Vulcan's Soul Book II

by Josepha Sherman

  They will learn. With time.

  But the reports that she was almost constantly receiving from various crew members were not precisely heartening. The youngsters were becoming, if not a definite liability, a potential danger.

  We need a distraction. Something useful or absorbing for them to do. Something to occupy their uneasy young minds….

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Abrams said suddenly. “I’m picking up incoming ships…three of them, heading directly toward us.”

  “Cloaking on,” Saavik ordered.

  Nothing.

  “Lieutenant. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Cloaking isn’t…isn’t coming up, Captain.”

  Wonderful. They had been given defective equipment by the Romulans. No, on second thought, she couldn’t see Charvanek ever being that small.

  Blame Romulan postwar budget cutbacks, Saavik thought, and ordered, “Shields up. Engineering, see what you can do about restoring cloaking. Lieutenant, put the ships on-screen, please.”

  As the image came up, Lieutenant Abrams added what by now was the obvious identification to everyone who’d been through this before: “They’re Watraii ships, Captain, and they’re on a direct course for their homeworld.”

  The Watraii captains and crew couldn’t help but see the intruders blocking their way. Unfortunate. And they couldn’t be allowed to reach the planet and spread the alarm.

  “They’re powering up weapons,” Abrams continued.

  This isn’t exactly the distraction that I had in mind, Saavik thought.

  “Red alert,” she ordered. “Battle stations. Weapons at ready.”

  Saavik didn’t waste any time trying to open a channel to the Watraii. What could she possibly say that would slow them down or stop them? It’s not what you think; we just coincidentally happen to be here; we just incidentally have to stop you from going home?

  “Lieutenant Suhur,” she ordered, “open a channel to our Klingon allies.”

  “We see them,” the two Klingon captains replied almost as one before Suhur could speak. JuB-Chal added, “You have the right of first kill.”

  Klingon battle courtesy. How kind of you, Saavik thought wryly. “We have a team on the surface. We cannot get too far away from them.”

  “Understood,” JuB-Chal snapped.

  Tor’Ka said cheerfully, “Take out the center ship, Captain Saavik, and leave the others to us!”

  No time for more elaborate strategy than that. The nearest Watraii ship, the one the Klingons had “given” to her, was opening fire, and Saavik ordered, “Evasive action—”

  Green flame shot by the Alliance. “Complete miss,” Abrams reported tersely.

  “Return fire,” Saavik ordered.

  I do not want to kill, she thought, as she had in every battle throughout the Dominion War, but if I must kill, then let it be quickly and cleanly done.

  Twenty-Five

  Memory

  As Solor limped into the wardroom that Shavokh’s council now used as a meeting place, Karatek and the other elders rose in respect. His son still wore the tattered flightsuit from his mission. He had one arm strapped across his chest. A bruise as long as one sharp cheekbone, but far wider, discolored the left side of his face.

  Bowing his own respect with great care, Solor took the seat Karatek indicated right beneath where some long-dead artist had painted a mural of lost Vulcan, all reds and crystals. Leaning forward with even more caution, he inserted a glowing crystal in the council’s recorder.

  “Activating flight log,” said Karatek’s son.

  Abruptly, the council chamber went dark. One wall blossomed into an image of a pale green sky, glowing golden clouds, and a horizon that seemed to ripple with long grasses below a high range of mountains. The image trembled slightly as the shuttle’s ancient engines braked, failed, then tried to brake again. This time, the shuttle slowed.

  Karatek willed himself to relax and to observe, only observe, the data Solor presented. His apprehension was illogical. After all, if the brakes had failed, his son would not now be seated before the council.

  A range of black basalt peaks grew more formidably jagged as the shuttle descended. Beyond the mountain range glittered an immense sea, its deep blue tinged with blood green, provoking gasps of wonder.

  How beautiful this new world was. Karatek found himself craning his neck, as if he actually thought it would help him see the farthest tip of the continent, where an eruption of steam marked the place where the firefalls gushed into the sea.

  “It will be the study of a dozen lifetimes,” whispered Shavokh’s astronomer, “to study that world.”

  “A hundred lifetimes,” said a bioscientist whose voice held the satisfaction of a creator, or a parent. “A dozen just to map it, the remainder to catalog and name its different forms of life.”

  “Although, logically, this subject requires extensive further study, we recorded no signs of what we would consider sentient life,” came Solor’s recorded voice.

  More grounds for relief. What if they had found sapient life? Would they have voted to patch up the ships to whatever extent possible and journey back into the long night? Just as well they would not have to send that problem to council.

  “Let us watch the report,” said T’Vysse, seated in one of the side seats reserved for witnesses. “You can speculate in private session.”

  Solor’s shuttle banked so fast that others gasped too, this time in shock. A shadow passed across the wall, followed by another and another. At least four council members ducked in their chairs as the shadows seemed to whirl, then resolved into closer focus. They faced immense winged creatures whose plumage glittered in all the colors of the sea so far beneath. They flew in formation, like a fleet, fanning out from a gigantic central flier whose feathers seemed silver with great age. Behind it flew creatures considerably smaller, clutching immense eggs in their talons.

  “We think those are females,” said Solor.

  It seemed a reasonable hypothesis. The winged creatures in the center of that flock were smaller, their plumage less conspicuous. They were flanked by larger, more brilliant companions.

  Again, the images wavered, spun, lurched, and tilted widely as the shuttle, almost out of control, fought for attitude, then altitude, than any sort of landing other than a crash.

  “First approximation analysis.” Solor’s voice spoke out of the darkness. “We encountered a seasonal migration of winged creatures that we can only compare to Vulcan’s shavokh, although larger by a factor of at least three. Trying to avoid them almost brought us down. The rapid change in attitude caused a brief power loss, and we…encountered wind shear.”

  “Prepare for emergency landing,” came Solor’s voice in the recording. Even then, he sounded composed. “Activating webs. Assume crash positions.”

  His voice barely rose. Karatek suppressed a sensation of justified pride at his son’s skill.

  “You told us you crashed without serious injuries!” Avarak leapt to his feet.

  For a moment, the fascinating images of the flight recorder dimmed. “I did not lie, T’Kehr,” Solor said. “The injuries occurred later. The mission’s bioscientist was injured attempting to close in on one of the winged creatures when it settled for the night. Healer T’Olryn, she who is my wife,” Solor emphasized the title to his former rival, “thinks his sight can be saved or, failing that, compensated for with an appropriate prosthetic. The healer will make her report as soon as she can be spared from attending our crew.”

  Now, sunset covered the broken shuttle’s landing site. Four different colors of moonlight illuminated the wreckage. Karatek could clearly see at the horizon the brilliant thread of fire marking where the firefalls glowed in the night and the dark cloud at its foot.

  Solor stopped the flight record.

  “Those of you who have the opportunity to land are well advised to take it,” he said. “Salt and ionization make the air both refreshing and invigorating. Not all the smells are pleasant, b
ut we are habituated to that. When the wind changed, we believed we could detect a hint of sulfur either from the firefalls or from much smaller vents closer to the crash site. We saw considerable evidence of vulcanism.” His voice warmed. “I remember. But the world is both cooler and wetter than Vulcan: this land should be fertile. Very fertile.”

  He started the recording once more. “On first view, however, the new world is both aesthetically and scientifically appealing.”

  Karatek had last heard that note in Solor’s voice after the birth of his first child.

  “Never mind aesthetics. Has that world got metal?” demanded Vorealt. He had been born in exile, and Serevan had often heard him declare that never, never would he live on a planet.

  A screen lit as Solor accessed a different part of the mission report.

  “Trace elements in the soil,” came the voice of T’Olryn as she entered the room, one hand out to keep her consort safely in his chair. “I believe when the vegetation is tested, we will find not only that our physiology can digest it, but that it contains trace elements that have long been absent from our diet.”

  Solor added, “I also believe, judging from the erratic motion patterns of some of the creatures we observed, that fermentation and brewing are quite possible. With suitable quality control, we might be able to create fine wines and ales.”

  “We brought back samples of the planet life.” T’Olryn opened a sample case, and poured out what looked to be fruit lusher than anyone had seen on Vulcan since its polar ice caps had shrunk and the deserts crept from the equatorial realms to encroach on much of the land. The fruits glowed golden and purple and teal, and perfumed the ship’s recycled air with the freshness of a new world.

  “Where is T’Sanvi, your metallurgist?” asked Avarak. “Still with the healers?”

  “We lost her,” said T’Olryn, looking away. “I grieve with thee.”

  Murmurs of horror and regret rose, even from the disciples of Surak. It was not illogical to regret the loss of a young life. Karatek shook his head.

  “Lesson learned,” Solor addressed the council. “I regret to say that we were ill prepared for the hazards of planetfall. T’Sanvi, while studying the minerals by the shore of the pond from which we were drawing water, was attacked by a predator approximately 6.7 meters in length. We believe it to be amphibious, as it was scaled and possessed webbed claws. It dragged her into a pond whose depth we were not able to ascertain due to the vegetation with which it was clogged. We were unable to recover her body.”

  He lowered his head.

  T’Olryn continued, her face remote as if she fought to put distance between herself and a distasteful subject. “We found eggs and much smaller specimens of the creature, one of which we sacrificed. Judging from its dentition, I believe these creatures secrete their prey beneath the water until…” She held up a hand. “We have named this predator the ‘ veruul.’”

  “Avert!” cried a te-Vikram in the back of the room.

  Veruul was the name of a monster that, in ancient legend, was said to stalk the Womb of Fire. Any encounter with such a creature was fatal, which explained why it was more myth than science.

  “I realize the word is improper,” said T’Olryn. “It was not my choice.”

  Solor leaned over to touch his bondmate’s fingers. “May we go on?” he asked. “Because of the time we spent on the planet’s surface, we were able to gather data in excess of initial mission parameters.”

  Lines and equations scrolled across the wall. It lit with formulas and glowed with spectral lines.

  “What about metal?”

  “Before T’Sanvi encountered the veruul, her first-approximation analysis was that the assay of such samples as she had had time to collect was low: disappointingly so. However, she hypothesized that the planet, like all Minshara-class worlds, possessed a molten rock mantle surrounding a liquid metal outer core and a solid inner core composed of metal crystals. We had hoped to set down nearer the firefalls to take samples, but decided that our distance from the falls and our recovery shuttle’s pickup time made such an expedition imprudent.

  “Our working hypothesis: We have two choices if we wish to exploit the world’s heavy metals. Either we dig down to the mantle, or we somehow extract them from the magma in the firefalls. For both of those propositions, however, we need metals: metals and a level of systems hardening for which, at least, we would have to cannibalize at least one of the ships.”

  “In short, a vicious circle,” said Avarak.

  “An illogical image, but quite accurate,” Solor replied. The two men locked glances. Neither gave way.

  “Given these hazards, is this even a world we wish to populate? All the ships are sparsely populated now. We might redistribute one ship’s population to facilitate mining operations, repair the remaining ships, then move on.”

  Karatek let the discussion ebb and flow about him. What he longed for was to see this fair new world for himself. What he would settle for was a conversation of ships’ leaders, including S’task himself, immediately after this meeting.

  “Before we begin,” Karatek asked, “in the opinion of the exploration party, is this world worth further study?”

  There was land. There was vegetation. There was even water in greater abundance than Karatek had ever heard of. In Vulcan’s history, there had been times when people had killed for temporary possession of even one meager, brackish well on the Forge, let alone the wealth of water that awaited them on the planet below.

  That abundance of water would remove one justification for aggression, while the scarcity of metal would restrict one means. Those were both points in favor of the new world. The start of exile had been marred by violence: it was logical to be concerned that resettlement might be corrupted too.

  “I do not think that consensus will favor repair, redistribution of ships’ populations, and continued travel.” Karatek tried to reach for consensus. “The daily sight of so much land and water beneath us might be too great a temptation to potential deserters. Let me ask: Do we, in truth, have another option?”

  “What about the companion world?”

  He heard muffled protests from the te-Vikram on the council. Even more than four hundred and fifty years, real time, after the last ship left Vulcan, it remained their pride that they, not the clans of city and hill, had wandered Vulcan’s deepest deserts.

  “In that case,” said Karatek, “we must await the report of the mission commanded by my daughter and her consort.”

  “You mean they’re not back yet?” warred with “We already live walled off from the universe!”

  And the fight was back on.

  It had been a long time since the fleet had had to wage this much peace. Karatek only hoped that they were up to it.

  Twenty-Six

  Now

  WATRAII HOMEWORLD

  STARDATE 54107.8

  As his Watraii guards marched him down the now-familiar dull gray corridor, Spock calmed his mind and body with carefully chosen Vulcan disciplines. It was his turn to be questioned by the Watraii, and if he was to make the most of the chance, his mind must be clear, self-controlled, and prepared.

  It was, save for the fact that he was a prisoner, not very different from any other ambassadorial diplomatic meeting.

  Spock was marched into the command center, and calmly took the indicated chair before the guards could shove him into it. They took up their posts to left, right, and behind him. The unspoken message was clear: No restraints were needed with them at the ready.

  Don’t be concerned, he told them silently. I am not going anywhere, not just yet.

  Of course he was kept waiting for quite some time, sitting in utter silence. It didn’t surprise him at all. This was a common tactic for almost all interrogators, Spock knew: Keep the prisoner waiting so that he might weaken himself by fear and his mind’s own horrific imaginings. But that tactic meant nothing to a Vulcan, Spock thought. He was hardly liable to weaken himself in such a
n emotional and illogical way.

  Besides, waiting was nothing new to him. Those ambassadors who became successful in their jobs soon grew used to the fine art of keeping calm while being kept waiting by this bureaucrat or that.

  As Spock had expected (and, indeed, had calculated out the probability to 97.659 percent), his initial questioner was to be no one less than the Watraii commander.

  Excellent.

  The commander entered without any fanfare, flanked by his guards, and sat down at his desk. There was a moment of silence as he studied Spock from behind the protection of his mask, presumably hunting for any signs of weakness, any signs of fear.

  He found none. Apparently utterly at ease, Spock said, “I assume that the damage from the shuttle crash has been repaired, and I grieve with you if there were any deaths.”

  “It is not your place to assume anything,” the commander retorted. “Nor is it your right to grieve.”

  Spock returned, with great gentleness, “Ah, but has it not been said that the death of one weakens us all?”

  “We have not been weakened. And it is not your place to question me.”

  “I quite understand.” Spock leaned forward ever so slightly, his entire body language conveying sympathy. “You have every reason to be concerned, what with the burden of all your people on your shoulders.”

  “We share the burden. And you are not to turn the interrogation!”

  Spock sat back again, and folded his hands in his lap. “Please, ask what you would.”

  Although it was, of course, impossible to see the Watraii’s expression, Spock read from the set of the other’s shoulders that the commander was definitely off balance. Prisoners were not expected or supposed to act like this.

  “Who are you?” the commander began.

  “I am, as I have said, Ambassador Spock of Vulcan.”

  “You are a Romulan!”

  “No, sir, I am not.”

  “Why do you deny what I can plainly see?”