"Yes, Commander, of course. But I am worried about the weapons systems."
She definitely did not need to hear that! "So are we, mister. What suggestions do you have?"
"Withdraw beyond system limits. Let systems cool. Suit up and investigate."
"You mean let that Warbird think it can swoop down on the planet—and our people down there? Get back to me with a workable—" The quick, contemptuous emphasis on "workable" would make Atherton's stiff neck flush, wouldn't it? "—plan. Until then, bridge out."
"Commander Uhura!" It was Ensign Chang, for once too excited to remember to be shy. "I've found it again, or . . ." He added uncertainly, "I did, just for a moment. Their captain must have been trying to watch the planet while keeping clear of Loki. He took the direct impact of one of those flares, and his cloaking device glitched. I got a fix on his position." Chang turned and actually grinned at her. "He got careless. Edged over into the Neutral Zone. Cloaking device is back up, but I'm getting some feedback from it."
Damnation. Entry into the Romulan Neutral Zone by Federation or Romulan ships constituted an act of war. "No Romulan ever 'gets careless,' Mr. Chang," Uhura said. "Lieutenant Duchamps."
"No luck raising the base, Commander."
"Belay that. Send a message to Starfleet Command. Use cipher level D."
"Level D's been cracked for six months, Commander!"
Duchamps, Uhura thought wryly, sounded as if he thought she were cracked too. She grinned at him. "The Romulans know that. But they may not know that we know it. A little trick I learned from Captain Kirk." This was communications, Uhura thought. This was what she understood. This was pure heaven.
Even if, in the next moment, she might have to fight from a research ship with "great legs and no guns."
"Make it sound a little frantic," she added. "By the time Starfleet gets it, things will be resolved. Always easier to get forgiveness than permission."
Light dawned on Duchamps' face. He grinned back at her. "Aye-aye, ma'am!"
Medical signaled. Uhura hit the override. She had more important things to worry about than hull radiation. She'd probably have an angry physician on her bridge in two minutes flat, too. Just like old times.
"Message ready for you to review, ma'am," Duchamps said, all spit and polish now.
"I'm not done yet, Lieutenant. Now, encrypt a message into that one. Pick cipher level F; it's still so secure they won't know it's piggybacking our distress call. Tell them:
" 'Uhura, Commander and Acting Captain of the U.S.S. Intrepid II, orbiting around Obsidian in the Loki system, to Starfleet. We have just witnessed a clear and deliberate violation of the Neutral Zone by a Romulan Warbird.' "
She broke off to add, "Mr. Chang, transfer your coordinates over to Lieutenant Duchamps for inclusion."
"Aye-aye, ma'am."
"And tell them," Uhura continued to Lieutenant Duchamps, " This substantiates our prior sighting. Judging from sabotage reports and the evidence of our planetary search team, I have reason to believe that this may be the start of Romulan aggressive action against Obsidian. In accordance with treaty provisions, a state of war now exists between the Federation and the Romulan Empire. We will, nevertheless, endeavor to resolve this situation without hostilities.' "
The message hit her station seconds later. She took a deep breath. "Now," Uhura said, "go to broadband." Open a hailing frequency. Yes! "I want the name of every Constitution-class starship included in your hail—"
"There aren't any . . ."
"Make sure you include the Excelsior as well. The Romulans know another Enterprise veteran commands it." Good old Sulu. Captain Suiu. "Add the following ships: Chaka Zulu, Patrick O'Brian, John Paul Jones, and Exodus, cruising in convoy out in . . . oh . . . thataway," Uhura added in tribute to Kirk's preferred choice of destination. "Request their immediate assistance."
"Commander . . ." Duchamps' voice was very small. "There are no such ships."
"Very good, Lieutenant. We know that—but can the Romulans be sure of it? Message away!"
She took a deep breath and stood. There were some things for which you wanted to be on your feet. Like the first time you opened your mouth and said:
"Go to red alert."
NINETEEN
Vulcan, The Womb of Fire
Day 6, Eighth Week of Tasmeen,
Year 2247
The last of the hostages had been removed. There was nothing left now for Spock to do but to think. And remember. And neither was anything he really wanted to do just now. The young Vulcan stood frozen, seeing nothing but that sudden flow of green blood and that crumpled, lifeless form at his feet, unable to force himself to move.
David came up behind him, then paused awkwardly. "You've got to cry it out," he said at last. "You're half human, you can do it, I know you can."
After another hesitation, he closed a reassuring hand on Spock's shoulder, and Spock had all he could do not to instinctively slam that hand away. He would not let his instincts betray him again! The last time he had given them free play, he had killed without thought or hesitation. Knowing that David could not see his face, Spock closed his eyes, longing for the serenity of logic the way he had longed for cool water in the desert. I have poisoned my well.
David, of course, could not read his thoughts. "I know what happened back there; I saw you have to kill that guy. Hey, don't worry! You'd be as crazy as Sered if you didn't feel bad about it! Remember how I cried at the wrecked shuttle," the boy added, "when I thought Mother might have died there . . ." David's voice cracked. "You've got to let it out, Spock. You won't heal unless you do."
"David, you know we don't touch Vuicans," Captain Rabin said in the rasp seemed to be all the voice she had left by now. She managed somehow to keep track of what was going on in the entire cavern without losing sight of her son. And if her tone seemed aimed at a much younger boy, that was strangely comforting, too.
Spock nodded his gratitude. Gently, as he would put a child aside, he freed himself from David's grasp. "I am a Vulcan," he reminded the human boy just as gently. "We do not cry. I will recover. But I must be free to heal in my own way."
Such as it is.
When no one seemed to have any further need of him, he settled himself on a rock, his head in his hands, trying to meditate. He tried for hours. But there was no peace, no balance, in him.
Spock looked up from his fruitless meditations, confused for the briefest instant as to how long a time had passed. The lights that the Starfleet Security officers had strung up were the painful yellow most familiar to human eyes, but his inner senses told him it was night.
Fewer people were about, most of them still pointing tricorders and asking questions. Captain Rabin had finally listened to her medical officer, accepted medication, and consented to sit down. Nearby, David slept, totally exhausted, covered by a silvery thermal blanket. His part of the battle over, he seemed, at least in sleep, to have returned to a younger boy's innocence.
Captain Rabin tilted her head at Spock: Come here.
He warily obeyed, seating himself at a polite distance, waiting in proper silence for an adult's words.
"Have you heard from your parents yet?" the captain asked after an awkward pause.
He had to fight the impulse—Aftereffects from the lichen, no doubt—to flinch and look away. Instead, one eyebrow raised, the only reaction he dared allow himself, Spock answered carefully with what was logical and true: "My father and T'Pau will be occupied with contacting all of the embassies. He would not permit my mother to come here unescorted."
That brought Captain Rabin's eyebrow up. Now Spock did look aside. There had been times when he had dared think his father was not right. Clearly, the captain shared this view. But he could not allow her to think poorly of his mother or, for that matter, his people.
"My mother is not Starfleet," he said in an attempt to explain. And then, because the woman who was both captain and his friend's mother was owed more courtesy than that, he added, "Ma
'am."
Not "lady," Spock, as you would speak to one of your Vulcan friends' mothers?
I have no Vulcan friends, honesty compelled him to admit. Not in the sense that this human has become my friend. And now he will leave, to go to this Academy of his.
I will miss him.
That was a statement his father must never hear.
"Rabin to Spock," the captain said gently, pretending to open her communicator. "Come in, Spock."
He nearly started. "I ask forgiveness. Lady."
Her smile widened into a grin very like that of David when he thought he'd proved a point. "My son tells me he has spoken to you about Starfleet. He considers you an outstanding candidate, and he says you may be interested."
She watched him carefully. When he just as carefully kept his face blank of expression and said nothing, the captain added, "Enthusiasm often makes David exaggerate, as you must have noticed by now, but you must also know that he is truthful to the extent of his knowledge. Is he right about this, Spock?"
Spock looked down at his hands. "My life's pattern is set. I am to be a scientist, a servant of peace, as my father is. But . . ." Before he could stop himself, Spock heard himself add, "I killed."
"I saw," Captain Rabin murmured. "I wish you had been spared that, a boy your age. But . . . we can't always have what we wish."
"I killed without thought," Spock protested, struggling to keep his voice properly calm. "It was . . . easy, too easy."
"No."
"But—"
"Oh, the physical part's far too easy. But the whole act of killing—it never does get easy, Spock. At least, I pray it never does."
"But I failed in control. Just as my father has admonished me."
"Ah." There was a world of understanding in the one syllable. Captain Rabin started to put out a hand to soothe him as she had her son, then let it fall. David, you know one does not touch Vulcans. Frustration. He had seen that expression often enough on his mother's face. He would see it again when Sarek gave permission for Spock's return home. At the most, the Lady Amanda would have the chance to say she was "gratified" to see her son before they packed him off for medical observation. One could not be too careful with a human/Vulcan half-breed, after all. No doubt repairs were expensive.
"Spock?" the captain asked again after another long pause.
"Captain, there are weapons on board your ship, are there not? At your Academy, will David learn to use them?"
"When he must. Only when he must. Spock, there is a quote from my people's writings: They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruninghooks. Nations shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.' "
Spock straightened. "That sounds like Surak."
"Those words are about as old as his teachings. And as true."
"Then . . ." he began, feeling his way along, "there is no conflict between them, the human way and the Vulcan?"
Captain Rabin smiled faintly. "Not in terms of a desire for peace. I know this is all overwhelming for a boy your age—and don't give me that cool Vulcan stare. You are, like it or not, more or less my son's age, and I am definitely old enough to be your mother."
That almost shocked a laugh out of him. Hastily forcing his face back to the proper calm, he bowed his head in respect, hearing the captain's chuckle.
"As a mother as well as an officer, I'm going to ask again: Is David right about your interest in Starfleet? If it helps you decide, I'll say frankly that you're as likely a candidate as I've seen, and I would be proud to nominate you."
The captain's interest, even her unexpected maternal impulses, were far preferable to the discomfort of his thoughts. Cautiously, Spock asked, "Should the recommendation not come from a dignitary of one's homeworld?"
Captain Rabin grinned at him, her face lighting up despite its weariness. "Your mother is of Earth, Spock. And it is a custom among my people that parentage follows the mother. By that logic, you are as much of Earth as you are of Vulcan. Don't be afraid of your Earth heritage. It has saved your life—and that of my son."
Spock stared at her but could find nothing to say. The captain's grin softened to a gentle smile. "I'm here for you, Spock. If you need me. If you want to talk. But I will tell you frankly, my offer comes with conditions. I will not go behind Ambassador Sarek's and Lady Amanda's backs. Think about it. If you want to accept my offer, talk to them first and tell me."
"I killed." Spock returned to the almost unbearable truth. "I was not in full control. I did not understand. I am shamed. That is an emotion, yet it is one I believe I fully merit. I . . . need more time to think."
"As do we all. But not now. You, young man, have undergone more than any boy should. You should sleep."
"I do not need—"
"Yes, you do. I know that Vulcans can go for longer than we humans without rest, but you are not fully grown yet. And," she added with a glance that really did remind him of her son, "sleep will help you gain some perspective." She thrust a thermal blanket into his arms. "I promise, I will wake you when the ambassador calls. He will find you awake and about your duties."
Was it continuing weakness from the lichen's fumes or his exhaustion that allowed him to accept her reassurances? Or . . . could it be a childish need for maternal warmth?
He was too weary to find an answer. Spock stretched out near David as he had done every night since their escape from this very cavern. There was comfort in that familiarity, and he should not have felt that either. He had killed. Perhaps Starfleet could teach him how to deal with that, with all his inner conflicts. The idea eased the sickness in his soul.
So, the Eater of Souls had not devoured it after all.
Spock suspected that David would have called it a close call.
TWENTY
Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 4, first Week, Month of Ac Shining Chara,
Year 2296
Ensign Faisal ibn Saud ibn Turki—Ensign Prince—bit back a shout of pure frustration. Bad enough that they were stuck in this cave in the middle of nowhere. Bad enough that they had such finite supplies that Captains Rabin and Spock had gone off into the desert on what they said was an attempt to find aid but could just as easily turn into a joint suicide. But to put their only real hope for survival in the hands of a muscle-bound idiot of a Farsi—
"Try it again," Faisal said, and tried not to make it a snarl.
Unsuccessfully. It earned him a glare from Rustam ` Kavousi, who was huddled uncomfortably over the makeshift transmitter. "What," he muttered in Farsi, "do you think I'm doing, you overbearing son of a desert thief?"
Faisal understood Farsi well enough to get the point. For a moment, pure atavistic hatred flashed between the two men as they were suddenly back in the ancient days of Arab against Iranian.
Right. Faisal snapped at himself. And Captain Rabin is Israeli. You going to hate him, too?
The moment passed. They were both Starfleet, and archaic stuff like racial hatred just didn't belong to the modern age. Besides, Faisal reminded himself, Captain Rabin had left him in charge. Up to him to see that everyone survived.
I'm a pilot. It was a plaintive thought. A damned good one, too. I never asked for this.
Who would? Fruitless to argue with what was written. Faisal sighed, patting the other ensign on a burly shoulder. "Sorry. I know you're doing everything you can."
"And I didn't mean to snarl. I almost had them. I . . . wait . . . something's coming in."
". . . Federation base . . ."
The signal faded. Swearing under his breath, Kavousi boosted the power again.
". . . calling Captain Rabin . . . shuttlecraft . . . come in, Captain Rabin."
"That's Ensign Chase's voice, back at the base!" someone whispered, and was hastily shushed by someone else before they could drown out the fragile signal.
"Go ahead," Faisal urged. "Answer her."
"This is Ensign Kavousi. Do you read?"
Static.
<
br /> "I said, do you read?"
". . . Kavousi . . ."
"Yes! Yes! Do you read?"
The static cut off abruptly. Kavousi looked up, stricken. "It's dead. Power's drained."
They were too well schooled to groan, but Faisal could feel everyone's sudden despair and thought, I don't need this. I really don't. "What if we tried readjusting the power cells?" he asked warily. "They should be able to store energy in any form, shouldn't they?"
"Not that I've heard."
"Well, not the ordinary configuration, no. But we've got a real hybrid here," Faisal continued, warming to his argument. "And maybe we can't use all the cells, but at least that one," pointing over Kavousi's shoulder, "looks like a Thomas Adjustable Power Cell. Sure it is," he added, taking a closer look, "good old Series Four One Two Four, maybe A or A Prime."
At Kavousi's startled glance, Faisal shrugged. "I use them in my Beech Four Thousand—that's my plane—back on Earth: don't need anything fancier for an old-style turboprop. The Series Four One Two Four adjusts from standard system powering to solar power with more or less the flick of a switch."
Kavousi snorted. "Solar power, eh? We sure have enough of that."
Lieutenant Diver joined them. "At least we know the home base is looking for us. I vote we give it a try."
Kavousi shrugged. "Can't hurt anything. If we can get any one of the cells working again, we might just have enough power to let them know our coordinates."
"Go to it," Faisal said. "In the meantime," he said to the geologist, "how's your search going?"
"Nothing yet. But there's definitely porous limestone down there, and those stains in the folds of the cliff do look like water."
Faisal rather doubted it. Vulcans, he knew, had keener senses than humans, and if Captain Spock hadn't commented on nearby water, it either wasn't there in any real amount or wasn't really drinkable. Still . . . anything that kept morale high was a good thing. And hell, even Vulcans could be wrong.
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