Star Trek - Sarek

by A. C. Crispin

  She faced him, holding his gaze with her own intense one.

  "Do you know anything about Vulcan history?"

  "A little," Peter said cautiously.

  "Let me show you something." She walked back to the computer terminal

  and selected a computer tape, then plugged it in.

  As Peter seated himself in front of the screen, images coalesced in

  front of him. The predominant one was an image of the Plains of Gol, a

  scene familiar to anyone who watched popular media entertainment.

  Splashed across the desolate scene were the words The True History of

  Vulcan.

  He groaned inwardly. Propaganda films were not among his personal

  favorites.

  "Are you aware that the Vulcans fought major wars on their planet

  several thousand years ago?" Lisa asked, as the film moved forward,

  illustrating her question with vivid, computer-generated film sequences

  that seemed shockingly real. "Wars that make Earth's World Wars and the

  Eugenics War look like skirmishes by comparison?"

  "I think I remember reading something to that effect," he mumbled.

  "Well," Lisa leaned forward and murmured confidentially,

  "they still have the weapons from those wars, stockpiled in secret

  installations. Weapons that could turn Earth into a smoking cinder in a

  matter of minutes."

  As the images on the film confirmed her wild allegations, Peter's mouth

  dropped open, and he didn't have to feign astonishment. Where in hell

  did she get that idea? They had to have faked these images! Vulcan has

  no weapons except defensive ones--and hasn't for four thousand years!

  "You're kidding!" he managed, feebly. "Where did you find out about

  that?"

  She shook her head. "Everyone in the KEHL knows.

  We can't ge t the Terran government to admit it, but it's true."

  "Wow," was all Peter could say. "That's hard to believe."

  "You think that's bad, you haven't heard anything, yet," Lisa said. She

  touched the computer controls and changed the scene from massive

  stockpiles of terrifying weapons to another, more fantastic landscape.

  There was a towering cathedral-like edifice in a searing desert. Inside

  were cavernous, smoky, dimly lit rooms packed with peculiar, glowing

  orbs, pulsating as if with a mysterious force.

  "The Vulcans are in control of ancient Vulcan ... personalities, I guess

  you'd call them," Lisa said. "Spirits

  without bodies. They're called katras, and they have hundreds of

  thousands of them stored up, just waiting to turn them loose to possess

  the people on Earth. Unless we can stop them, they'll conquer us without

  a shot being fired!"

  This last was almost too much for Peter. He knew he had to cajole her

  along, try to learn more, but all he wanted was to escape listening to

  such noxious paranoid fantasies.

  "But don't worry," she consoled him, misinterpreting his expression. She

  placed a warm hand on his arm. "We're on to them now. And our membership

  is growing, bringing in new committed people--people like yourself. Our

  voices will be heard." When he didn't respond, she asked, "What made you

  join up?"

  "Self-preservation," he said, letting her take it any way she wanted to.

  "But I ... had no idea ... things were so bad ... "Her bizarre

  accusations merely gave him more incentive to accomplish the task he'd

  come here to do.

  "Lisa, you told me you needed my help in a special task.

  Something about a Vulcan conspiracy ... ?"

  She nodded. "Boy, you're inexhaustible! I wasn't going to bring it up

  tonight, but ..." She glanced through a number of tapes then pulled one

  up. "We've found information that's coming straight out of the Vulcan

  consulate that will shatter this whole holier-than-thou sham the Vulcans

  have set up. This information will prove that Vulcans are using their

  telepathy to influence powerful members of the Federation--perhaps even

  the president himselfl"

  Peter's eyes locked on the small tape. In his pocket sat blank

  cassettes, enough memory to copy anything he should find of value here,

  but so far, nothing seemed significant.

  "How can I help with that?"

  "Needless to say, this information was very difficult to come by," she

  told him. "A lot of it has been lost in the transference--special codes,

  significant schedules. Since you're a data-retrieval technician, I

  thought ..."

  He nodded. "Sure! I'd be glad to help. I can take it to work tomorrow

  and ..."

  She shook her head. "Oh no, this can't possibly leave here.

  In fact, Jay's not real happy with my even letting you see it.

  But ... for some reason ... I can't help but trust you, Peter Church."

  Lisa leaned forward almost imperceptibly, at the same time Peter felt

  his own body drawn toward her. When their lips met, his face flamed with

  embarrassment that his body had so little regard for his own internal

  ethics.

  "I'll ... be happy to work on it here," he said huskily, when they drew

  apart. "I can probably ... tap into my workstation ... use my fries at

  work to decode some of the lost material."

  She nodded. "That would be great." And kissed him again.

  They both jumped when they heard the door behind them whoosh open. Jay

  stood there, frowning disapprovingly.

  Lisa moved away from Peter self-consciously. "I ... didn't think you'd

  be back so early," she stammered.

  Jay didn't respond, merely glanced at Peter and said to the woman

  neutrally, "Can I see you in my office a moment?

  Something's come up."

  "Is it Induna?" she asked worriedly, standing. They'd found out that the

  president of KEHL had survived Sarek's "assault," but had been

  hospitalized (at his own insistence, Peter knew). "Is he all right?"

  "Let's ... talk in my office," Jay reiterated, nodding his head in that

  direction.

  "Wait for me," Lisa said to Peter, "and I'll show you the problem with

  those files."

  He nodded and watched her walk toward Jay's office with the other man.

  The moment they were both out of sight and earshot, Peter snatched up

  the "conspiracy" tape and plugged it in. Grabbing one of his empty ones,

  he downloaded the whole thing, sight unseen. After copying the secret

  cassette, he copied the extensive KEHL membership lists, and the

  propaganda films as well. He had just finished copying the annual

  agenda, and sliding his tapes back in his pocket, when Lisa came back

  into her office. Jay was not with her. Peter stood to greet her.

  "Everything all right?" he asked. "Is Induna okay?"

  Lisa nodded, smiling warmly. She slid her arms around him and he

  returned the embrace. "Jay is such an alarmist!

  Induna's out of the hospital, and will be back here tomorrow."

  "Great! Why don't we get started on those Vulcan files?"

  She pulled him closer and murmured, "Is work all you think of, Mr.

  Church?"

  He swallowed, unsure of how far he could take this charade. "Well ...

  this would be the best time for me to access my workstation ... "There

  wouldn't be many students in the Academy library at this time. He hadn't

&nbs
p; quite figured out how he was going to log on without revealing who he

  "worked" for ... or his real name.

  "Tomorrow will be soon enough," she assured him, and reached up for

  another kiss.

  He obliged her, realizing uneasily that his body was responding to her,

  even if his mind wasn't. Hastily, he raised his head, staring down at

  her. "Okay. Tomorrow. It is late.

  I'd better go."

  "See you tomorrow, then," she agreed, and released him, smiling warmly

  as he let himself out of the basement.

  With a twinge of regret, he thought, Not bloody likely. In spite of the

  late hour, he made a beeline for the Starfleet Security offices on the

  Academy's campus. Those offices were staffed all night. Someone would be

  there that would be interested in his story. And then he'd never have to

  go back to that basement again, never have to war within himself over

  Lisa's feminine charms and her absurd, even dangerous politics. One

  thing was for sure--no matter how many mixed feelings he might have

  about taking the Command track at school, he was now certain that he had

  no interest in working in Intelligence!

  Twilight on Vulcan.

  Sarek stood alone on his terrace, watching T'Rukh at full phase. The

  ambassador had returned from Freelan the previous night, and the day had

  been taken up with visits to the meal center and consultations with his

  wife's physician.

  Now, gazing at the full, bloated sphere, Sarek reached out and grasped

  the stone balustrade so tightly that his knuckles shone greenish white

  in the eerie glow of The Watcher.

  Silently, the ambassador struggled for calm.

  As he watched The Watcher, the gigantic world seemed to loom even

  closer, as though it were about to topple out of the sky and crush him.

  The chilling breeze stirred his thick, iron-gray hair, as refreshing as

  the touch of a cool, human hand on his brow. Sarek swallowed, feeling

  dull pain in his midsection. Surely he was not ill ... A quick

  assessment of his physical condition assured the ambassador that he was

  physically healthy ... the pain he was experiencing had no physical

  cause.

  Sarek leaned heavily on the railing, experiencing again that rush of

  vertigo at the thought of Amanda. Amanda was with him now, for the

  moment, but soon, the Healer said, she would not be here anymore.

  Because Amanda ... Amanda was dying.

  Dying. His wife was gravely ill, and, even though they were attempting

  to treat her condition, T'Mal held out little hope of recovery.

  Dying ... Amanda. Dying. So the Healer said--and one glance at his

  wife's face yesterday had convinced him.

  Sarek stared blindly at The Watcher, thinking of all the times he had

  stood here, during many of the epochs of his life.

  How many times had he stood thus? Absently, the ambassador retrieved the

  number. He had not seen the giant world until he was an adult, when he

  had built his villa here. Also, he had spent much of his working life

  off-world. Still, Vulcan's days were shorter than Terran days, and Sarek

  was 138 Federation Standard years old. 122,474 times. 122,474 times ...

  The ambassador had watched T'Rukh the night that his firstborn had been

  declared outcast and departed his homeworld, and known within himself

  that he would probably never see Sybok again. Nor had he.

  He'd watched T'Rukh during the early hours of his second pon farr,

  experiencing the heat of desire, concerned that human flesh and bone

  might not withstand the flames consuming him. But human flesh and bone

  had proved more resilient than he had thought. During that night, his

  secondborn had been conceived.

  The ambassador had watched T'Rukh the night that Amanda had delivered

  their son, and again when Spock had announced that he had passed the

  entrance requirements for Starfleet Academy, and was forsaking the

  Vulcan Science Academy to go off-world. Memories of that "discussion"

  still had the power to make the ambassador's jaw muscles tighten.

  T'Rukh's light had illuminated his son's tall form as he'd walked away

  without looking back. His father had thought never to see him again,

  either. But that time he had been in error, and never had he been more

  pleased to be mistaken.

  Sarek drew deep, slow breaths of the cool air as he let his

  consciousness sink down, deep inside himself, seeking that place of

  quiet repose that every Vulcan was taught in childhood to retreat to

  during times of trouble.

  He could not find the place. Calm acceptance continued to elude him.

  With a sigh that was almost a moan, Sarek sagged against the railing,

  raising both fists to press them against his temples in a gesture he

  would never have permitted himself had he not been alone. Every mus cle

  in his body was taut; his indrawn breath hurt his lungs.

  Logic ... his logic was gone, the core of his mental balance was

  gonemand in its place was pain ... and fear.

  And grief. Sorrow filled him, until he felt that he could hold no more.

  There was no quiet center that would release him from his pain, this

  fear, this grief. How could he stand it, if he could not find his

  center? How did humans manage, with no silent retreat or sanctuary to

  shield them from the constant onslaught of emotion--how could they stand

  this?

  No wonder some of them broke with reality, retreating into insanity

  because they could not deal with their pain, their fear, their grief.

  Sarek stared at T'Rukh unseeing, unblinking, until his eyes began to

  burn. The physical pain distracted him, and he found a brief respite in

  it.

  Sarek ... The call resounded softly within his mind. Sarek ...

  Immediately the ambassador turned and left the balcony.

  He strode swiftly through the living room, down the short hall; then he

  hesitated before the carven portal. The call came again. Sarek ...

  Quickly he sent back a wordless reassurance, a sense of his proximity

  and imminent arrival. Then, drawing a deep breath, the Vulcan put out a

  hand and rested it against the carven portal, seeking strength from its

  solidity, its age.

  Letting the breath out slowly, he summoned calm, seeking at least

  outwardly--control. When he was certain that his features betrayed

  nothing of his inner turmoil, he straightened. Squaring his shoulders,

  he pushed the door open and stepped into the room he had shared with his

  wife for more than sixty Earth years.

  The chill of the air-conditioning struck him immediately.

  Amanda's physician had insisted, over her protests, that she must not

  tax her remaining strength by enduring her adopted world's notorious

  heat. Cold air blasted against his face, driven constantly so a pressure

  lock would not be necessary.

  The ambassador's gaze rested first on the bed, but it was empty, the

  light, silver-blue coverlet Amanda had woven decades ago thrown back.

  Even as he turned toward the small sitting room that looked out over the

  rear garden, he sensed her presence, waiting for him.

  Quickly, Sarek strode through the bedroom and into the adjoining sitting

>   room. Amanda occupied her favorite chair as she gazed out the window at

  her garden, her pale skin seeming doubly unearthly in T'Rukh's light.

  She sat quietly, not turning her head. During the past days she had lost

  even more weight ... now she seemed little more than a wraith. Only

  Sarek's iron control kept him from betraying his distress at her

  appearance.

  Sarek ... Her mental "voice" filled his mind. "Amanda," he said,

  allowing just a touch of reproach to shade his voice, "you were supposed

  to rest for the remainder of the day. The Healer emphasized your need

  for rest. Logic demands that you heed her advice." When he reached her

  side and stood looking down at her, only her smile was unchanged ...

  gentle, full of affection.

  "I'm tired of resting," she said, holding up two fingers toward her

  husband. "And you know how I love to watch The Watcher shine on the

  garden at night."

  "I know," Sarek replied, touching her fingers with his own.

  "Is it pleasant out tonight?" she asked, a hint of wistful eagerness

  tingeing her soft voice.

  "Yes, it is," Sarek replied. "However, to answer the unspoken corollary

  to your query, no, it is not cool enough for you to go outside, my wife.

  The Healer's directions were quite specific on that point. Logic

  dictates that you must husband your strength ... and the heat depletes