Year 2296
The crew of the ill-fated shuttle woke to silence and clear skies. Rabin and Spock moved to the cave entrance, flanked by the others, everyone eager to see exactly where they were.
Someone swore, very softly. Someone else whistled in shock. Their cave sanctuary looked out on a perilously narrow strip of flat ledge, scored and blackened where the shuttlecraft had made its crash landing and almost deadly slide.
"One meter of error," Ensign Kavousi murmured, "that's all it would have taken. One meter of error in landing and we'd be dead."
Captain Rabin shook his head in wonder. "Ensign Prince, I think I speak for all of us when I tell you that was one hell of a piloting job you did."
The ensign shrugged, olive skin flushing slightly. "Ah well, it was written that we not crash, but thank you, sir."
Spock stepped carefully to the edge of the cliff, wary of crumbling soil, studying the formation. Yes . . . it would be a difficult climb down without mountaineering gear, but it could be done. Indeed, if his suspicions were correct, it had already been done. . . .
He prowled the narrow rim of the ledge, hunting, a wary Rabin in his wake.
"You don't suppose . . ." Rabin began tentatively.
"You speak of McCoy?"
"If he was out here, walking blind . . . I mean . . ."
"He is not dead."
"Then where is he? Not too many places for a man to be hiding."
Spock acknowledged that with the slightest of nods, then stopped sharply, going to one knee. There at the very lip of the cliff, boldly placed so that it could not possibly be missed, lay a tricorder bearing the insignia of Starfleet Medical Corps. And it was shattered beyond repair.
"The storm must have smashed it," Rabin said in the tone of someone who didn't quite believe what he was saying.
"Hardly. If you will observe the damage closely, you will see that it has been quite deliberately done by a suddenly applied force."
"Like the force from someone's boot."
"Precisely. Someone also made quite certain that we should find the tricorder and, presumably, assume that the doctor had fallen to his death. That, I assure you, is not the case."
Spock straightened, looking out across the desert. A vast, rocky plain stretched out before him, glinting here and there with fresh-strewn shards of black glass over a layer of tan soil and pale sand. But he did note some hints of green; there was, therefore, at least some water. The far horizon was rimmed by a dark, jagged ridge of mountains, clearly igneous and possibly still seismically active. They seemed no more than a few days' walking away, but Spock knew from experience with the deceptive light of other deserts that they were much farther away than they appeared.
And in all that vastness, he saw not the smallest sign of habitation. "Either Dr. McCoy's captors are truly skilled in covering this terrain, or they had a small, swift craft. Either way, the doctor is surely a captive."
That, he added to himself, would explain why he is so very furious. But where is he? And who has captured him?
The "why" was simple enough: a Federation medical officer would make a valuable hostage, indeed. Someone obviously knew about Starfleet, presumably the same someone who knew enough to convince a native spy that a Vulcan was the Fiery One. "Do you recognize this region?" Spock asked Rabin.
"I'm not sure." Rabin studied the desert, hand shading his eyes. "That's due west . . . then that must be the Taragishar Range. At least I think it is; never saw it from this angle before. If we bear north-northwest, we should be only . . ." His voice faltered. "Only unbelievably far from the Federation base. With a hell of a lot of uncharted desert in between."
"There is no need for alarm. You are as much an experienced desert inhabitant as I."
"Spock, it's been a good many years since our last outing. Maybe time doesn't mean as much to you Vulcans, but it sure does to humans."
Spock waited.
"True," Rabin continued, as Spock had expected, "I haven't tied myself down to a desk job, and I try to keep myself fit, but still . . . all that . . ."
Spock only raised an eyebrow. Rabin hesitated, then gave Spock a lopsided grin. "You read me all too well, don't you? What can I say? The boy's still part of the man, and the boy's still got the taste—logical or not—for adventure. At least I don't need tri-ox here. Ah, what are you looking at down—oh."
The shuttle was an alarmingly small mass of shiny metal there at the base of the cliff. Rabin winced and turned away, to find himself being watched by the crew. "Ensign Kavousi, Captain Spock worked long and hard on that transmitter. Stop gawking and see if you can raise our base or the Intrepid. Ensign Prince, go help him."
"Aye-aye. I still wish you'd let me go with you and Captain Spock, though, sir."
"Ensign Prince, we've gone over this already. Three or four times already, for that matter. One last time: Only you have the experience these people need. You have the responsibility for insuring their well-being." Rabin set a hand on the young man's shoulder, adding too softly for the others to hear, "I need you here, Faisal."
Ensign Prince blinked and clasped a hand to his belt, only to brush his phaser and frown as though surprised. Rabin grinned.
"You were expecting a Meccan dagger, weren't you? Wrong desert."
"Shalom, Captain." The ensign touched heart, lips, and brow.
"Aleikum salaam," Captain Rabin replied, returning the salute. "Go with God."
Spock nodded at Lieutenant Diver and Rabin's crew, who all looked somewhat—he sought for a word and settled on "forlorn." "I have every confidence in you," he told them, "and in those at the base. When we return to that base, we will speak again. I am certain your experiences will be highly instructive."
Now, why did that make them smile? "
Well," Rabin said with clearly forced cheer, "the day's not getting any younger. Think we can get down that cliff safely, Spock?"
"Others did."
"Then—let's trek, Spock."
With a reluctance that surprised him, Spock turned his back on the sheltering cave. Overhead, Loki glared, an angry eye in a quiescent sky. Spock frowned ever so slightly, sensing the first new perturbations in the air. Was there to be another storm? Worse, was he sensing the first air pressure changes signaling a solar flare? If so, it might well occur while he and Rabin were out on the open desert, forcing him to find shelter for Rabin and himself, just as he had on Vulcan.
Until then, however, Rabin knew this world better than did he, and so Rabin would lead.
The struggle down the steep, nearly sheer slope of the cliff took a good part of the morning and brought Spock and Rabin unnervingly near—unnervingly for the human, at least—the wrecked shuttlecraft.
Rabin whistled soundlessly. "Looks even worse up close. That isn't going anywhere, ever. Nothing worth salvaging, either."
"Indeed not."
Rabin glanced at Spock. "You're remembering, too, aren't you? That other wrecked craft, back on Vulcan?"
"Yes." And another, earlier, wreck of a Galileo craft. "But there is nothing in that memory or this wreck that can help us, and we surely have a considerable journey ahead."
"So don't waste time in reminiscing," Rabin finished dryly. "Got it." He looked about, getting his bearings. "We really couldn't have picked a less convenient place for a crash if we'd planned it. Nothing nearby, not even an oasis town."
"The land cannot be totally lifeless if the nomads cross it. And I did see signs of vegetation, indicating moisture."
'Then: Onward."
Spock paused, glancing about the open wilderness with a desert-dweller's instinctive caution. Rabin stopped with him, warily silent.
They had been walking with a steady, ground-eating, energy-saving stride, taking advantage of the morning's relative coolness, and by now they could no longer see the cave in which the rest of their party sheltered. All about them stretched the rocky plain with its glittering black coating of bits of obsidian over the tan, hard-packed soil. The wind w
hispered harmlessly, stirring the hot, dry, dusty air, tugging at Spock's hood.
There. His keen Vulcan hearing had caught the clear, steady chirping of some desert fowl. Where there was wildlife, there was water. The wind shifted slightly, and Spock sniffed the air, analyzing.
"Water," he said after a moment.
"This way." It was a bare seepage from between two rocks, but it was clean. No desert-dweller passed up the chance for moisture, particularly when it meant precious supplies could be conserved, so Spock and Rabin took advantage of the chance to drink, then sat back, resting for a moment.
"I admit," Rabin began, "I was a little leery about taking only the two small canteens with us."
"Had I not seen vegetation, I never would have proposed bringing so small an amount," Spock agreed. "But the crew needed the water more than did we."
"Right. 'The needs of the many,' and all that. And I'd forgotten how you really can smell out water if you know what you're hunting. That funny not-quite-wet rock smell. Almost like hot metal."
"Exactly."
"Ha, look at this," Rabin said, studying the relatively lush plants growing along the line of seepage. "Liak root." He pulled one free with some effort, then brushed the soil away from the tuberous roots. "See?" Breaking off a piece, he crunched it happily. "You usually find these near water," the man said around his mouthful. "Nice flavor, crunchy texture, and it's got vitamins human and presumably Vulcan metabolisms can use."
Spock, curious, sampled a piece. "Yes," he said, swallowing. "Quite palatable. Will it store well?"
"Easily. For days, maybe even a week."
"Excellent. Then let us supplement our rations with fresh food while we may."
They added several of the liak roots to their packs, leaving the majority of the plants behind to replenish themselves, then set out again. The walking so far had not been particularly difficult, Spock mused, hearing gravel crunch under his feet. Aside from such local variations in the sparse, thorny vegetation as the liak, this seemed little different from many another desert plain he had crossed in his life; there were, after all, only so many ways for similar ecological systems to be formed.
Of course, as with all deserts, there were perils. Obsidian could be treacherously fragile and slick underfoot. And one needed to keep a keen eye for such predators as whatever cold-blooded species might need to warm themselves on sun-heated surfaces.
"You still aren't a meat-eater, I take it?" Rabin asked suddenly.
"That has not changed."
"A pity. Some tasty wild critters about, such as . . ." He pounced swift as a predator himself, and came up with a good-sized lizardlike something, wriggling frantically in his grip as Rabin held it firmly just behind the head. " Boktarik. That's what the good folks of Kalara call them, anyhow. But if you aren't going to join me . . ." He put the boktarik down again with careful gentleness, watching it scuttle away. "'Sorry, sir, but we can't kill a whole boktarik for just one steak.'"
"That," Spock commented, "is a jest, originally from Earth, originally told about a man desiring to eat elephant and being rebuffed by the chef. It is older, my friend, than both of our ages added together."
"Aha! He has learned something of human ways!"
"It would be illogical, to say nothing of highly improbable, of me not to have done just that. And you," Spock added without the slightest trace of expression, "have not lost your gift for, I believe the proper word for it is, 'wisecracking.'"
That forced a genuine laugh out of Rabin. "God, Spock, it has been a long time, I never meant to drop out of sight like that."
"Lives often diverge, whether one wills it or not."
"And isn't that the truth! I've heard bits and pieces about your career, of course; hard to avoid hearing about the first Enterprise and its heroic mission. Missions. Enterprises —ah, you know what I mean."
"Yes. The sun is rapidly approaching its zenith."
"I've noticed. And smart desert critters should rest in whatever shade they can find."
There was none. This, Spock knew, was hardly a problem. He and Rabin sat, if not totally comfortably, at least tolerably well, under the makeshift canopies that flowing desert robes could create. For a long while they said nothing, sharing a canteen between them, both too desert-wise to move more than was absolutely necessary or take more than a mouth-wetting swallow at a time, or to stint themselves on water, either. Spock watched to be sure that the human, more water-dependent than he, took the larger share.
Then Rabin stirred slightly. "So, what have you been doing? Besides rising through Starfleet ranks, that is?"
Spock hesitated. I have lost my captain . . . and my friend. But all he said was "Experienced much. Learned what I could."
Rabin snorted. "Such as how to field unwanted questions. Don't worry; I've had some experience in that myself."
Time passed and the desert grew utterly still with heat, too warm for even the human's innate cockiness. He napped sitting up, and Spock used the desert quiet to slip into meditation. It would be far too simple to let worry intrude, about the crew, back in their rock shelter, about himself and Rabin and the desert about them. But worry was emotion, emotion was insignificant . . . logic was the cornerstone, logic and control . . .
He roused suddenly, feeling refreshed. The sun had slid almost to the horizon, and a cooler breeze was already sweeping over the desert as he got to his feet, brushing off his robes. With a companionable nod to Rabin, who was doing the same, Spock set out again, the human keeping pace but moving a bit stiffly.
"Don't worry about me," he told Spock, who was watching him warily. "Nothing wrong. I just haven't been doing as much long-range hiking as I should."
Spock glanced at the sky, the horizon. "We should be able to go on for a bit longer before nightfall."
"I can do it, if that's what's bothering you."
"I am not bothered. Merely speculative. I trust you are not being what is generally termed, I believe, 'macho.'"
Rabin, mouth full of something he had just snatched from a thorny plant, nearly spit it out, choking on laughter. Chewing frantically, he said, "No. I'm not being 'macho,' honest." He bent over one of the thorny desert plants, then plucked a second object and straightened. "Here, try this. Challik fruit, nice and ripe. Watch it! Knock the spines off first."
"I am well acquainted with the typical characteristics of desert succulents." Spock neatly broke the spines off against a convenient rock, then sampled the challik. Agreeable, if a touch too sweet for his tastes. "Odd how few intelligent beings realize that a desert is rarely totally barren. There is generally food to be found."
"If one isn't too fussy," Rabin added. "And has an eye that truly sees. What always amazes me is how few intelligent beings realize how beautiful it all is!"
Spock paused, considering the starkness about him. A younger Spock would have agreed stiffly that there was an esthetic correctness to the arrangement of plain and mesa and mountains. Now he could say simply, "Yes. I, too, find it beautiful." Which was, after all, just as logically truthful.
They camped for the night on a level stretch of land slightly higher than the surrounding area; both of them knew the danger of flash floods. The desert floor was far too parched to absorb water quickly, which meant that any rain in the high mountains would come surging down dry gullies or even slight depressions with quick, deadly force.
"Not much in the way of tinder," Rabin commented. He shivered suddenly, drawing his robes about him as the desert rapidly cooled after sunset.
"No matter." Spock had already found three good-sized rocks, checking them for fractures or other dangerous weaknesses. Piling the rocks together, he heated them to a steady, baking warmth with a quick, efficient phaser blast. "They will stay hot, I would estimate, for perhaps five point nine Obsidian hours."
"Long enough. Won't betray our presence with any nasty firelight or smoke, either." Rabin held a liak root over one, then sampled the roasted result. "Not bad. Could use some pepper, thou
gh. This is how the nomad women cook; a good cooking stone—one that's not going to explode on you from trapped air—is passed down, mother to daughter."
"A similar ritual was performed by women in Vulcan's nomad past."
"Clever, those women." Rabin paused, eyeing Spock slyly. "Speaking of which, my pointed-eared friend, what have you been doing in all those years? Married your T'Pring and—"
"No."
The flatness of it made Rabin stare. "No? I thought there . . . ah . . . wasn't a choice about it."
"There was. T'Pring chose otherwise." Memory, still surprisingly sharp after so long, told him: I chose not to be the consort of a legend. "As," Spock said in deliberate understatement, "did I."
"Ah."
Spock raised a brow. "Now, if I am not mistaken, you are about to perform that human ritual of 'I told you so.'"
"I wouldn't! But . . ." Rabin grinned. "I did tell you so, didn't I?" The grin faded. "Not that I've done so well on the home front. I . . . was married for a time, 'a nice Jewish girl' and all that. But . . ." He shrugged. "It turned out that I'd wed a wife who didn't like deserts."
"That hardly seems like a logical choice."
Rabin snorted. "Believe me, Spock, logic had nothing to do with it!" He shrugged again. "No kids, no complications, no hard feelings. It happens. My mother, of course, still wants grandchildren, but she's hardly going to nag me across the galaxy! Besides," he added with the return of his grin, "she has her own life. She retired from Starfleet some time ago, went into politics back on Earth and is now both happily remarried and a member of the Israeli government, the Knesset."
Rabin paused as though he'd been slapped. "Hell, Spock, I forgot," he said awkwardly. "The Lady Amanda. I heard about . . . please do accept my condolences." In shaky Old High Vulcan, he added, "I grieve with thee."
"There is no need for embarrassment. One cannot alter what has already passed. But," he added, voice carefully controlled, "thank you. Now I do believe we should rest. I will take the first watch."
Rabin settled himself on the ground, wrapped in his bedroll. Silence fell for a time. Then:
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