Vulcan's Forge

by Josepha Sherman

  "Spock . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "Can't help wondering. The crew . . . think they'll make it?"

  "If you wish me to 'guess,' you are mistaken, my friend. And as for a rational reply, the chances of the makeshift transmitter working with sufficient strength and sufficient length of time to let the Federation base find the crew are, given fair weather and no solar flares, approximately twentyfour point five to—"

  "Not statistics again."

  "I cannot predict what the crew will do. But I can remind you of this fact: they are well trained and intelligent, both your party and mine. They will not make foolish mistakes."

  "And what about us? Think we'll make it?"

  Spock started to reply, then stopped, realizing that there had been the faintest tinge of humor to Rabin's voice; the human was hiding his worries as humans tended to do by pretending he was only joking. Rabin was also deliberately evoking their long-ago struggle for survival.

  "Only," Spock said as though he hadn't seen through the subterfuge, "if we achieve sufficient rest."

  There was a sound suspiciously like a chuckle from Rabin. "Good night, Spock." It was a parody of a little boy's voice.

  "Good night," Spock said and, secure in darkness too thick for human vision, permitted himself the smallest upward crook of his mouth.

  Rabin stretched, yawning. "God, what I wouldn't give for a good old-fashioned genuine Earth-grown-bean cup of coffee! It's been far too long since I've slept on the ground, Spock. Getting too old for this."

  Spock raised an eyebrow. "I would not believe that to be the truth if you were twice your age."

  "Saying I'm still a child at heart?" The human stretched again, wincing. "Wish I could get the rest of the body to agree! Ah well, at least nothing bothered us in the night. I . . . only hope the crew had as peaceful a rest."

  "It is illogical to worry about what cannot be affected."

  "Easy for you to say! You don't have to answer to Starfleet for the loss of a shuttlecraft."

  "Judging from the age of that craft," Spock said in a carefully neutral voice, "I do not believe the bill would be substantial."

  "Never underestimate the power of bureaucracy. Well, my friend," Rabin added with a wryly melodramatic bow, "the desert waits."

  They walked on into the morning, and on again, the only sounds the soft stirring of wind, the crunch of grit underfoot, and the occasional distant call of what Spock assumed from the incautious shrillness was a hunting bird. The day quickly grew warm, then hot. Not unpleasantly so, Spock thought, at least not for a Vulcan, though Rabin did not seem unduly uncomfortable, either. The terrain remained relatively level, and it was not at all difficult to fall into the mindlessness of step after step after . . .

  "Remember the last time we did this?" Rabin said suddenly. "Having to be heroes when we both were nothing but scared kids—oh, don't look at me like that, Spock. You and I both know that underneath that Mr. Cool Logic face you were wearing, you were every bit as scared as me and—look at those Indians on the horizon!"

  At first, the reference escaped Spock completely. Then a memory with Jim Kirk's voice whispered, "John Ford Westerns, movies," as he saw the line of desert nomads sitting their chuchaki on the ridge above them.

  "Wild nomads," Rabin murmured. "Look at those chuchaki. Lean as greyhounds and pure white, every one of them. Desert breed. Deep desert, these guys."

  "I do not believe it would be wise for us to move."

  "I'm not moving."

  The nomads sat absolutely still, keeping even their chuchaki from fidgeting, making a dramatic point. Then the line rode smoothly down the ridge as one to block the way, still without a sound other than the jingling of harness and a grunt from a chuchaki.

  At first glance, the nomads seemed identical as clones, shrouded in the same deeply hooded flowing robes, tan as the desert floor. But Spock noted subtle changes in the weaving of each robe and less subtle lines of color, red or blue: ritual markings, no doubt, that indicated different clans or rankings.

  One thing the nomads all had in common: They were blatantly not happy at finding strangers in their territory. In a movement so smooth that it could only have been rehearsed, the nomads, as one, drew and aimed archaic—but, Spock didn't doubt, still quite deadly—projectile rifles at Rabin and him.

  "What the hell's going on?" Rabin whispered. "Why are they calling us the Faithful?"

  Spock's translator was picking up the same cryptic words. He also saw fingers beginning to tighten on triggers. Taking a logical chance out of desperation, he raised his hand in the split-fingered Vulcan greeting and said, "Live long and prosper."

  This calm, ritual greeting was clearly not what the nomads had been expecting. For the first time Spock saw them stir uneasily, glancing at each other. He followed up on their hesitation by telling them, still in his best calm, logical voice, "We are not of the Faithful—but we do wish to speak of them." He added softly to Rabin, suddenly inspired, "Push back the hood of your cloak. Let them see you."

  Rabin warily pushed back the hood. As Spock had hoped, the nomads reacted to his clearly non-native features; this was plainly not one of the mysterious Faithful. More, they were actually pleased,

  "The Kindly Fool!"

  "The Kindly Fool has finally gained the wisdom to find us!"

  Rabin raised an eyebrow at that "Kindly Fool" epithet, but Spock cut in before he could say anything, "Yes. This is the good man who seeks to save your children and make the desert bloom."

  That started a storm of murmurings among the nomads. At last the one who seemed to be their leader, his robe marked with red and blue zigzag weavings, said, "Come."

  They were escorted—surrounded, rather—by the mounted nomads, towering over them, to a rocky outcropping. "There," said the nomad's leader. "In there."

  Rabin groaned. "Another cave."

  "More than that," Spock murmured, entering. "Note the size of the cavern, its height and depth. Yes," he added, "and notice that the nomads have painted pictographs all over the walls. This is a true refuge, not merely a chance convenience, presumably one in which the nomads take shelter during a solar flare."

  "I just hope it isn't going to be turned into a prison."

  "I do not think that will be the case. Look."

  One of the nomads was approaching, the hood of his robe pulled back to reveal dark eyes in a lean, sharp-edged face lacking any surplus flesh—the face, Spock thought, of a true desert-dweller. This uncovering was, he suspected, a sign of respect, as was the earthen cup of precious water he bore.

  "The Water Ritual," Rabin muttered. "Never saw it outside of street theater in Kalara. You're right; we are being honored."

  The nomad made a great ceremony out of offering the cup. With a sideways glance at Rabin, who was gesturing subtly, go on, take it, Spock bowed to the nomad, accepted the cup, sipped, then passed it on to Rabin. He, too, sipped, then passed it back to the nomad, who drank in turn. The cup made its rounds three times, then the nomad bowed and left. Rabin whistled under his breath.

  "You're in the wrong business, my friend," he murmured to Spock.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Took me a while to place those tribal weavings. But these are the Benak Haran—they almost always do that 'shoot first, ask questions later* routine! Nice job of diplomacy you did."

  Does he take me for my father?

  Illogical to feel even quickly suppressed anger at the comparison. "I did what was needed," Spock said flatly.

  Time enough to ponder such issues when he and Rabin and all the crew—yes, and Dr. McCoy as well—were safe.

  Whenever that might be.

  THIRTEEN

  Vulcan, Deep Desert

  Day 6, Eighth Week of Tasmeen,

  Year 2247

  Spock and David stopped to get their bearings, both boys staring at the far horizon, where a jagged mass of blackened rock hunched up from the reddish desert floor.

  "No easy way to get around tha
t," David said.

  "No need to get around it. We must, instead, get over it."

  "That . . . wasn't a joke, is it?"

  "A play on words, I believe you call it? No. I only mean that we must climb over it, quite literally."

  "Oh, now you've got to be joking!"

  "The ascent is not as difficult as it seems. Others have climbed the ridge, and indeed the al-Stakna Mountains beyond, without mountaineering gear." That those others had been scientists trained in mountaineering was a fact he saw no reason to mention to David. "And once we have crossed it, we will be on the edge of the Womb of Fire."

  "Now, that really makes me feel cheerful." David shaded his eyes with a hand. "I know distances in the desert are deceiving, but it looks like we could reach that thing in about an hour or so of quick hiking. How far away do you think it really is?"

  "If my calculations are correct . . ." Spock began,

  "If they're not correct, I'm dead and so are the rest of the hostages. I'm assuming that if I stick my head into the hypotenuse of this navigational triangle of yours, we won't both hang."

  Spock flicked the human a sharp glance, letting him know what he thought of people who punned on mathematics. David's grin made his lips crack. "Once we cross the ridge," the human continued, giving them a perfunctory swipe with his tongue, "will we be able to see where Sered's got the hostages?"

  "We should." Spock studied the rugged landscape, trying to pick out the easiest route: impossible at this range, even for sharp Vulcan vision. "As to your first question, barring unforeseen storms or other hazards, we should reach the ridge in time to rest overnight and start our ascent at first light."

  "You think there's water up there?" David asked. "Not that I'm worried or anything, but we're pretty low on liquid supplies."

  Spock glanced up. A shavokh circled high overhead, but it was clearly watching something other than the boys, and hunting other than dead prey. "The shavokh senses water," Spock said, then looked directly at David. "So will every other creature in the range."

  "All of which are likely to be fanged, taloned, or toxic. Warning taken."

  They started forward, heads down against a sudden sandladen gust. Ahead, a shower of phantom rain quickly formed, tantalized them for a few moments, then just as swiftly disappeared. David stopped, blinking.

  "Spock, what does a Vulcan mirage look like?"

  "First I must know what mirages look like on your world."

  "Oh . . . pools of water, swaying palm trees, happy camels, that sort of thing. Even buildings, sometimes. On Vulcan, a mirage wouldn't look like a dried-up streambed, would it?"

  "Not unless you assume that the planet has turned malicious. Vulcan already possesses significant hazards without such fanciful concepts. And that," he added, following David's glance, "is hardly a mirage."

  "Water?"

  "Possibly just below the surface. Come, we shall see."

  It was a long, shallow channel, faintly darker than the surrounding land, its smoothness broken by a rumble of rocks that had clearly been swept down from higher ground. It was even remotely possible, Spock thought, that this seemingly dried-up watercourse was part of the aquifer that supplied Sered's fortress. He cautiously studied the sky, then gestured to David to fan out some distance to the left.

  "We may find water below the surface, but we must be wary."

  "Gotcha. Whatever the odds are against a cloudburst anywhere in the vicinity—ha, or even miles away—I don't want to be anywhere near a water channel in a flash flood."

  There was mud below the dried surface, and yet more mud below that, and after a time of fruitless digging, both boys gave up.

  "Not worth it," David gasped.

  "The energy expended in digging would far exceed the energy replaced by whatever water we reached," Spock agreed.

  "But there's got to be water somewhere nearby if there's mud under this."

  "The shavokh would not be hunting if there was not. Come, David, we shall follow its lead."

  "And," David said, glaring up at the bird and rubbing his thorn-wounded arm reminiscently, "hope it's not going to be hunting us."

  The land grew steadily rougher as the boys hiked toward the ridge, forcing them to pick their way among larger and larger chunks of basalt. By the time Vulcan's fierce sun had slipped behind the horizon, they had reached the sharp slope that was the true base of the ridge.

  "You were right about how long it would take," David said, plopping down on a convenient rock, then added a wry, "Not going to say 'I told you so'?"

  Spock glanced at him in genuine surprise. "Why? I did tell you so."

  "Agh. Save me from literal-minded Vulcans."

  "That, I take it, is a rhetorical remark." Recognizing one of the thorny plants clinging to the rough ground, Spock carefully broke off two stalks. "This contains sufficient moisture to keep us at least relatively comfortable."

  "Food." David ironically held up one of the nearly inedible ration bars in one hand. "Moisture." He held up the stalk in the other. "And a nice, firm bed. Servants, wake me when it's morning."

  "Before morning," Spock corrected. "We cannot waste the precious hours before the day's heat."

  "Before," David agreed with a groan, and went flat.

  By the time the sun had risen, the boys had been climbing for several hours.

  "You're right," David panted. "Don't need special gear. Climbed worse at home. Climbing into a whole new set of hazards, though," he added, stopping to catch his breath. "Who'd have guessed there'd be so many blasted crystals in the rocks?"

  "It is an unusual formation," Spock agreed.

  "Why do I not feel privileged? And yes, that was another rhetorical question."

  As the sun continued to rise, its rays beat down on boulders and rock spurs with ever-increasing force, the flare of sunlight on the crystals dazzling the boys despite David's protective visor and the veils of Spock's eyes. The narrow trail they were following blazed as though filled with melted stone, and they climbed slowly, afraid of pitfalls they might not see in time.

  "If our path were easy," Spock said, trying to reassure the human and himself both, "predators native to this range would find it so as well."

  "Gee, now that's comforting."

  This low in the foothills, the temperature was not appreciably cooler. Nevertheless, the smallest increase in humidity brought Spock's head up; he could almost feel the skin of his face, taut against his planet's dryness, relax in proximity to ...

  He sniffed deliberately. The powdery, alkaline scent of a recent rockfall, but something else . . . He sniffed again. Yes! Unmistakably water! There was also the spoor of some animal, acrid enough to be a carnivore, vaguely familiar, but possible threats were overpowered by his survival instincts clamoring at him that here was water, here was life, he must hurry!

  No. Haste was fatal in the desert, particularly when something had its lair nearby. David had scented it, too, reaching for the sling at his belt and checking his sidepouch for suitable ammunition.

  Let David hunt. Fresh meat will keep him healthy.

  As for himself, Spock thought, where there was water, there would surely be edible plants. That would extend how long they could survive out here—

  Until David runs out of tri-ox compound If that happens, what then?

  Spock had already worked it out. To save David's life, he would have to be turned over to Sered, even if that put Spock's own chances at risk. He would have to be careful that David, jumping to one of his intuitive conclusions, did not anticipate this line of reasoning.

  "Spock," David called softly, "there's something around here. I've spotted tufts of something that looks like fur, camouflaged against the rocks."

  "Be careful."

  "I will. But I don't see anything around." Neither do I. A predator prefers not to be seen. Until it springs.

  David was already scrambling up over a heap of rocks, and Spock hurried after. Yes, there was the pool, tiny, a deep indigo amid the bla
ck rocks, and infinitely welcome to his sight. Beyond the water lay a jumble of immense basalt boulders. Some long-ago earthquake must have sent them tumbling down to end up slanting against each other, forming a wilderness of caves.

  How very curious: Although birds circled overhead, no animals came to drink.

  "Something's wrong," David whispered. "Think the water's bad?"

  Spock shook his head, pointing at animal tracks in the mud at the water's edge; creatures clearly used this pool regularly. "Our presence could be frightening them away."

  "Or it could be some nasty predator lurking about."

  "Exactly," Spock said softly. "I will stand guard while you fill the water bottles."

  The human warily knelt at the water's edge. "Hey," he whispered, "here's another tuft of that fur. Not too pretty: orange with greenish tinges."

  Spock stiffened as memory belatedly processed and returned data, all at once knowing exactly what he had smelled, what had left that fur.

  "Le-matya," he murmured.

  "Hen?"

  "It is a felinoid predator, a deadly mountain hunter. I did not think we had reached its range."

  David shrugged. "Predators don't read the guidebooks. Now what?"

  But Spock held up a warning hand, listening. He heard a faint mewling coming from the shadow of a rocky overhang. That was hardly the scream of a le-matya. Was something injured? Warily, he stalked forward, David following to guard his back.

  So. Here were more tufts of fur, orange with green markings, teased by the wind. The mewling grew louder as the boys approached. Moving with exaggerated care, Spock peered into the darkness. Inside was a nest of dried plants and more fur. And within it squirmed six tiny le-matya.

  Full memory flashed to life:

  A scream offeral rage, a scrabble in the rock dust, and the le-matya all but cornering him until I-Chaya rose up, growling, the sehlat 's shabby coatfluffing upward in a feeble threat display as he showed his broken fangs. I-Chaya hurled himself between the le-matya and the child Spock, clearly demanding that his Vulcan "cub" take himself off and hide. Spock heard I-Chaya's yelp of agony as the le-matya swiped at him with those poisoned claws, knew his sehlat had just given him life at I-Chaya's own expense—