's sensitive ears before she was halfway across the compound. It was the cry of a Deltan in the throes of despair.
"They've taken Resh away," Cleante explained above Jali's frantic wailing.
T'Shael put down her cleaning implements and contemplated the two remaining Deltans clinging to each other in a corner of their cage. Jali's cries were piercing to human ears; to the Vulcan they were excruciating. T'Shael blocked them as well as she could. Her concern was for Krn.
"There was much activity between Kalor and the guards all morning," she observed. "And the small one seemed to sense something which made him most uneasy. It was why I dispensed with his assistance and sent him back here. Where have they taken Resh'da, and for what purpose?"
"I don't know!" Cleante said, clenching her fists at her temples. The wailing was driving her to a despair of her own. "A little after you went to Krazz's quarters, they simply marched in with their blasters and took Resh away. They wouldn't let us near the windows to see where they were taking him. Naturally poor Resh offered no resistance. He only gave Jali a look, as if he couldn't bear to be parted from her. As if he knew he would never come back. She's been carrying on like this ever since; I can't do anything with her. Since Krn's come back it's gotten worse. I can't make them stop."
"They must be persuaded to stop," T'Shael said. "Or Resh'da will die."
Seven
"TAKE THE SMALL one,"
T'Shael said abruptly to Cleante. The human extricated Krn from his cousin's embrace and let him wrap himself around her. His cries subsided to whimpers. Cleante thought of the last time he had done this, of the Rihannsu ship and Theras. She shuddered and began to soothe the small one with soft words as T'Shael dealt with Jali.
She took the Deltan by the shoulders and shook her hard. Startled into silence, Jali glared at her.
"You are knowing where they are taking your brotherlove," T'Shael said intensely in flawless Deltan, looking hard into the eyes whose fluttering lashes held back great pools of tears waiting to follow those already streaming down the hairless face. "Speak it me!"
"A place, a darkness-place!" Jali moaned, twisting her body frantically, trying to free herself from the viselike grip. "A loneliness-place, no touching and thus—oh!"
She began to wail again, her wails becoming shrieks. T'Shael gathered herself and struck Jali hard across the face with the flat of her hand.
Cleante jumped as if she had been struck. She had never seen the Vulcan resort to violence before. She watched transfixed, wondering if T'Shael had gone mad.
"They were not using the shuttlecraft and thus," T'Shael continued relentlessly in her perfect Deltan, focusing in on Jali as if they two were the only beings in the universe. "Resh'da is therefore near and thus. It is having hope. Sense out your brotherlove and tell it me!"
Jali's eyes lost their focus for a moment and she seemed to search for something. She let out a small cry and clambered up on one of the bunks, pointing out the high window in the direction of the storage shed.
"There!" she cried. "This place of storing things, darkness-place. No-windows place." She slid to the floor and seemed to crumple in on herself, rocking inconsolably. "No-sunlight aloneness place—oh!"
She made to shriek again, but T'Shael merely raised her hand and she subsided.
"Hear me!" the Vulcan said, reverting to Standard for emphasis. "There is no bond between you and me, Jali'lar Kandowali. But Resh'da is of value to me and I would do all in my power to save him were it my place. You are his kinswoman and his lover. If you cannot reach your mind into his and sustain him he will pine for lack of physical contact as is the way of your people and he will die. The choice is yours, Jali'lar."
Jali had known this all along, but the Vulcan's putting it into words forced her to acknowledge it. She struggled to control herself.<
br />
"I will try to reach and thus, but I despair—oh!"
"Then your despair will communicate itself to Resh'da," T'Shael said sternly.
Hearing this, small Krn let go of Cleante and took Jali by the hand, pulling her with him.
"We must try, cousin," he said with a grave and sudden maturity.
Together he and Jali crouched by the wall nearest the storage shed and began their mantra.
"Do you think it will work?" Cleante asked, drawing quite close to T'Shael, seeking some comfort for herself, though she knew better than to ask.
"Unknown," T'Shael said remotely.
She was more concerned with the reasoning behind Kalor's dragging Resh away than with the event itself. What could it mean? Kalor the analytical one—T'Shael had read this in him from the beginning—would know that a Deltan bereft of touch can die of loneliness. What gave Kalor the power to endanger his Empire's captives with impunity? Had something happened in the galaxy beyond that had altered the captives' fate without their knowing it?
"Will Resh die?" Cleante was asking.
"If his cousins are unable to sustain their link with him …" T'Shael's voice trailed off. There was a thing that she could do, but as the time drew closer and her need to return to Vulcan grew stronger, it held considerable danger. "I also have a tenuous link with the gentle one. It may be possible for me to be of service."
Having said this to the human, T'Shael acknowledged that she was committed to it. But she was not prepared for Cleante's reaction.
"You have a link with Resh—with a Deltan?" There was hurt in her voice more than incredulity, hurt that T'Shael would reject a link with her and yet—Cleante remembered the earthquake. "I see."
"It was not my desire to sustain it, nor do I desire to use it now," T'Shael said, allowing herself something as extraordinary as personal preference. "Nevertheless, if it is all that will save Resh'da—"
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