Vulcan's Forge

by Josepha Sherman

  "A moving and powerful tale that should delight all fans of Spock and the planet Vulcan. I've always wanted to see the story of Spock's early years on his home planet and here it is at long last. Reading VULCAN'S FORGE is the only logical thing to do!"

  —A. C. Crispin, author of Sarek and

  Yesterday's Son

  "Truly fascinating! The 'silent years' of the young Spock . . . his family life on Vulcan . . . coupled with a difficult and dangerous mission in the present, where old friends and older enemies reassert themselves."

  —Diane Duane, author of Spock's World

  "I love this book! These women know Spock. They know Sarek. They understand the relationship between the two and how Amanda felt about both of them. They understand Vulcan, that desert world, and its harshness and beauty. I'm putting VULCAN'S FORGE right next to Spock's World and Sarek on my Star Trek hardcover shelf."

  —Mary Taylor, Science Fiction and Fantasy

  Media Forum, CompuServe

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 0-7434-5406-5

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  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  About the Authors

  Science Fiction, Fantasy and Me:

  Thirty Years After First Contact

  Look for STAR TREK Fiction from Pocket Books

  To the young women of Bellatrix,

  past, present, and future,

  Mount Holyoke College's science fiction society

  and

  To the memory of

  Mark Lenard

  ONE

  Federation Protectorate World Obsidian, City of Kalara

  Day 2, Fourth Week, Month of the Raging Durak,

  Year 2296

  Captain David Rabin of Starfleet stood leaning wearily against one wall of the Federation outpost, snatching this rare bit of free time to look out over the stark, clean beauty of the desert and at least try to relax. He was a not-quite-youngish man of Earth Israeli descent, olive-skinned and sturdy, his hair and beard a curly brown, but right now he felt twice his age and as though he'd spent all his life wandering in the wilderness.

  Whoever named this planet Obsidian, Rabin thought, really caught the feel of the place.

  Sharp gray peaks like a row of fangs rimmed the horizon, and plains of black volcanic glass gleamed beneath the savage sun. This was very much a hard-edged world, beautiful if you had an eye for such things, reminding Rabin of Vulcan or the desert preserves in Earth's Negev, where he'd grown up.

  Now there's a good comparison, the Negev, with all its history of wars and fanatics!

  When Rabin had been assigned to planetary duty here on Obsidian, he'd been told, "This is a perfect spot for you, Captain Rabin. Why, with your background, your desert experience, your knowledge of hydrostatics, you'll have no trouble at all."

  Of course not. Help the people. Introduce them to a better life without, of course, damaging the Prime Directive. Oh, and keep an eye out for Romulan intrusions while you're at it, yes? This world does lie right on the edge of the Romulan Empire. Of course, we can't spare you any extra personnel since this is only a small outpost, a scientific outpost at that, but that won't be a problem, will it?

  Rabin grinned wryly, then shrugged. You didn't rise to the rank of captain without knowing something about bureaucracy. And things could, as the old story went, always be worse. At least Obsidian's air was breathable, its gravity almost Earth-standard: no special gear required. Nothing but the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Job.

  Obsidian's people, not surprisingly, were as hard-edged as their world. Humanoid, with sharp features, dusky-olive skin, and lean, angular bodies (what you could see of them under those flowing robes), they were very much like his own Israeli ancestors: tough, stubborn, and indomitable.

  All of which they needed to be. As his superiors had so delicately reminded him, Obsidian did lie perilously close to the Romulan Empire. Worse, it had a very active sun producing ever more frequent solar flares. Not a healthy combination. The folks here in the bustling (and as far as probes from space had shown, the only) city, Kalara, shielded themselves from the flares as best they could. But they were a low-tech people, deliberately so, kept that way by a network of conservative customs That Just Were Not Broken. And veils, hooded robes, and even thick mud brick walls might be proper and picturesque, but they simply weren't enough protection. Rabin winced at the thought of the resulting abnormally high rates of cancer and lethal mutations.

  No wonder everyone seems so bitter. So fatalistic. Yes, and has so much rage buried just below the surface. Amazing that they even contacted the Federation!

  More amazing that they had been able to, if not actually break, at least bend their customs enough to go the next step and accept provisional Federation status. But then, Rabin thought, you'd have to be pretty stupid, customs or no, not to want the kinder, more benevolent life the Federation promised, particularly for your children. The child mortality rate here, poor kids, was frightening.

  And yet, what has the Federation done for them so far? We've managed to treat a few children, but most of the parents don't trust us. And why should they? We've told them that their sun's growing increasingly unstable. Well, they knew that! We promised them a better harvest, then gave them just the one good season followed by a blighted crop of what was supposed to be perfectly desert-adapted quadrotriticale—didn't that make the Federation look stupid!

  The crop failure could have been due to faulty genetic coding hitting in the second generation. Some of the technicians had dubiously proposed that excuse, since there weren't any major signs of insect damage or recognizable disease. But excuses didn't help anyone.

  Yes, and then there had been the failed hydroponics facility—the sand that had fouled the machinery and destroyed the entire operation could have somehow filtered in past the controls. Unlikely, but maybe someone had failed to make sure a seal was airtight.

  Oh, and then there had been the supply dump that had mysteriously been attacked by desert beetles, hikiri as large as a man's hand and with pincers that could take off a finge
r—well now, the locals had claimed that they never had trouble with hikiri beetles: it must have been poor Federation planning.

  Right. And all those misfortunes coming so closely one on the other were strictly coincidental. Romulan interference? They could hardly be unaware of the Federation presence. But there had been not the slightest trace of activity on the Romulans' part; they seemed content to merely watch and wait,

  Besides, you don't need outsiders to help you stir up a good case of paranoia. There are more than enough suspects right here on Obsidian.

  The saboteur wasn't Leshon or any of his city folk, nor did they know who the criminal was; the aristocratic mayor had sworn to that by one of his people's convoluted and quite unbreakable oaths, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes at seeing the mighty Federation discomfited. But who knew how many other lives were out there in the desert? And this was, after all, a major trading center, with caravans in and out of the city every day.

  And I just don't have the personnel to one, watch for Romulans, two, guard the outpost, three, watch every supply dump plus the fields and hydroponics facility, and four, scan everyone who goes in and out of the city!

  A Federation science ship was supposed to be en route to Obsidian, its goal to study the deterioration of the planet's ozone layer; maybe when it got here he could beg or steal some extra personnel from the captain.

  And maybe siniki. Obsidian's answer to pigs, could fly.

  Rabin could hear the city's noise even through the thick walls: business as usual in there, everyone studiously ignoring the Federation presence just outside. He snorted, listening to the normal babble of voices, the grunts and bleats of animals and a snatch of flutesong; the air was hot and dusty as always, but he caught a tantalizing whiff of something spicy being barbecued. Another plus: Humans could eat most Obsidian meals. He'd walked through the marketplace several politic times, smiling and nodding, listening to music, watching street performers, sampling the food.

  And just barely managing to not get lost. Kalara was a sprawling maze of low, flat-roofed mud brick buildings, each one covered with intricate clan patterns in reds and blues. After much negotiation, the Federation outpost, built up against one of the city's outer walls, had been designed to look very much like a Kalaran building, even to being faced with the same mud brick. David, thinking that the Federation needed some clan patterns too if they were to keep up status, had over the weeks added various human symbols, including the Hebrew signs Shalom and L'chaim, Peace and To Life. The locals, when he'd told them the translations, had very much appreciated that! It was one of the few times he had actually gained face since coming to this world.

  "Captain Dafit Rabeen."

  Rabin turned, biting back a sigh and forcing an amiable smile onto his face. Just what the day needed: politics. "Sern Leshon." Fortunately remembering local custom, he dipped his head three times in courtesy.

  The lean, red-robed figure returned the three shallow bows, while his ritual entourage (three men, three women, never more or less), in their dull brown robes, bent nearly in half. Leshon waved them away casually, not deigning to look over his shoulder, his sharp, narrow face unreadable. "Ah, again you study the desert!" He spoke Federation standard rather well, though with a guttural accent. "What, Captain, if asking may be permitted, find you so fascinating in the desert?"

  "It's clean." But Leshon could hardly be expected to recognize a quote from the old Earth movie Lawrence of Arabia, so David added, "My own ancestors came from such a place."

  "As did mine." There was no mistaking the irony in Leshon's voice. "But we left it as quickly as possible."

  Point to your side. "Yet you have to admit it's beautiful."

  "Beauty? Heat and dust and emptiness." Leshon gave a sharp tongue-click of disapproval. "We are not wild nomads to appreciate such miseries. Yes," he added with a sideways flash of cool eyes, "I am aware that you have attempted to contact them."

  "Without success."

  Again Rabin heard that disapproving tongue-click. "They are nothing. Little more than animals unworthy of your time."

  Federation Directive Whatever-It-Is: Don't try to argue the natives out of their prejudices. "It wasn't 'wild nomads' who let beetles into our supply dump, Sern Leshon."

  "What's this? Do you accuse my people—"

  "Of nothing, Sern Leshon."

  Except, Rabin thought dryly, a slight touch of hypocrisy. Leshon and the good folks of Kalara might not be behind any acts of sabotage or know who was, but that didn't mean Leshon wasn't enjoying the proceedings. He could hardly have wanted his authority undermined by a Federation presence and, David knew, still held a grudge against the city council for overruling him.

  "Sern Leshon, I don't blame you or your people for being wary of strangers who aren't even from your—" Rabin broke off sharply as Junior Lieutenant Shara Albright hurried forward. Young and earnest, with not a blonde hair out of place, she stopped short, clearly aching to speak but determinedly obeying protocol. Why oh why, David thought, did they send me someone who not only isn't biologically suited to this climate but who doesn't have a scrap of humor as well? At least her passion for spit and polish meant that she followed orders about keeping her head covered and protecting her too fair skin. "Go ahead, Lieutenant, say something before you burst."

  Her blink told him she didn't approve of his levity, but of course a junior lieutenant didn't scold a captain. "Sir!" she began, almost explosively, cautiously in Earth English so Leshon couldn't understand. "There's another of them. The hermit types, I mean."

  Rabin groaned. "The usual zealot, I suppose? All right, let's see what this one has to say."

  This one, clad in the usual worn-out robe, was firmly in the mold of hermit: the fanatic and determinedly unkempt sort. He was an older man, filthy, painfully thin and with the eyes of someone who enjoyed watching heretics burn. Standing carefully upwind, Rabin gave him the courtesy of a triple dip of the head, very well aware that Leshon was watching.

  "Demon!" the old man said severely in return. "Ah, no. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I and my people are definitely mortal flesh and blood."

  "Demon, I say! Can you deny you were not born of this world? Can you deny you come from the Outer Dark?"

  A crowd of locals had begun to gather, a little too coincidentally, and the hair at the back of David's neck began to prickle. Judging from the growing tension in the air, this was a mob in the making, and if he didn't defuse things quickly—

  "I come," Rabin said very gently, "from the Federation, that is, the United Federation of Planets, a peaceful association of equals. And I—we, all of us, we come—we come in peace."

  "You come to destroy us!"

  No reasoning with a fanatic. "Why?"

  That stopped the hermit short. But he recovered all too quickly. "You dare to mock me! You, your Federation with its plot, its secret plot to destroy us!"

  "No. We—"

  "Yes! You plot to destroy our water tunnels and enslave us all!"

  Obsidian, like many other desert worlds, depended on its ancient network of water tunnels; even the fiercest of wild nomads would die before damaging one. The crowd gasped in outrage, and David cut in hastily, "How? You, all of you, you've seen what we've brought: food, medical supplies—if we were the monsters this" benighted old idiot "this elder claims, wouldn't we have brought weapons instead? Yes," he added wryly, "and if we were such monsters, would we have ever been the victims of acts of sabotage?" That translated as "well-spoiling," and roused wary murmurs of agreement from the crowd,

  "Poison!" the old man shouted. "You have poisoned the water!"

  "Really? Then go, bring me some of that 'poisoned' water. Bring some for yourself, too! Now! Ready? L'chaim!"

  The hermit clearly didn't want to be part of the friendly ritual of sharing water, but just as clearly didn't dare refuse and risk accusal. Rabin glanced down at the earthenware cup. It looked like water, tasted like water. He drank with a flourish and made a mental note to ha
ve himself checked out later, just in case.

  Lowering the now-empty cup, Rabin smiled, looked around at the crowd, seeing doubt then embarrassment replacing anger. "Quite pleasant. Nice and cool. And not a drop of poison, either. It's very easy to hate, isn't it? When your crops fail, your children sicken, it's very easy to believe that he's a demon, she's a witch just because he or she isn't exactly like you. Believe me, I know. I come from a land very much like yours." Save for the sun; Earth never had a sun like this, thank the good Lord. "But we settled our differences and made the desert bloom, and so can you. You can see an end to shortened lives, see your happy, healthy children play—but only if you let us help you."

  "As slaves," the old man muttered, but the fire had gone out of him.

  "As friends," Rabin corrected firmly. "And we—"

  Shouts broke into the rest of his words. Rabin smelled acrid smoke and swore under his breath. Now what?

  "Fire!" someone yelled—in Federation standard. Spitting out an oath, Rabin ran.

  Sure enough, another precious supply dump had been sabotaged. Of course, Rabin thought. The hermit's ravings made a perfect distraction, especially understaffed as we are. Yes, and more shouts were telling him that another dump had been caught just about to burst into flame. Someone had known enough to bypass the controls and get in there, but—

  No Romulans on Obsidian, assuming Federation instruments were doing their job. No double agents among his crew, assuming he was doing his job. No locals with sufficient knowledge of technology; that was a given. Rabin looked wildly out at the desert.

  Just who is out there? Who—or what? "

  It does not seem that Obsidian likes you," Leshon purred, and Rabin whirled to him.

  "You'd like us to just go away, wouldn't you? Return things to the way they were. But they aren't going back that way! They aren't going to get better, either, not with your sun turned enemy. We aren't trying to cut into your power, Sern Leshon, surely you see that? I like these people, Sern Leshon. I don't want to see any more of them suffer. I don't want to see any more children die!"