Vulcan's Forge

by Josepha Sherman

  "Commendably efficient," Spock approved as he headed toward the nearest turbolift. Uhura had even chosen someone able to keep up with his long-legged stride, not expecting to see him return somewhat the worse for wear.

  "Bridge," Spock ordered.

  The turbolift hummed, then lurched. The ship screamed red alert again, and lights went dark as power flickered. Spock lunged for emergency controls, ignoring strained muscles. The lights struggled back on, and the lift returned to operations, although somewhat more slowly.

  "Powersave," Duchamps explained superfluously. "Cap tain—I mean Commander Uhura said to channel power to the shields to compensate for being outgunned."

  Captain Uhura. He had always valued and respected the communications officer, but he had had no idea that she could so quickly weld his bridge staff into a fighting crew.

  The turbolift's hum faded, the door slid open, and Spock strode out as fast as his battered body would allow.

  "Captain!" The gladness in Uhura's voice was replaced by concern at the sight of him. Spock hoped that the alternation of red light and shadow that marked red alert would hide the brief frown that crossed his face.

  "There is no serious damage," he assured her, and moved forward. Uhura fairly leapt out of the command chair so he could seat himself, standing beside him as he quickly scanned her records of the past few days. "Creative adaptation to maximize weapons," he noted.

  "A science vessel just isn't up to exchanging broadsides with a Warbird, so I was trying to bluff. I thought I had Avrak convinced!"

  If diplomacy worked with Klingons, how much more effective should it be with Romulan kinsfolk? "We shall provide him with another demonstration of the validity of your logic, Commander," Spock told Uhura, and saw some of the tension leave her body.

  He glanced at the crew, seeing an almost imperceptible difference in them. Commander Uhura had welded them into the same sort of cohesive unit that David Rabin had created on Obsidian. (And was that the merest twinge of a very human jealousy he felt, that she should succeed where he had not? Impossible.) The crew looked back at him. Their spines straightened. One or two of them even smiled.

  Spock nodded. "Open a hailing frequency."

  Duchamps turned, exchanging a grin with Uhura. "With pleasure, sir! I mean, aye-aye, sir."

  Spock awarded the lieutenant an ironic eyebrow and received a grin in exchange.

  The screen blanked, then filled with the image of a Warbird's cramped bridge with Avrak, sister-son to Pardek, seated in the command chair.

  Civil wars are always the worst, McCoy often said. Still, if Romulans and Vulcans both wished it, they might at some point in the future again be one people. A quick flash of thought: Was this why T'Pau had refused to allow the subject to be discussed, why she had kept herself aloof from the tremendous contribution she might have made all these years on the Federation Council—so that the family might have a chance to heal itself?

  Avrak's eyes widened at the sight of Spock.

  "Commander Avrak," Spock greeted him bluntly. "Let us admit that it would be glorious to measure our ships' strengths and our crews' courage. Glorious, but illogical. Your attempt to sabotage the Federation's efforts on Obsidian have failed, and your plot to exploit a renegade has been exposed."

  He turned to Duchamps. "Lieutenant, raise the outpost on Obsidian. Captain Spock's compliments to Captain Rabin, and would he kindly patch in transmissions from his sickbay and brig?"

  A second screen came live, the image forming of Sered, lying slumped on a diagnostic bed, eyes blank, clearly not living in reality.

  "You relied too greatly on a weak reed, Commander," Spock told Avrak. "Commander Uhura has already summoned reinforcements, but she faced certain . . . limitations of knowledge."

  "Your lady the officer is a fierce one, Captain." There was more than a touch of admiration behind the words, possibly even a hint of something unexpectedly warmer. Beside Spock, Uhura stiffened, and he felt her hand tighten ever so slightly on the back of his command chair.

  Interesting, Spock thought, and stored the data away. "I value my officer appropriately, Commander. She very properly called for reinforcements. But she did not have access to certain information."

  Spock gestured as imperiously as Sered ever had, and an image of Centurion Ruanek, his cousin Kharik (still under guard), and the other, surviving Romulans, formed on-screen.

  "You have not just suborned a Vulcan in broken health—and who must be returned to Vulcan for medical intervention," Spock began, coolly listing facts, "you have illegally landed an armed force on a world protected by the Federation. You have crossed the Neutral Zone and fired on a Starfleet vessel. At least two of these actions are acts of war, while the first is what my crew might call inhuman. Do you truly wish the entire Federation—and your Praetor—to know that it was all your doing? Or shall we simply be polite and call the matter a slight . . . miscalculation or misunderstanding? I leave the choice of word to you."

  After one quick glance at Sered, Avrak had ignored him. But he was unable to look away from the Romulans in the brig on Obsidian. "My warriors," he said.

  Spock arched an eyebrow. "All but one of them gave me their parole. I took them under my protection to save their lives. They deserve nobler purposes than these."

  "They deserve better than a Federation prison!"

  "So they do, Commander," Spock agreed. "And we have no desire to be their jailers. Accordingly, I am returning them to you."

  "On what terms?"

  "Why, Commander Avrak, what logical terms are there in this situation but those of honor? Captain Rabin, respond please."

  Rabin would have been within range the instant that Spock hailed his outpost. "Captain Spock." His voice was properly formal.

  "This is Commander Avrak of the Adamant. He has a slight problem with missing personnel. Do you think you can assist him?"

  "With the greatest of ease, sir." Spock heard Rabin activate a communicator. "Transporter room? Six to beam to . . . ?"

  "Commander?" Spock asked. "Will you transmit coordinates to Obsidian?"

  Avrak looked as if he would rather order Spock's slow execution. He gestured curtly. A centurion saluted. From the planet, Rabin nodded.

  "Coordinates coming through. Prepare to beam six up."

  Lights swirled about the Romulans, forming into columns. Their bodies flickered, and the lights faded. Avrak turned his head as if listening to the Romulan equivalent of a transporter chief report that six warriors had come on board.

  As David would say, good luck attend you, Ruanek. I think you shall need every bit of your cleverness.

  "I have my warriors back," Avrak snapped. "Those who still live. I shall disavow knowledge of the misadventure in which the others died. Now, what of the Vulcan renegade?"

  "I shall return him to Vulcan for therapy and interrogation. Any knowledge that remains in his damaged mind is valuable to us."

  "I do not envy you the shipmate, sir."

  "Envy is an emotion, sir. This is a matter of duty, not . . . enjoyment." And he shaded the word with the faintest disdain.

  Avrak smiled. "Game well played, Captain Spock. I shall anticipate our next contest. And . . ." He let his eyes stray from Spock to Uhura. "My compliments to your officer."

  His glance was openly admiring. A flurry of amusement went around Spock's bridge crew. Uhura shrugged.

  "There would be no games," Spock said quietly, "if we could, perhaps, deal together as friends. Or perhaps one day as kinsmen, once again."

  Avrak's gaze snapped back to Spock. He raised a thoughtful eyebrow. "Stranger things have happened," Avrak admitted after a moment.

  The screen blanked. Instants later, the Warbird's cloaking device engaged.

  "Check to see that it's still emitting radiation," Uhura ordered, turning toward Lieutenant Richards's scanners. "Begging your pardon, sir," she added to Spock. "But I'd bet that Commander Avrak will keep that glitch so we can track him out of Federation space."
>
  "It is illogical to bet on sure things, Commander."

  Spock turned to Lieutenant Duchamps. "Mr. Duchamps, will you please contact Obsidian and ask when Dr. McCoy will have his patient stabilized for transport on board?"

  "Aye-aye, sir."

  Spock allowed his spine to touch the back of the command chair. Even this more relaxed posture was uncomfortable. The chair simply was not a proper fit, neither literally nor figuratively.

  Logic required an accurate assessment of his own skills. He could command satisfactorily and more than that; but command was a task in which "satisfactory" was insufficient. He was also, he knew, an outstanding science officer, and Jim used to call him "the best first officer in the Fleet." Those roles were in his past. What was his future?

  You're a born diplomat, David Rabin had told him. Decades ago, as a boy, he had been right about Spock and Starfleet. Was Rabin right now, too? Despite his humor and the passion for the frontier that made him avoid promotion as assiduously as Jim Kirk, Rabin's mind had always been adept in making the intuitive leaps that Spock only now had begun to realize might represent a form of logic entirely new to him.

  He would need, Spock thought, to give serious consideration to the issues he had raised with Avrak.

  Was I, too, impelled by an intuitive logic? One that parallels David's own?

  Reconciliation of the Sundering would truly be a worthwhile goal—the crowning scientific expedition of his life.

  McCoy's call from Obsidian found Spock in his quarters, where he had turned up the climate control to a luxurious approximation of Vulcan's restoring heat.

  "You should be in sickbay," McCoy accused him, face frowning from the viewscreen.

  "Not just yet, Doctor."

  David Rabin's image was right beside that of McCoy. Gratifying, Spock thought, to see peace between the two.

  "They're gone, Spock," Rabin assured him, "though you probably know that already. Centurion Ruanek withdrew his parole so that . . . let me see if I can remember his exact words . . ." Rabin's mobile face took on a faraway expression. " 'I withdraw my parole that I may be free as befits a warrior, a vassal to Avrak sister-son of Pardek, and a son of House Minor Strevon.'"

  Spock inclined his head a fraction. "The centurion speaks with propriety."

  "Property too," McCoy added. "You may not have made him a wealthy man, but when his bets on you paid off, he at least had the sense to be grateful. Knows how to cover his ... ah . . . tail, too."

  Good. Such a youngster should not be wasted. "What is your patient's status?" Spock asked.

  McCoy hesitated. "If he were a human, I'd say he was in shock. Denial, but not quite to the point of true catatonia. And I'd put a human on suicide watch. But given what I've learned of Vulcan physiology and psychology—" He eyed Spock ironically. "—I'd say he's as tough as the rest of you, despite his craziness."

  "Is that a technical term?" Spock asked mildly.

  "As technical as I'm going to get! I would think that any neurological damage should be reparable once we get him to Vulcan. We are headed to Vulcan, I take it."

  "You are finally learning logic, Doctor."

  "I think I'll ignore that comment from a patient-to-be," McCoy remarked: his form of revenge. As Rabin leaned back, grinning widely, the doctor continued, "As I was saying, I think that the Science Academy can probably regenerate any damage. However, the consequences if, as, and when Sered returns to sane awareness—can you imagine a Vulcan with a guilt complex?"

  "I'm not sure I want to," Rabin said.

  And he met the doctor's eyes with complete, if ironic, understanding.

  "Captain Rabin, thanks for your hospitality and all your help."

  "Is Sered ready to beam up to the Intrepid?" Spock asked.

  "Spock, I'll meet you in sickbay," McCoy responded.

  "Negative, Doctor. I will receive you in the transporter room myself. With guards. I will not risk you again."

  McCoy rose hastily. "I'm on my way."

  "Take care of him, Doctor," Rabin said.

  McCoy raised his eyebrow in a Vulcan-like gesture that made the captain smile. "Take care of him? He'd tell you it's the other way around."

  "So?" Rabin asked. "What else are friends for? Shalom, Spock."

  "I will think about what we discussed. Live long and prosper. Spock out."

  No doubt McCoy would press Rabin for an explanation. After all, as Intrepid's chief medical officer, McCoy had a duty to participate in any major decisions.

  Spock signaled Security, ordering, "Armed party to the transporter room." He rose slowly, allowing himself to wince since he was alone. A day or so in sickbay might be worthwhile, even if he had to listen to McCoy's ranting.

  He adjusted climate control back downward. There was absolutely no logic in giving McCoy the satisfaction of knowing he had succumbed to the lure of physical comfort.

  Then, with the slightest tightening of his lips, Spock adjusted the control back up. There was also no logic in giving the doctor the chance to nag him about removing himself from a healing environment.

  Either way, I must admit that the doctor's presence will be quite welcome.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Intrepid II and Vulcan

  Day 21, Tenth Week of Tasmeen,

  Year 2296

  "Captain's log, Stardate 9835.7," Spock paused for a moment, organizing his thoughts, then continued:

  "I have reviewed the performance of the bridge crew of Intrepid II, and hereby confirm the commendations made by Commander and Acting Captain Uhura to Lieutenants Duchamps and Richards, as well as to Lieutenant Commander Atherton of Engineering.

  " I should like to log additional commendations: to Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy for his courage and humanitarian assistance on Obsidian, and to Commander Uhura as well. I would like to recommend that, at her next fitness evaluation, she be offered a ship of her own. Perhaps even this one."

  Her reaction to that should prove most interesting.

  "Helm reports that we shall soon enter orbit around Vulcan, where Sered will be transferred to the care of Vulcan Science Academy Healers."

  Someone was at the door to his chambers. "Spock out," Spock ended, and closed the log. "Come," he called, and the door opened, revealing McCoy.

  "Ah, Dr. McCoy. I have been expecting you."

  He raised an eyebrow at McCoy's finery. The doctor wore a new, hot-weather uniform, acquired against a trip downworld into Vulcan's heat.

  "If I'm going to be a consulting physician to the Vulcan Science Academy," McCoy explained, "I can't look like something the sehlat dragged in."

  "What a sehlat drags in, Doctor, would undoubtedly be of more interest to pathology than psychiatry."

  McCoy grumbled, conceding the point, and set a bottle of Romulan ale down on Spock's table.

  Spock awarded his friend another eyebrow.

  "Well, I'm all out of Saurian brandy, and I've never been able to civilize you into liking mint juleps, so we'll just have to make do."

  "I thought," Spock said, "that the ale might be part of your . . . I believe the appropriate term is 'syndicate' . . . with Centurion Ruanek."

  "Nice youngster, isn't he? Deserves better than . . ."

  Breaking off, the doctor extracted glasses from a shelf, and poured. "Spock, are you by some chance planning to help them out the way you did the Klingons?"

  "You have a genius for intrusion, Doctor."

  "Hell, Spock, what else are friends for?"

  Spock raised his glass to McCoy as if in the ritual of water welcome. "Absent friends," he said, and this time meant living as well as deceased.

  They both drank to the toast. Then Spock continued, "I have begun to think that friends are for keeping one honest, a gift you and David share. In fact, Doctor, I would probably have been consulting you soon enough. I have been thinking of making some changes—"

  "Dammit!" McCoy exploded. "Out of the frying pan—which is a pretty good metaphor for Loki, if you ask me—in
to a Learning Experience. Uhura told me you've asked her if she wants a ship of her own, and she's considering it. Now what?"

  "Captain Rabin suggested that I had the skills suitable for diplomacy. Because he was the one who first suggested I might successfully enter Starfleet, logic compels me to consider his suggestion."

  McCoy set his glass down, propped both elbows on Spock's table, and leaned forward. "Doctor to patient, if you don't mind. It's true you don't have the same flair for command that Jim did or the style that has Duchamps sitting up and saying 'arf' every time Uhura smiles at him. But you do have people skills: we saw that with the Elder on Obsidian—hell, we saw that with the children down there. If you want the honest-to-God truth, I'd say that your skills actually parallel those of your father, down to the last drop of charisma. Probably explains why the two of you fought like—like sehlats and le-matyas for so many years. Oh all right, sehlats and le-matyas who'd studied logic at Surak's feet. You know perfectly well what I mean."

  Spock inclined his head.

  "Spock, you've already made up your mind, haven't you? And if you have, what's the point of calling in your friendly neighborhood doctor?"

  "Doctor, it was you who called yourself in. The 'point,' as you call it, however, is what I believe humans used to call a 'reality check.' "

  McCoy took a careful sip of ale. "Dealing with Sered sort of makes you want to make sure your mind's in the right place, doesn't it?"

  Spock awarded him a level glance. "Logic posits change. Even you will change, Doctor. For all I know, you might return to Obsidian one day. My assumption is that between my hail to the base and your return message, David was trying to draft you."

  "Wouldn't be the first time Starfleet pulled that stunt on me. Dammit, Spock, I'm a Starfleet surgeon, not a—a pediatric oncologist."

  "Before you are either, Bones"—it was a deliberate use of the old, familiar nickname—"you are a healer. You will go where you are most needed. As must I."

  "We're not talking about me, Spock."

  "Nor about me," Spock replied. "But about logic and change."