STAR TREK: Starfleet Academy - TOS #1: Crisis on Vulcan

by Brad

  That did not keep Spock from trying over and over. Late at night, when Sarek and Amanda were asleep, Spock sat at his computer, studying each paragraph, each sentence, each word of the treaty. He reviewed Marathan history to no avail. And he realized that if his study did not pay off, soon his father would make himself a highly visible target for the assassins.

  The day came when both father and son had to admit defeat. “Well,” Sarek said, “there is one hope left.”

  “Sarek, no.” Amanda stood in the doorway, her face a mask of worry. “I don’t want you to be a—a decoy. It’s too dangerous.”

  Sarek went to his wife and took both of her hands in his. “Events are at a crisis,” he told her gently. “Those who oppose Vulcan’s membership in the Federation have strong voices. I cannot allow them to use this incident as an excuse to ruin everything that I have worked for. To do so would be worse than dying.”

  “I’ll go to Earth with you,” Amanda said.

  Spock felt a curious hollow sensation inside. Fleetingly he wondered what would happen if Sarek agreed—and somehow the assassins succeeded. Both of his parents could be killed. But Sarek said, “No. That would not be logical. You have never accompanied me on a diplomatic mission before, and surely any observer would know that.”

  [86] “Mother has not accompanied you,” said Spock. “But I have.”

  They both looked at him. “It is logical,” Spock said. “I was with you when you negotiated the treaty. Why should I not be with you when you take it to Earth?”

  “No,” Sarek said. “It is far too dangerous.”

  “For me, but not for you?”

  “Spock,” Amanda said, crossing to him, “I don’t want you to go either.”

  “I know, Mother. But you would go.”

  “I belong with Sarek.”

  “As do I,” Spock reminded her. “Father, you must admit that two of us would be more likely to withstand an attack than one. Surely that is logical.”

  Sarek nodded. “But you wish to be a scientist, not a diplomat. It is not logical for a young scientist to go on a diplomatic mission.”

  “It is,” Spock said simply, “if the Marathans do not know that I wish to be a scientist and not a diplomat.”

  The argument—if anyone could call the reasonable, soft exchange between father and son an argument—went on for a long time. At last they reached a compromise.

  “Very well,” Sarek said. “I will announce my departure for Earth as coming in one week. Today I must travel into town to speak to the regional justice committee. They have pointed out that we are still holding two unidentified Marathans and have not yet set a date of trial for them. This is my last chance to obtain permission for a mind-meld, and failing that, I must at least [87] arrange for a trial. You may come with me on this trip if we take all precautions.”

  Spock nodded his agreement. “And if I prove to be of assistance this time, then you will consider allowing me to accompany you to Earth.”

  “My son,” Sarek said in his dry way, “I advise you to reconsider your choice of careers. You would make a fine diplomat after all.”

  Sarek took no chances. The security guards did a full area scan before he and Spock emerged from the house. For a moment, Spock blinked in the torrid, bright sunlight. Days inside the house made the brilliant day almost painful. The far horizon shimmered with heat waves, and the air car’s external alloy skin was sizzling hot. As soon as they were aboard, Sarek raised shields—not a usual option on air cars, but this one had been specially equipped. Spock sat beside his father as the car rose, swiveled, and accelerated above the dry plain below.

  They followed the deep gorge of a river for part of the way. Looking down, Spock saw leaping herds of quattils, herbivorous creatures native to Vulcan. Once, ages ago, quattils had been the prey of flying creatures. These predators had become extinct, but still the quattils fled whenever the shadow of an air car passed over them, driven by a deep and ancient instinct.

  Spock reflected on that. Perhaps, he thought, in some ways the Marathans were acting on a hidden instinct. Something that lay deep under the surface of their minds. But what could it be?

  [88] The throaty hum of the air car engine, the vibration, lulled him. He had missed a great deal of sleep in the past few days. He almost nodded off. They came to the outskirts of the city, its buildings low and cool, ancient stone and alloy buildings lining the perfectly squared streets. Sarek dropped to street level and cruised the air car slowly along. “Why have you descended?” asked Spock. “We could easily have landed on the secure deck at the House of Justice.”

  “I wish our presence to be obvious,” Sarek returned.

  They passed the space port. Spock looked out the window at the crowds: Humans, almost panting in the thin, hot air, walked side by side with blue-skinned Andorians, their antennae drooping and their steps slow in the gravity of Vulcan. A group of short, muscular Tellarites strode along with more assurance, though bearded and furred as they were, they must have suffered from the heat. The streets around the entry port were an untidy assortment of Vulcan and off-world shops and stores. Vulcans disliked anything untidy. Perhaps this was one reason, Spock thought, that so many powerful Vulcan leaders were campaigning to close the ports, eject the aliens—

  He sat up, turning his head sharply. He thought—

  “What is it, Spock?”

  Spock forced himself to settle back. “Nothing, Father. I thought I saw someone that I last met aboard the Enterprise.”

  “Hardly likely. That ship is far from here by now.”

  “I was possibly mistaken.”

  [89] They did not speak again, and although they reached the House of Justice at ground level, Sarek powered the air car for a hop up to the secure landing site. They passed through a force field meant to shield them against any high-speed energy weapons, and Sarek set the car down gently within a few meters of the portal. He and his son hurried inside.

  In the cool darkness of the House of Justice, Spock patiently listened to his father’s arguments. He knew they would be disregarded. The ancient Vulcan teacher Surak, he who had at last brought an end to war on Vulcan, had taught the sanctity of the individual. Except by mutual consent, Vulcans almost never mind-melded. Rare exceptions were made only for Vulcans suffering from mental illness. And although, under their agreement with the Federation, Vulcans theoretically could use the mind-meld to read the thoughts of an alien species, that had never been done. The Justices, three elderly women, were not eager to create a precedent.

  When they rejected Sarek’s request, Sarek smoothly turned to the question of trial. Vulcan trials were scrupulously fair, even when the accused chose to mount no defense. The Justices did agree to appoint a day for the two captives to be tried, and that was that.

  Sarek chose to fly home at a higher altitude, and so Spock did not have another chance to look at the crowds in the streets.

  Still, he thought he had what he needed. The figure he had seen looked a great deal like a Tellarite. Hooded, squat, its face obscured by a heavy beard, the person [90] would never be mistaken for a Vulcan. The disguise was a logical one.

  But Spock had seen through it. In the way it moved, in its startled reaction to a glimpse of Spock’s face, the disguised figure had given itself away. It was no Tellarite.

  It was undoubtedly Cha-Tuan Mar Lorval—Spock’s friend.

  Or was he now Spock’s assassin?

  Chapter 9

  Night, thick and dark outside. The house was quiet, with no hint that wakeful guards waited at strategic points beyond the walls and manned a security station inside. Spock, alone in his room, finished the last adjustment. “Computer,” he said.

  “Working,” responded a soft, disembodied voice.

  “I have integrated a Series 15,000 Artificial Intelligence Module with your operating unit. It is an experimental design, but I believe it will augment your operation. Please test all functions.”

  For the space of a heartbeat the
computer was silent. Then it reported, “All functions are normal.”

  Spock leaned back. “Very well. I need to access the security visuals grid on the south side of Space Port Prime. Take steps to conceal the link from anyone who might be monitoring the security system.”

  [92] The machine had no sense of legality or illegality, and it did not question the order. “Working. Visuals grid is available. The link is secure.”

  “Give me a visual display beginning ...” Spock thought and then gave a precise time estimate: that afternoon when he and his father had passed the space port.

  “Working.” The display flickered into existence. Spock studied the still picture.

  “Advance in standard seconds,” he said.

  The display changed, a series of still pictures. All were from one vantage point, and since they flicked into and out of existence at the rate of one per second, Spock saw a kind of jerky motion picture of the street, with people hitching along. “Stop,” he ordered after only seven seconds. The air car that he and his father had used was visible, nosing into the picture from the right side. Spock scanned the crowd. “Advance in standard seconds, but hold each view for five seconds,” he ordered.

  The air car moved to the center of the field, then off the left edge of the picture. “Next vantage point.” The field of view shifted northward. Now the car was in the right corner again, but a different section of the street appeared. “Stop. Overlay a coordinate grid.”

  A yellow network of lines appeared over the picture. Spock isolated the figure he had seen. “Enlarge sections Alpha 3 to Alpha 6, Beta 3 to Beta 6, Gamma 3 to Gamma 6.”

  The squares enlarged to fill the whole screen. “Delete grid.” Spock leaned back. He was looking at Cha—and [93] Cha seemed to be looking at him. In his hood and mask, he would pass for a young Tellarite male, but his eyes were unmistakable. “Computer,” Spock said. “Isolate this subject in your memory. Access security networks as necessary. Follow the movements of this subject and let me know where he is at this moment.”

  “Working.”

  “Display a map of his movements.”

  A glowing map of the city appeared, with the route of Spock’s target marked in a fluorescent green line. Cha had reversed his direction a moment after spotting Spock and his father. He had taken a winding path across the city as if unfamiliar with its streets—or as if trying to throw off any trackers. The line came to rest in a block of buildings equipped with special environmental controls for atmosphere and gravity, the domiciles of alien traders and visitors who liked some variation from the Vulcan conditions.

  Spock laced his fingers together and brooded. He could tell his father, or he could alert the security forces. Or ...

  Taking a deep breath, Spock weighed the alternatives. What if Cha were not a willing visitor to Vulcan? Could he be a hostage, perhaps, and disguised in an attempt to escape from the militant faction of Marathans? Or was he here as a spy? Or perhaps had he come to warn Spock?

  “Computer,” Spock said, “display the original picture of the target.”

  And there was Cha again, his eyes staring out of the [94] Tellarite mask. “Computer, interpret the emotions of the target.”

  “Unable to complete the task,” the computer responded.

  “Do you need more data?”

  “Affirmative,” said the artificial voice. “Please give a complete working definition of the term emotions.”

  “Cancel the order.”

  “Canceled.”

  The night was well advanced. Spock had to make up his mind, and yet how could he? Who knew what a Marathan’s emotions were like? Spock only remembered that Cha, like himself, had felt like an outcast.

  The young Vulcan lowered his head for a moment, then spoke with decision: “Computer, I give you this task. Currently this house is under surveillance of an advanced security and detection system. Find a way for me to disable the system just long enough to get away from the house undetected.”

  “Working.”

  “Estimate of time required for the task.”

  “Three hours, thirty-nine minutes, eleven point fifty-five seconds, standard.”

  “Wake me when you have completed the task.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Utterly weary, Spock leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and in less than a minute, he was asleep. Such relaxation called for the careful discipline of a Vulcan mind—or for the absolute exhaustion of a human one.

  * * *

  [95] Spock woke to the gentle jingling of a chime. “The problem is solved,” the computer said. “Time elapsed: three hours, thirty-seven minutes, three point zero one seconds, standard.”

  “Less than your estimate. Very efficient.”

  “Yes. I will cause a minor malfunction that will engage the attention of the guard on the northwest side of the property. While he is attending to the problem, you may leave the environment at any time within the next two minutes, moving quietly. As soon as you are outside the detection field, I will reactivate the security system. The security monitors will be altered to give a false reading indicating that you are safely asleep in your bed.”

  “Very good.” Spock rose, instantly alert, and hurried outside, taking with him only a portable communicator. From the front, he could see the guard bent over a handheld read-out device, trying to adjust the controls. On silent feet, Spock hastened away from the house, descending the flank of a bare, rocky hill. Dawn was approaching fast, and already the eastern sky showed a tinge of red. Spock hurried without quite running until he was four kilometers or so away from the house. Then, using his communicator, he summoned an air car from the public transportation authority in the city. A few minutes later, the vehicle hummed into sight, flying on autopilot. It landed on a flat, sandy expanse, the floor of a long-dried lake, and Spock climbed into the pilot’s seat, hoping he was not about to make the worst mistake of his life.

  By the time he reached the outskirts of the city, the [97] sun was up, throwing long, sharp shadows over plain, market squares, and streets. Spock landed the air car on a public transportation pad, indicated on its control panel that he would not need the vehicle again, and walked several blocks. The low sun sent its rays hot and almost horizontal along the side streets. In between the intersections, the shadows were still crisp and dark. When Spock came to a halt, he stood in an archway that looked out toward the block of alien domiciles his computer had isolated. The morning chill was dissolving under the fierce rays of the sun. He hoped that Amanda and Sarek would decide to let their son sleep. He needed as much time as he could steal to carry out his plan. Spock settled into the shadows and waited.

  But not for very long. Within the hour, a stocky figure emerged, looked both ways, and then blended in with the early-morning pedestrians. Spock followed the hooded, robed individual, gradually coming closer. When they cut through a section of the city given over to a green park, its walls breaking it up into mazelike squares, Spock hurried ahead, coming almost close enough to tap his quarry on the shoulder. “Cha!” he said loudly.

  The figure six steps ahead of him bolted and ran, cutting to the left and crossing a street. Spock ran after him. Vulcan heads turned sharply—Vulcan boys of Spock’s age no longer played, and it was unseemly to run. Spock ignored them, his eyes locked on the hooded, cloaked figure ahead of him. A zig, a zag, and Spock’s prey made a serious mistake, diving into a narrow alley [98] between two blank-walled stoned buildings. Spock reached a point where the alley bent at a right angle and saw that Cha was at a standstill, his back to the wall. “Cha,” he said, “we must talk.”

  The Tellarite vanished. Cha stripped off the hooded cloak, the lifelike prosthetic mask, and stood revealed as himself. “We have nothing to talk about, Vulcan!”

  “On the contrary,” Spock said, stepping forward. “I think that the two of us may be able to avoid—”

  Cha roared out, an inarticulate bellow, and dived forward, reaching for Spock. Fast as
he was, Spock was too slow to react. Cha’s strong arms gripped him, and the two fell to the ground, Cha raging as he tried to pin the Vulcan. He fumbled at his belt, at a curved scabbard. Spock gripped the Marathan boy’s wrist, desperately trying to keep him from drawing his weapon.

  Spock was on his back. He bent his knees and got his feet into the pit of Cha’s stomach. Rolling, Spock kicked at the same time, flipping Cha heels over head. The Marathan landed on his back with a gasp, but immediately he scrambled up again. Spock crouched, facing him. Cha’s eyes were wild, furious. “Cha,” Spock said, “I must ask you—”

  No good. Cha charged again, but this time Spock was ready. He seized Cha’s shoulder at the base of the neck, spread his fingers, and manipulated the nerve junctions that virtually all humanoid species had at those points. He felt Cha stiffen, then collapse. Spock caught him, eased him to the ground. He looked behind him. No one [99] was in the alley, and from here, they could not be seen from the street. He waited.

  After a few minutes, Cha groaned. He sat up suddenly, reaching for his belt.

  “I have removed your weapon,” Spock said. He held up the carved curved Marathan dagger.

  Cha backed away, sat with his spine against the blank stone wall. “Well, use it then,” he growled. “Kill me.”

  “I have no desire to do that: To injure you would be illogical.”

  Amber-colored tears brimmed in Cha’s eyes. “You have humiliated me,” he said in a gruff voice. “It will be a disgrace to my family if you do not kill me.”

  “Killing is not the Vulcan way,” Spock replied. “You can trust me.”

  When Cha did not respond, Spock gravely offered him the dagger, grip end first. Cha darted a look of wild suspicion at the young Vulcan. “What kind of trick are you playing?”

  “No trick,” Spock said. “I did not mean to humiliate you. Here is your weapon. I hope you will not use it.”

  Cha took it from Spock, stared at the curved blade, ran his finger over the Marathan glyphs. Then he replaced the weapon in the scabbard. “Go.”