STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  Amazing woman. Amazing species! He had hung on until he could reach her, and she had fought back against all the odds until they could be together. Her cure, and his, had in the end been simple: throw them together and stand back!

  No wonder there hasn’t been any ceremony till now, McCoy thought, the wedding had had to wait until their Pon farr fires were slaked, at least somewhat.

  McCoy saw Spock and Saavik glance at each other, new fire sparking in their eyes, together with an intensity of love they never would have permitted him to see under normal circumstances. And he thought, Got to say something, now, or the ceremony will have to wait another few days!

  “I guess we can forget about the bride and groom not seeing each other before the wedding,” he managed to say.

  To McCoy’s relief, he saw the faintest hint of humor glint in Saavik’s eyes. Spock relaxed minutely.

  Daring, McCoy continued, “Come on, Spock. Maybe I should be afraid you’ll knock me to kingdom come, but I’m not.”

  “Perhaps you should be.” It was that harsh, barely controlled voice.

  “Spock, I guess I’ll just have to take that chance. Now, let’s see about getting you both to the church on time!” Dammit, was he going to make bad jokes all the way to the ceremony? Hell, yes, out of sheer relief that his friends were really going to get a chance to live long and prosper!

  He was giddy and he knew it, but he couldn’t resist one parting shot as he ushered his old comrade out:

  “Spock, my friend, don’t even think of trying to get your room deposit back!”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  VULCAN, DAY 8, SECOND WEEK OF HARAVEEN, YEAR 2344

  Once again, McCoy stood on a plateau in the middle of nowhere, a semicircle of dark, weathered lava rock open to a wide sweep of Vulcan’s stark red desert and mountains. He easily picked out Mount Seleya, a jagged silhouette in the light of Vulcan’s afternoon. The only entrance—other than up that steep cliff where the plateau dropped away—was the way he’d just arrived, through an archway of smooth reddish stone. In the center of the plateau was a second semicircle created by more rocks of dark lava, roughly worked to form bridged, upright columns that reminded him vaguely of Earth’s Stonehenge, and within that circle was a single firepit and a single curving column. A hot desert wind blew in from the desert, carrying scents that were sweet and acrid in one, like nothing at all of Earth.

  McCoy nodded. Spock’s family’s ancient place of Koon-ut-kal-if-fee. Nothing much had changed.

  No, wait: the green Vulcan jadeite gong hanging from that central pillar was new. The hot wind drove particles of sand against it, making it hum softly.

  Of course they’d have replaced the broken one. Wouldn’t want any reminders of the last time they tried to marry Spock off.

  He steadied the not-exactly regulation sunhat on his head; the tri-ox might be keeping him breathing normally and helping him bear the heat, but it wouldn’t ward off the sun. McCoy had no intention of risking sunstroke.

  The first time he’d been up here, during that near-disaster with T’Pring, he and Jim had been beamed almost directly to the site. The last time, he’d managed the long, long walk. This time, McCoy had been unashamedly glad to ride up the rough, rocky way, even if ritual demanded that the last stretch be not in a groundcar but in that ridiculously old-fashioned litter.

  Dr. Leonard McCoy: Potentate. Felt like I should be waving to the crowds and tossing largesse. At least I didn’t have to worry about the litter-bearers dropping me. One human couldn’t have been much of a burden for four strapping young Vulcan men.

  Youngsters who had handed him out as courteously as though he’d been the late, still-lamented T’Pau.

  At least Spock can climb up here on his own.

  It had made McCoy more uncomfortable than he ever would have admitted to think about his friend reduced to . . . well . . . savagery. But satiated Pon farr apparently ran its course reasonably quickly, Nature not wanting to kill off the species.

  Odd, McCoy mused, to be here after so many years—wonderful to be here knowing (or praying) that this time there would be no more surprises.

  He looked about at the other wedding guests. Fewer than he would have liked: there’d been no time to do more than fire off messages to other old friends like Sulu, and yes, David Rabin, Spock’s boyhood pal, off there on Obsidian with his wife and kids, and a grandchild on the way.

  Couldn’t be helped.

  Ah, but look who was here: Uhura, having her own sources of information. God, even after all these years, she was still beautiful. With the indifference to protocol you could get away with if you essentially ran Starfleet Intelligence, she was wearing not dress uniform, but a flowing robe of kente cloth, intricately patterned in red and black and gold and green. A headdress of the same fabric nestled like some tropical bird in the glowing silver corona of her hair. Around her neck, a pendant wrought of hammered gold caught Eridani 40 A’s bloody light and reflected it back like a tiny sun.

  Looks a damn sight more at home here than I do, in all these medals.

  What she did not look was at all surprised to see him.

  McCoy edged past three silent Vulcans to her side. “Madam,” he said with a broad grin and a broader bow, “you look even more beautiful than I remember.”

  “Leonard, you flatterer!” Uhura’s smile outshone the light glinting on her necklace and earrings. “I promised to dance at Saavik’s wedding, and I certainly can’t dance in a dress uniform.”

  “At least you can dance,” McCoy retorted. “I should have got my knees upgraded five years ago.”

  But he would try, even if Uhura insisted on leading. There was something else he wanted to try. “So we have our happy ending after all,” he said.

  Uhura’s smile brightened. “We do indeed, Leonard.”

  He mimed a salaam—McCoy as Potentate again—and won a grin from her.

  Now, if only nothing got screwed up at the last minute.

  Hoping for distraction from that thought, he turned.

  Directly in front of him loomed a tall figure in a hooded cloak. “Someone else who doesn’t want to risk sunstroke, I see,” McCoy remarked. Vulcans might not make small talk, but this human was going to try.

  The figure turned, agreeing in not-quite-certain Vulcan, “The sun is brighter than I would have—” He broke off, staring. “Makhoi . . . ?”

  No Vulcan ever called him that; they could pronounce his name accurately enough. But there had been someone else, years ago . . . McCoy frowned, studying that teasingly familiar face . . . Now, if it were a bit younger, a bit less hard . . .

  “Ruanek!” he burst out. “Centurion Ruanek—or whatever rank you hold now!”

  “Ruanek, yes. No longer a centurion, or the commander I was just before . . .”

  He stopped awkwardly, and McCoy shook his head in wonder. “You’re that Romulan refugee, aren’t you? The one I heard brought Spock home and—Here now, stop looking at me like that! I know I’ve aged and you haven’t, not all that much, but that’s the way we humans are. I still have all my wits, son, wrinkles notwithstanding.”

  “And your sharp tongue. And kind heart.”

  Clearly embarrassed at what he’d just said, Ruanek looked away, staring out over the wide vista of desert and mountain.

  “Look familiar?” McCoy asked.

  “In a strange way. The gravity and atmosphere are so similar, the—the faint sense of active seismic life, too, but the light is so much brighter than that of Romulus. The air is so much hotter, dry enough to pull the moisture from one’s skin. Yet . . . it is all so very beautiful . . . and it somehow feels . . . akhh, I don’t know: right.”

  “But?”

  “But . . .” Ruanek shook his head in confusion. “There are friendships here, Makhoi, and no one needs to watch one’s back. Ambassador Sarek—he goes about unaccompanied, unguarded!”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  “No! It’s merely . . .”

  “Too f
oreign?”

  “I will cope,” flatly.

  Brittle as glass, McCoy thought, and put a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder—just as his mind screamed, Oh, bright move, touching a Romulan warrior!

  But with what was clearly a great effort, Ruanek kept from striking out at him. “Steady there, son,” McCoy said gently, and backed off a step. Sensing Ruanek’s uncertainty, he cut through it with a wry, “How’s the horse business?”

  The Ruanek of old had had an ironic sense of humor. So, it seemed, did the current one. “I am not in the horse business. I am in the political refugee business.”

  “Kill the wrong man, did you, son?” McCoy asked. “That cousin of yours for a bet. Yes, and got yourself into more political hot water than that sulfur pool over there.”

  Overstepped the bounds again. A curt nod was his only answer.

  “Tell you what,” McCoy said after an awkward moment. “When all the ceremonies are over, you and I, we’ll get together over a drink or two and compare notes.”

  Ruanek turned to him, face controlled but eyes betraying a very fervent gratitude. “I would very much like that, Makh—ah, Doktor McKoi.”

  “Better, son. Much better.”

  The distant chiming of bells, clear in the desert silence, made them both straighten. “It’s beginning,” McCoy said.

  In other words: Here comes the groom. Let’s hope he’s sane.

  Spock entered through the archway alone, straight-backed and noble in his flowing, dark-red ambassadorial robes. His face was composed as that of a statue, utterly unreadable. Without so much as a glance at the assembled guests, he strode straight for the central column and struck the ritual gong a powerful blow. The sound rang out across the desert, so deep and pure that it shivered along McCoy’s spine.

  A new whisper of bells sounded in the distance, carried on a hot breath of desert wind.

  “The bridal party,” McCoy whispered to Ruanek. He added as the Romulan looked at him inquiringly, “Yep. Been through this before. This time, let’s hope it’s done right!”

  A second litter was carried into the circle. A shrouded figure was helped out, assisted to the cushioned stone chair. This must be . . . who?

  The figure threw off the dark cloak, revealing blazing red robes, a fine-boned, fierce, ancient face—

  “T’Lar!” McCoy breathed. God, the High Priestess must be close to three hundred by now, but—Damn, I wish I felt as good as she looks.

  As though she’d heard him whisper her name, T’Lar turned. The ancient eyes studied first Ruanek, then he, himself, recognizing him. McCoy bowed to her with full Southern gallantry. She gave him the barest dip of her head in return, then turned away.

  Beside him, Ruanek shuddered, then forced himself almost to military attention. “She knew what I am at a glance,” he whispered. “She knew, and didn’t reject me.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Shh. Here they come.”

  First, came attendants shaking those blasted systra, the banners made of rows of tiny shrill bells. The stiff tunics of their ritual, archaic garb glinted molten in the sunlight.

  Then . . . ah, there was Ambassador Sarek, every bit as aristocratic as his son, his robes of state darkest blue glowing with metallic embroidery, his hair blazing silver.

  Ahh, here came the bride, or rather, here came her attendants. That must be the Healer, T’Selis, the one Sarek credited with saving his daughter-in-law’s life. She’d put off Healer’s brown in favor of the white and red robes of a priestess from Seleya. Beside her, somewhat to McCoy’s surprise, was a fair-haired human woman who looked just as out-of-place in the close-fitting Starfleet dress uniform as he did. Frances Stewart, he realized. The Enterprise-C’s junior medical officer.

  But here was Saavik, eyes properly downcast, her flowing silver robes gleaming like a river in a wasteland. Seeing how her gaze met Spock’s and rested there, McCoy sighed.

  The attendants shook their systra one last, maddening shake, then fell blessedly still. Far overhead, a hunting shavokh gave its shrill call, cutting into the sudden silence. McCoy fought not to glare up at it. I hope that’s not a bad omen, he thought, then told himself as sternly as Sarek that omens were illogical.

  He braced himself, abruptly terrified that history was going to suddenly repeat itself and that the next thing he was going to hear would be the dreaded “kah-li-fee,” the challenge that meant a fight to the death and a doomed marriage.

  But of course there was no challenge. In fact, McCoy suddenly realized that they’d already gotten through that part of the ceremony, the “acceptance or fight” or whatever they called it in Vulcan. T’Lar, her ancient voice strong and sure as Vulcan’s very soul, was already beginning the chant, “As it was in the beginning . . .”

  Across from him, McCoy saw Frances Stewart sniffling quietly, trying very hard not to let her human emotions bother anyone. But McCoy couldn’t fault her. Note to self, he thought: She and the three other crew members who’d flown Saavik to Vulcan could use a chance to talk with him. After all, he knew what it felt like to lose an Enterprise. He—was he going to get all misty-eyed, too, at his age? You bet I am. Damn, but I wish Jim could be here. And the Lady Amanda.

  Hell, I’m human, I don’t need to be logical: Maybe they are!

  Had he ever doubted, though, that Vulcans, too, had emotions? There was not the slightest sign of anything but composure on either Spock or Saavik’s face, but McCoy could have sworn he felt the force of their love radiating between them—a love that had pulled them both back from the brink of death.

  He lost track of time for a while . . . Too many ritual words, archaic forms that he couldn’t follow, and enough heat to really be getting to him. God, what he’d do for a mint julep right now . . . or just a big glass of iced lemonade . . . they had something like lemonade on Vulcan . . . no lemons, though . . .

  McCoy dragged his wandering mind back with an effort.

  Spock and Saavik, not quite touching, knelt before T’Lar. Very gently, with never a quiver in her thin hands, she touched their temples. They raised their hands to touch each other’s temples as well.

  And, with spectacularly right timing, lightning flashed over Mount Seleya.

  Now there’s an omen for you! Even Sarek started at that one!

  Only T’Lar was unmoved. Almost, McCoy thought uneasily, as though she’d been expecting it. She gestured, calmly imperious, and T’Selis, face carefully composed, came forward with a plain, earthenware cup. T’Lar signaled, wait, and said directly to Spock, “We always had a plan for thee. Thee shall fulfill it.” And to Saavik, “Thee shall be guardian.”

  Great, now we’ve got a prophecy. Or is that sort of thing routine at the end of Vulcan wedding ceremonies, like wishing them good luck?

  Dammit, this place is getting to me.

  T’lar took the cup, then gave it to Spock. He offered it to Saavik first. She sipped, then returned the cup to him, her gaze never leaving her mate. To McCoy’s utter and delighted fascination, before Spock drank, he turned the cup so his lips rested where hers had.

  Where’d he get that? Been reading Earth novels on the sly, have we?

  T’Lar merely raised an eyebrow. “Thee will need that deep a bond,” she said without the slightest trace of expression. “Now recite thy vows.”

  McCoy heard them murmur:

  “Parted and never parted.”

  “Never and always touching and touched.”

  T’Lar gestured to the couple: Rise. “Thee are wed, Spock, son of Sarek, son of Skon, son of Solkar, and Saavik, Vulcan’s Daughter.”

  Tactful way of putting it, McCoy thought.

  And that, he realized, was that. No “You may now kiss the bride,” no cheering, no rushing forward to embrace the bride. Nothing—except for the Vulcan version of the reception line. Which in this case meant meeting T’Lar. One by one, the guests were formally presented to her; one by one, she blessed them and said a few words.

  When it was McC
oy’s turn, he found himself nearly shivering from the impact of the strength in the wise, ancient eyes.

  “Ma’am.” He dipped his head as he would before royalty.

  “McCoy. Thee does not regret choosing the danger?”

  “No, ma’am. Not when a friend’s life is at stake.”

  He bowed, and felt her hand, warm and dry, rest very briefly on his head as she murmured what he trusted was a blessing in Old High Vulcan.

  Ruanek was next, falling to one knee in what McCoy guessed was Overawed Romulan fashion. She knew what he was, all right: McCoy heard her say, almost warmly for her, “Welcome home.”

  Hearing Ruanek’s breath catch, McCoy moved on. Ruanek quickly caught up with him, face troubled, and the doctor asked, “How are you doing, son?”

  “Overwhelmed. In addition to everything else, Ambassador Sarek says that at Spock’s request, he wishes me to speak at the Vulcan Science Academy.”

  McCoy suppressed a grin, remembering some Vulcan-style knock-down-drag-outs between Spock and his father on the subject of Unification. But he supposed this new development was only logical: Sarek, being Sarek, would never let politics get in the way of learning. Pity more politicians weren’t like that.

  McCoy gave the refugee his best patented “tell me more” look. “And how do you feel about all this?”

  “Happy, yes. Sad, yes. Romulus was my birthworld. . . . This . . . I don’t know. Can it ever really be my home?”

  McCoy grinned. “Someone seems to think so. Look.”

  T’Selis was watching Ruanek with the candid, logical, interested gaze only a young, lovely Vulcan woman could show. One of the Vulcan guests, noticing Ruanek’s stare, murmured with a touch of indulgent understanding, “She is a Healer, and not bonded.”

  “But who is she . . . ?” Ruanek breathed.

  “Her name,” McCoy began, “is T’Selis—”

  “That is T’Selis? Are you certain? Yes? Fates . . .” Ruanek shook his head, grinning. “Suddenly, Doktor McKoi, Vulcan really does begin to seem like home.”