STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  Up ahead, he heard Saavik tell her captain, “I am relieved to see that you survived this ordeal.” She was almost smiling. “We will have you out of the sun soon.”

  Finally, it was Picard’s turn to bow with the gallantry that was as much his heritage as the vineyards of Labarre, France. He raised his hand in the split-fingered Vulcan salute he had been practicing for days and recited the Vulcan words of polite goodwill he had memorized.

  “Welcome to Vulcan,” Spock said.

  “Your presence honors us,” Saavik added. Her voice was clear, but held husky resonances that sent the tiniest shiver up Picard’s spine.

  Greatly daring, he decided to try one more sentence in High Vulcan, this time to Ambassador Sarek: “We come to serve.”

  “Your service honors us,” the ambassador replied.

  I said it right!

  Move along! The sun was growing fierce, and, what was worse, Picard felt his captain’s eyes burning holes in him from a position by the gateway. Oh, but how he would have loved to speak longer with the legendary ambassador! Perhaps Sarek would consent to answer a question or two; the ambassador had spent a good deal of time teaching at the Vulcan Science Academy and as a special lecturer on Earth.

  Captain Manning’s glare grew hotter. Picard moved along.

  After what felt like several geological eras, the reception line ended in a straggle of ensigns. The ambassadors’ aides guided human and Vulcan guests into a blessedly cool underground reception hall. There, Saavik poured water for the guests in token of her new responsibilities to come, while a cluster of senior officers and diplomats surrounded Spock.

  Captain Howes approached Saavik, his fair-skinned face redder than his relatively brief exposure to Eridani 40 A would warrant. “Ah, Saavik, may I ask you a question?”

  She raised an eyebrow at her superior officer’s courteous, if tentative, request. “As you wish, sir.”

  “Will you require more time here on Vulcan? You and the ambassador . . . Armstrong would be honored to pick you up on our next circuit.”

  Saavik glanced aside and downward, then at her betrothed. “Thank you, Captain Howes. But I see no logic in postponing my return to the ship. Our joint research projects are in good order, are they not?” she asked her betrothed, who nodded gravely.

  “Then there is no need for me to remain here, Captain. Ambassador Spock’s duties will soon be taking him offworld. I shall be ready to beam up when Armstrong leaves orbit.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, you two!” McCoy’s exasperation seemed harsh after the softness of Saavik’s voice. He looked from one to the other of the betrothed pair, shaking his head in disgust. “Honestly, Spock! I wonder sometimes if either of you learned a damn thing from . . .”

  Picard would have delayed his next promotion by six months . . . no, make that two . . . to hear what it was McCoy wondered if Spock had learned—and from whom.

  Maybe it’s the difference between Vulcan and human customs. But they don’t exactly seem reluctant to be parted.

  Or perhaps he read them wrongly. Even now, as they stood with their backs to one another, a tenuous awareness seemed to join them. Like, Picard thought with a moment of sudden sharp, unashamed romance, two stars orbiting each other, maybe not touching, but never truly parted at all.

  YEAR 2342

  FROM: Spock, son of Sarek, on Vulcan civilian transport Selnar, en route to Earth

  TO: Solvar, Department Head, Vulcan Science Academy, Department of Extra-Vulcan Research, ShiKahr

  I need not, at this late date, itemize the incidents surrounding the Sundering. However, after careful initial research, I must state that I believe there is no logic in further isolating those who are, after all, our genetic kin. I therefore request that a research team be assembled to study the Romulan culture, with the short-term goal of augmented information, the medium-term goal of initiating contact with the Romulan people, and, should such discussions prove productive, the long-term goal of introducing a proposal for Reunification of the two branches of our species.

  Live long and prosper.

  FROM: Solvar, Department Head, Vulcan Science Academy, Department of Extra-Vulcan Research, ShiKahr

  TO: Spock, son of Sarek, Vulcan Embassy, San Francisco, Earth

  We have considered your request. It does not, however, strike us as logical to initiate a project of this scope at this time, especially in view of the extreme emotionality and tendency toward violence of the Romulans, and the likely Federation response to any such study.

  Peace and long life.

  YEAR 2343

  FROM: Spock, son of Sarek, Vulcan Embassy, Andor

  TO: Solvar, Department Head, Vulcan Science Academy, Department of Extra-Vulcan Research, ShiKahr

  Revisiting my request of 2342 that a research team be assembled with the long-term goal of evaluating the potential benefits and philosophical challenges of Reunification with the Sundered, I wish to observe that a study of Romulan linguistics (refer to attached files) does, indeed, point to a closer link between the Sundered and those of Vulcan than the Department of Xenolinguistics initially believed. In substantiation of this hypothesis, I refer you to the work of such linguists as T’Karra and Verrin, who have proven, as is evident in their monograph (also attached), that spoken Romulan is definitely related to the form of Old High Vulcan spoken a thousand years ago.

  I also need not remind you that a thousand years, even two thousand years, is not long enough, under natural standards, for any major genetic changes to have occurred in the Vulcanoid somatype, even allowing for Romulus’ slightly cooler, slightly more temperate climate.

  Surely this link that clearly remains between Vulcan and the Romulans merits further study.

  Live long and prosper.

  FROM: Solvar, Department Head, Vulcan Science Academy, Department of Extra-Vulcan Research, ShiKahr

  TO: Spock, son of Sarek, Vulcan Embassy, Andor

  While the study of linguistics is a perfectly logical pursuit, as is the study of genetic variation, we do not believe that the cause of Vulcan would be served at this time by a research project such as you propose. We further do not believe that the cause of logic is served by an ambassador who would attempt a project, in addition to his current ambassadorial duties, that would require him to venture out of his field of academic specialization and collaborate with the Starfleet of the United Federation of Planets to an extent that we consider would interfere with the objectivity commensurate with the role of a Vulcan ambassador. In the light of continued opposition to your project, which seems ill-judged at this—or indeed at any other—time, it is the considered opinion of this department that your persistence in this course is illogical in the extreme.

  Peace and long life.

  TWO

  FEDERATION WORLD ORIKI, DAY THREE, MONTH OF DARNAR, YEAR 2344

  “Ambassador Spock! At last!”

  As Spock stepped out of the small spaceport’s one terminal into Oriki’s warm, dry air, seeing vistas of open green plains on three sides, a small human woman came scurrying forward, clutching a sheaf of papers with one hand, running a hasty hand through her mop of brown hair with the other. “I’m Irene Sanford, from the Federation base here on Oriki. So glad to see you here, so glad indeed!”

  Did she mean to shake his hand? Or even embrace him? Spock took the smallest of steps back, dipping his head to her politely. As though suddenly remembering that one didn’t casually touch Vulcans, Sanford straightened, visibly forcing herself back to decorum. “I’m to be your aide while you’re on Oriki. You . . . do understand the situation here?”

  “I do,” Spock assured her, absolutely without expression.

  Oriki was a bright, hot little Federation world, a mix of hightech cities and savannas, the great sweeps of grassy plains such as those surrounding the spaceport, over which vast herds of woolly thranakis still roamed, occasionally herded or hunted by the Orikis themselves, or harried by the small, sleek-furred, nervous predators known as chik
ilis.

  “Of course, of course.” Reddening, Sanford continued gamely, “There’s a perfectly, uh, logical reason for negotiating with them.”

  “I have studied the situation,” Spock assured her, and she reddened even more. He continued, “The Orikis weave a cloth from thranaki wool that is both remarkably strong and lightweight. More, a fortuitous accident at a Federation assembly has proven that, when treated with,” Spock bit back the scientific terminology and contented himself with, “a basic Vulcan chemical compound, the fabric becomes virtually impervious to flame as well. Useful to Oriki and also to Vulcan, once a trade agreement is sealed. Ms. Sanford, if I may settle into my quarters on the base before meeting with the Oriki representatives . . . ?”

  “Oh, of course, of course! It’s just a short ride to Kikitik: that’s the capital city.”

  “Yes, Ms. Sanford. I know.”

  This assignment had not come at the most convenient of times, but one could hardly say to the Vulcan authorities, “I regret, but I have other plans in mind.” Particularly when the Vulcan authorities would not approve of such plans.

  Kikitik was a true city, with narrow streets in a well-laid-out grid. The brown, smooth-walled houses were not more than two stories, but quite modern: Spock caught sight of a computer in the window of what was clearly a small office building.

  There was not a sign of the Orikis themselves, though this was hardly surprising: the Orikis were notoriously wary. Naturally, there was more to this mission than one small treaty; should Spock succeed in convincing them to sign, this would mark the first time that the Oriki people had actually reached out to another Federation world.

  As I would reach out to another world . . .

  But even such thoughts must wait.

  The people of Oriki, Spock mused several days later, were—if it was not too fanciful a thought to compare peaceful humanoids to quadruped predators—very much like those chikilis out on the plains. They also, to carry the metaphor a trifle further, illogical as it already was, were somewhat like Irene Sanford herself. They, too, were small, no taller than his shoulder, and most decidedly nervous. But there the resemblance ended: the Oriki were covered with sleek brown fur.

  “Amazing,” Sanford said yet again as they headed to the city square. “Absolutely amazing, sir. I mean, when we all tried to talk to the Orikis, we got nowhere. They tend to, well, collapse into chittering little discussion groups whenever we raise an issue. And they, they quiver visibly whenever one of them makes a point!”

  “I am aware of that, Ms. Sanford.”

  “But here they are, meeting with you!”

  “Yes, Ms. Sanford.”

  They had arrived at the huge ceremonial tent that had been set up. Brightly striped with garish red and green, it was an incongruous item there in the modern city square on this sunny, comfortably warm day.

  Do not, Spock reminded himself, let the pleasant weather lull you.

  As Irene Sanford tactfully stepped aside, Spock bowed formally to Rakikarit, an older Oriki, fur brindled with age, standing in the tent’s entrance. Rakikarit’s title translated as “pack elder,” one of several such in this gregariously egalitarian culture.

  “We are glad this day, yes glad,” the Oriki chirped.

  “We did ask for you, only you, Ambassador Spock,” a second Oriki cut in: Alnikalam, Spock recognized from the pattern of her red and green ribbons, a pack mother. “Yes, yes, only you to negotiate the treaty.”

  “I am honored,” Spock said somberly, and the Oriki all chittered approval, standing aside to let him enter. There was nothing inside the tent but Orikis, perhaps twenty or thirty, to whom Rakikarit and Alnikalam promptly added themselves, although it was difficult to judge numbers in that sudden tight huddle. Waiting with Vulcan patience, Spock suspected that they found a half-human a bit less . . . intimidating than a full-blooded Vulcan.

  And what, I wonder, would they think of Saavik?

  Saavik. One corner of Spock’s mouth quirked up ever so slightly. How bizarre to suddenly find himself considering her, here and now, as though he were barely grown, rather than an adult. He and she were, of course, still very much betrothed. But so far, their work had tended to keep them apart for more than the briefest of meetings.

  Still, those meetings had all been quite . . . agreeable.

  And speculations about such matters were illogical.

  A chitter. A cough. The Orikis came out of their huddle in a swirl of brightly colored thranaki-wool robes: red, green, blue.

  “Ambassador.” Rakikarit padded up to him.

  “Ambassador Spock,” Alnikalam expanded.

  “This provision, here . . .”

  “We are interested.”

  “Yes, interested. But, first,” Alnikalam asked, “will you join us?”

  The entire chorus of Orikis chimed in, “Drink ritual? Food ritual?”

  Spock graciously dipped his head to all of them, hearing their pleased chitters, and followed the elders to where yet more Oriki were setting out pitchers and platters on a quickly erected trestle table.

  Their ceremonial drink proved to be a local tea, pleasantly sweet and harmless for Vulcan metabolisms. But the ritual food was thranaki meat. Spock, instantly aware that all the Orikis were watching him, their bright black stares unblinking, realized, They know that Vulcans eat no meat.

  This, then, was a test of his honor. Which would the Orikis find more honorable: a refusal, and possible insult to them, or an acceptance and definite insult to his own people?

  Irene Sanford was almost instantly at his elbow, all but trembling at the potential disaster she saw unfolding. “Ambassador . . . ?”

  Spock held up a hand, forestalling her.

  “Customs,” he told the watching Oriki gently, “are important to all sentient beings. Indeed, customs can be said to be one of the unifying facts that define a people.”

  Chitterings. Silence.

  “We are in agreement,” Spock said. “Excellent. Then you will understand that I honor your customs even more when I show respect for my people’s own.”

  More chitterings, this time in clear approval. The offending platter of meat was removed.

  “Now,” one Oriki said, “we talk.”

  “Ambassador Spock!” Irene Sanford scurried to his side. “May I say, sir, that was wonderful? I mean, I know that you’re an ambassador, a professional, but, well . . .”

  “Yes, Ms. Sanford. They did sign the agreement. Now, kindly excuse me.”

  All those happy chitterings had been painful to keen Vulcan hearing, and courtesy or no, Spock knew that he could not have endured the pitch of the human’s happy chirpings as well. Still, as he returned to the two clean, featureless rooms that were his quarters in Oriki’s Federation base, it was with a feeling of satisfaction. The mission had, indeed, gone smoothly, so much so that its simplicity, even with all those chitterings, had been almost soothing.

  Spock quickly checked the rooms’ security systems, then sat at the spartan desk and accessed the computer, whispering a password that opened his personal files.

  Ah, yes. Saavik had sent him her critique of his last treatise: satisfactory.

  Less so, however, was the latest rebuff from the Vulcan Science Academy, informing him that his request to conduct a study of Unification had once again been denied.

  You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Spock. His human friends had told him that more than once. Was he, indeed, merely being humanly stubborn? Surely persistence on the side of mounting evidence was, instead, merely logical.

  Ah, but here was a second message from Saavik. Spock hesitated, then scrolled past the message. He knew only too well what her reaction to his interest in the “sundered cousins” would be. At the very least, she would remind him that the Romulans had never withdrawn capital charges of treason against him, a fact of which he was quite well aware.

  Spock’s mouth tightened the slightest bit. He had already taken a wary, secret first step regarding Romulus. Ever sinc
e Khitomer, he had been in communication with the Romulan senator Pardek, who claimed to share a desire for at least talks between the two peoples.

  Lately, though, Pardek had fallen silent. Romulan senators, Spock knew, led risky lives at the best of times.

  If Pardek’s populist leanings have become too blatant, Spock thought with just the smallest touch of uneasiness, he may already have paid the price.

  But Pardek was not Spock’s only informant. When he had defeated the Vulcan madman, Sered, in 2296, on the planet Obsidian, one very young Romulan centurion, Ruanek, had proved himself truly honorable. Spock and he had stayed in secret and rather friendly communication ever since then.

  Infrequent communication. Ruanek’s life under the rule of his patron—Avrak, sister-son and heir to Pardek—was perilous enough, what with the intricacies of Romulan politics. The illegalities of contacting a Romulan aside, Spock had no wish to further imperil him.

  Ruanek is too . . . impetuous. Honest as a being can be, and quite intelligent, but yes, “impetuous” is certainly the word.

  Perhaps a good word to apply to many Romulans.

  Outside the weathered walls of the estate, Ki Baratan, capital of the Romulan Star Empire, was slowly settling down for the night under the usual curfew, the streets already empty of all but watchful patrols.

  Enforced peace, the woman thought. But here in the estate, in this secure room, with its simple desk and chair and not much else, there was no peace. She paced restlessly, silken robes of stark black and white swirling about her legs, and dark reddish-brown hair brushing about a face that had seen too much to ever have been called anything as soft as lovely.