Star Trek - Sarek

by A. C. Crispin

  to stare thoughtfully at the area outside the gates. Discarded holosigns

  and placards still littered the area, but all the demonstrators were

  gone ... where?

  Sarek, remembering the shock of touching Induna's altered mind,

  repressed a shiver. The sun had vanished behind clouds, and the breeze

  was now chilly ...

  Peter James Kirk rifled through the selection of clothes available to

  him and swore impatiently. This is ridiculous, he told himself, and

  reached for a clean uniform. You don't spend this much time dressing for

  a date!Or did he? It'd been long enough since his last real date that it

  was hard to remember. Running a hand through his sandy-red hair, he

  sighed disgustedly. Well, maybe you do. Who cares? Make a decision, and

  let get out of here. He'd be late if he didn't hurry.

  Your big chance to finally meet Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan, he thought,

  feeling a flare of nervous excitement, followed by chagrin. Yeah, and

  won't he be impressed if you're late?

  He'd first become acquainted with Sarek through the Vulcan's writings

  and speeches, some of which were mandatory reading at Starfleet Academy,

  where Peter was currently a senior cadet. Then, when he'd attended a

  talk the diplomat gave at the Academy two years ago, Peter had found

  Sarek's approach to diplomacy so interesting, he'd studied the

  ambassador's eminent career during his spare time. Having met the

  ambassador's son many times gave his interest a personal aspect.

  It was ironic, really. His uncle, Jim Kirk, had spent years working

  beside Sarek's son, Captain Spock. If things had worked out right, no

  doubt Spock, whom he'd met many times during his uncle's sporadic

  visits, would've been happy--or the Vulcan equivalent--to have

  introduced Peter to his father. If things had worked out right ...

  Well, Peter mused, things had worked out well enough for someone who'd

  lost his parents tragically at the age of seven.

  He glanced at their picture, taken on Deneva just months before their

  deaths. George Samuel and Aurelan Kirk were laughing, their hands on

  their gangly son's shoulder. Their twenty-five-year-old mementos still

  traveled everywhere with him, and thanks to family albums and vid

  records,

  Peter had a clear recall of his mother's voice, his father's sense of

  humor, although his actual rearing had been entrusted to his late

  grandmother, Winona Kirk.

  Peter was nearly halfa head taller than his uncle, and built on slender,

  rather than stocky, lines. His hair, which as a boy had been a deep

  auburn, had lightened over the years to a sandy red. Much to his relief,

  his freckles had also faded, though any exposure to the sun brought out

  a rash of them across his nose and cheeks. His eyes were a bright, clear

  blue, like Earth's sky at midday. Until his mid-twenties, he'd been

  gangling and awkward, but the years--and Starfleet's self-defense

  training--had solved most of that.

  These days Peter moved confidently, even, at times, gracefully.

  He'd inherited his looks from his mother, but the rest of the Kirk

  legacy that sometimes sat too heavily on his shoulders came straight

  from Uncle Jim. Staring at the cadet's uniform he was holding, Peter

  wondered if that was why, at the age of thirty-two, he was still in

  school.

  Peter Kirk hadn't decided on a career in Starfleet until he was in his

  mid-twenties--almost a decade after most cadets entered the Academy.

  He'd spent that decade attending the best colleges, gaining degrees in

  xenolinguistics and xenocultural interfaces with minors in

  Terran/xenopolitical interaction, before deciding that he would finally

  follow the family tradition and join Starfleet. While Uncle Jim had

  always encouraged his varied interests, and never tried to influence his

  choice of careers, everyone else had automatically assumed he'd pursue

  Command track. He'd done so, though Peter was sure that he'd never

  possess his uncle's calm air of command.

  We'll find out soon enough if you're a real Kirk, Peter told himself

  mockingly. After all the degrees, all the varied quests for knowledge,

  and these last few years in Starfleet Academy, Peter was, at last, in

  the final stretch. The past two weeks had been one grueling exam after

  another--most of which he'd aced. Just like a real Kirk. He'd had one

  just this morning, and that, too, he'd completed successfully.

  Now there were only two more to go. One tomorrow, and the last a week

  from Friday. Then, three d ays after that, the final. The big one. The

  Kobayashi Maru.

  He realized he was crushing the clean uniform in his hands and put it

  back. Why did he have to think about that now?

  Because you can't ignore it anymore, it's just a few days away. They've

  completely reprogrammed the simulation.

  There's a whole new situation, a whole new setup--and nobody knows

  anything about it. But that hasn't stopped them from taking bets as to

  whether or not you'll be the second Kirk to beat the no-win scenario. He

  rubbed his face tiredly. He had to stop worrying about it. It was just

  another test. Wasn't it?

  The odds are twenty to one against you. Just being a Kirk isn't any

  guarantee of success, mister.

  He shook his head, trying to shed his pessimistic musings.

  The chrono chimed softly, yanking him back to his immediate problem. He

  had to get ready for lunch. He was meeting Surev, a young Vulcan he'd

  befriended while researching Sarek's work. Surev had invited him to have

  a meal at the Vulcan consulate because Sarek might be there, having

  arrived yesterday. Surev was distantly related to Sarek's aide, and

  while he was careful not to make a commitment, the young Vulcan thought

  he might be able to arrange an introduction. Peter was really looking

  forward to shaking hands (or rather, offering the Vulcan salute) to the

  diplomat he so admired. Lunch at the Vulcan consulate would provide a

  welcome respite from the drudgery of studying and finals. Maybe, for

  just an hour, he could forget about that damned Kobayashi Maru.

  That2 what you need to do, just forget about it, Peter decided. Forget

  about the Academy, Uncle Jim, ancient history, the whole thing. Reaching

  into his closet, he grabbed a stylish suit, a piece of "civilian" garb

  he hadn't worn in months. He wanted to seem totally professional in ease

  he was introduced to Sarek. Peter wasn't normally self-conscious about

  being an older cadet, but today he didn't want to risk being prejudged.

  He didn't want to be Peter Kirk, Jim Kirk's nephew who's only now

  graduating Starfleet Academy. He just wanted to be another Terran who

  could discuss some of Sarek's ideas with him knowledgeably.

  Donning the suit quickly, he smiled. The colors made his eyes bluer.

  Hey, who knows? he thought wryly. You can meet a lot of interesting

  people at the Vulcan consulate. I've seen some really nice-looking

  female attachds going in and out ... Of course, that was an area where

  he and Uncle Jim differed. Unlike the elder Kirk, Peter's luck with

  women was less than fabulous. Maybe that's so
mething that comes with

  age.

  As he adjusted the suit so that it hung right, then quickly combed his

  hair, he turned on the vid link to catch a glimpse of the news. Sarek

  might be featured on the noon report.

  Instructing the link to search for any reports about Vulcans, Peter

  tensed when the headline EMBASSY PROTEST flashed on the link.

  As Peter watched, images of San Francisco's Vulcan consulate--his

  current destination--filled the screen.

  "The Vulcan presence on Earth," a fair-haired, attractive female

  reporter said solemnly, "has rarely generated controversy, but the peace

  that normally surrounds this quiet enclave was shattered today as the

  Keep Earth Human League announced their intentions to surround the

  consulate day and night."

  Peter stood transfixed as the view of the front entrance of the stately

  domed building came on-screen. A group of humans were clustered before

  the elegant gates, at least three dozen men and women, more than a few

  holding small children. Some carried traditional placards mounted on

  poles, while the rest brandished the more common holosigns. The image

  focused on one nondescript bearded man who had a holosign hovering over

  him that read, EARTH

  BELONGS TO HUMANS--LET'S KEEP IT THAT WAY! Another sign came into view

  that said, JOIN THE KEEP EARTH HUMAN LEAGUE TODAY!--SAVE EARTH FOR YOUR

  CHILDREN!

  Peter stared in consternation, although this wasn't the first time he'd

  heard of the KEHL. But he'd had no idea that this fringe-lement movement

  had been able to lure in enough members to mount such a large

  demonstration.

  The reporter approached an attractive young woman in a shiny silver coat

  whose holosign read, VULCAS Trunk Tmy'RE

  O SMART--AREN'T YOU SICK OF BEING PATRONIZED? Beside her stood a young

  boy with a hand-lettered sandwich board that simply demanded, VULCANS

  C,O HOME!

  "Excuse me, Lisa Termant," the reporter asked the woman respectfully.

  "You're one of the leaders of the San Francisco branch of KEHL. Tell our

  viewers why your organization is staging this vigil in front of the

  Vulcan consulate."

  "Members of the Keep Earth Human League are Terrans who have finally

  come to their senses," the woman told the journalist earnestly. She was

  of medium height, a little stocky, with dark skin and big black eyes.

  Her features were chiseled and delicate, except for a rather square

  chin, and she moved with confidence, as though she knew exactly what she

  was doing in life and how to go about it.

  "Our president, Induna," the demonstrator continued,

  "has called for a show of our support, so we have assembled." She

  indicated a tall, very dark-skinned man, probably African, who was

  standing near the consulate gates, lecturing to the crowd. "Vulcans are

  trying to take over our Federation, and make humans into second-class

  citizens," Termant continued. "We won't stand for it any longer!"

  "But, Ms. Tennant," the journalist continued reasonably,

  "most Terrans consider Vulcans our loyal friends, our closest allies.

  Many of Earth's politicians have been quoted as saying that we need

  them, that they're the most civilized people in the galaxy."

  "I doubt seriously," the woman retorted coolly, "that we need friends

  the likes of Lieutenant Valeris. It's clear to us that she was the

  ringleader of the terrible plot against Earth, that she was working for

  the renegade Klingon general, Chang."

  Peter shook his head. The Romulan ambassador, Nanclus, and the two

  Starfleet officers, Admiral Cartwright and Colonel West, had also

  conspired with General Chang to assassinate the Klingon chancellor,

  Gorkon. Uncle Jim and his medical officer, Leonard McCoy, had been

  falsely accused and convicted of the crime, then sentenced to hard labor

  on the prison planet, Rura Penthe. It was strange, Peter thought, that,

  although the crime had only happened a month or so ago, the public's

  memory of those events appeared to be altering. Lately, even the media

  had a tendency to downplay the roles played by the humans and the

  Romulan, making it seem that General Chang and Lieutenant Valeris were

  solely responsible.

  "Lieutenant Valeris," the KEHL leader continued, "is merely an example

  of the kind of subtle espionage Vulcans have been guilty of for years.

  But now the KEHL is on to them. There are chapters of the KEHL springing

  up all over--even on some of the Terran colonies. And we know exactly

  what we're dealing with!"

  "What do you mean?" the journalist pressed.

  "Everyone knows," Termant elaborated, "that Vulcans are telepaths.

  Lately, it's becoming increasingly obvious that they're using their

  abilities to influence minds, and make susceptible humans do things

  against their own kind!

  Those politicians that are so quick to defend Vulcans are, no doubt,

  their unwitting victims. After all, everyone knows how easy it is to

  influence a politician's mind!"

  Hard to argue with that, Peter admitted grudgingly. But the notion that

  Vulcans would use their telepathy in such an unethical way outraged him.

  "The Keep Earth Human League is gaining new members every day," Termant

  told the reporter smugly. "We are funding our own candidates to run in

  local elections, people who are not so easily influenced. It's only a

  matter of time before the Vulcan conspiracy is completely exposed. Our

  vigil here is to let them know their days on Earth are numberedt"

  The woman's self-assurance shocked Peter. She didn't have that wild-eyed

  look of lunacy he usually associated with the off-kilter KEHL.

  An old woman suddenly stepped in front of the reporter, demanding the

  journalist's attention. "Vulcans are the spawn of the devil," she hissed

  viciously. "Satan marked 'em as his own, anyone can see that. Don't you

  have eyes, woman?"

  Now, that had to be a founding member, Peter thought.

  He realized his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. Didn't these people

  realize how crazy they sounded? What was wrong with them?

  The crowd rallied around the Tennant woman. "Keep Earth Hu-man! Keep

  Earth Hu-man!" they chanted. Angrily, Peter slapped the vid off switch.

  Why did those nuts have to picket the consulate today, when Sarek would

  be there?

  Good thing the Federation provided security to all off-world embassies

  and consulates. He felt confident that Security had the situation well

  under control. Yet, even though the vid link was now silent, Peter

  imagined that he could still hear that hate-filled mantra.

  As the cadet left his room to head for the consulate, he found himself

  mulling over the news report. The KEHL had been around for centuries,

  ever since Zefram Cochrane invented the warp drive, and humans made it

  into space and met the Vulcans for the first time. It was nothing more

  than a small group of hard-line xenophobes. But lately, the KEHL was

  another story altogether. He wondered if Starfleet Security was mounting

  an investigation of their recent activities. If the KEHL kept gamering

  members and publicity
at the same rate in the coming months, they could

  turn out to be a real problem.

  Peter moved quickly out of his apartment and onto the streets that

  surrounded the Academy. If he hustled, he could still arrive in time to

  meet Surev.

  As young Kirk turned the corner to approach the familiar consulate, he

  was shocked to find that the crowd of protesters he 'd watched on the

  noon report had grown even larger.

  While some of the people massing around the curving, neutral-colored

  compound must have been simply curious onlookers, there were now so many

  holosigns that the floating messages were blending all together into a

  huge mass of gibberish.

  Peter slowed as he neared the gates, watching the Starfleet Security

  forces as they worked to keep the crowd from getting too close to the

  entrance. Was the mob actually going to rush the gates? Near the

  sculptured metal portal Peter spied Surev, but the Vulcan wasn't looking

  toward him, so he didn't bother to wave. Surev's attention was turned in

  the opposite direction, and Peter peered to see what he was looking at.

  He squinted. Was that ... could that possibly be ... Sarek himself?.

  Peter realized it was the ambassador himself standing safely behind the

  gates, with his aide, Soran. Surev had arranged it! He was actually

  about to meet Sarek!

  As Peter tried to skirt the fringes of the throng, a tall figure pushed

  his way through the opening crowd. Peter recognized the president of the

  KEHL.

  Now Sarek and the KEHL president were face-to-face.