Star Trek - Sarek
Page 44
"It has been several months," Sarek admitted. "Since before ... before
your mother's illness was diagnosed." Sarek heard his son's indrawn
breath, sensed his apprehension.
It echoed his own. All the commander had to do was stay out of range,
and use his greater reach and faster reflexes to cut Sarek several times
... and it would be all over. Even one cut, the ambassador reflected,
would eventually slow him down ... and, as the minutes went by, and the
poison permeated his system, Sarek would grow dizzy and drop his guard,
thus becoming an easy target.
When he saw Taryn walking toward the improvised challenge square, Sarek
quickly rose to his feet. As was traditional, both combatants were clad
only in short, loose trousers, so that most of their bodies would be
bare--and thus more vulnerable to the poisoned blades.
Accompanied by Spock, Sarek walked to meet his opponent.
The centurion Taryn had addressed as Poldar--another of the transplanted
Vulcans--stood impassively awaiting them in the center of the combat
square. In his arms rested a carved display case, and within it, in
recessed niches, the two senapas. When he reached the middle of the
square, Taryn, with a mocking salute, indicated that the ambassador
should take the first choice of weapons.
Sarek studied the two senapas. They appeared identical; a cur ved,
half-moon blade, wickedly sharp, with a handgrip and a padded rest for
the knuckles, so they would not touch the blade. Sarek selected the
weapon nearest him, grasped it, then stepped back, waiting while Taryn
took the other. He hefted the senapa ... it had been a long time since
he'd practiced with one. It was, of course, a slashing weapon rather
than a stabbing one.
Poldar motioned the two seconds, Spock and Savel, to back away from the
square. Sarek took a deep breath, trying to loosen his muscles. He
rolled his weight onto the balls of his feet, and assumed a balanced
stance, right foot slightly ahead of the left.
"Begin," said Poldar, and Sarek was surprised to hear the centurion say
the word in Vulcan. He glanced at the young Vulcan--and that nearly
proved his undoing, for Taryn, moving with the silent deadliness of a
le-matya, sprang forward. Only his son's reflexive gasp made the Vulcan
leap backward, and he avoided Taryn's blade by centimeters.
Backing away cautiously, keeping one eye out for the boundary lines of
the combat square (for to step over one was to lose automatically and
face execution), Sarek was careful to stay near the middle of the
marked-off enclosure.
A square enclosure was far more dangerous than a circular one--a
combatant could be trapped in a corner, and it was a rare fighter indeed
who could fight his way out of that situation and remain unscathed.
The Vulcan tried a few experimental swipes with his senapa, getting the
feel of the weapon. At one time, Sarek had been able to flip the senapa
in the air and catch it by the handle with either hand--but that was
over a hundred years ago.
Taryn had evidently been sizing his opponent up, for he came in again,
low and fast, feinting to the right, then slashing quickly left. Again
Sarek managed to dodge and twist, avoiding the blade by a hairbreadth.
But the effort left him short of breath ... and Taryn, seeing that,
smiled.
The ambassador continued his slow circle in the center of the enclosure,
watching for an opening. "Step over the line, old one," Taryn said,
mockingly. "Make it easy on yourself."
"Did no one ever teach you that insulting your opponent is the mark of a
coward and a bully?" Sarek asked, keeping his voice maddeningly calm.
Taryn's face twisted with anger, and he lunged again at Sarek. The
ambassador sidestepped, his foot lashing out, tripping Taryn, even as he
brought his unweaponed fist down on the back of his opponent's neck.
With a grunt, Taryn fell forward, but he had been well trained--the
commander turned the fall into a roll, and was back on his feet before
Sarek could take advantage. Taryn eyed his opponent warily, and the
smug, overconfident expression in his eyes had now altered to a look of
respect.
Sarek began planning his next strategy--until he saw Taryn's eyes widen,
and then gleam excitedly. At the same moment, he felt a faint, stinging
burn along his left side, over his ribs. Looking down, he saw the thin
line of green. A tiny slash--but, over time, it would be enough. The
ambassador's breath hissed between his teeth. Deliberately he began
circling again, hoping that Taryn would be content not to close with him
for the moment.
Centering himself, the Vulcan reached inward with his sense of his
physical self. Like all Vulcans, he'd been trained in bioeontrol and
biofeedback. The poison ... yes, it was spreading outward from the
little wound. Just a tiny
amount, but it would make him sluggish, and, eventually, disable him.
Concentrating fiercely, the ambassador managed to slow down his
circulation, stemming the spread of the poison. It was all he could do
...
Tired of waiting for Sarek to succumb to the poison, Taryn attacked
again, lashing out in a hard, flat arc that would have slashed the
Vulcan's throat had he not ducked under it. Sarek came in close, his
elbow up and out, and it struck the commander hard, not in the throat as
he'd planned, but on the side of his jaw. Taryn grunted and staggered
back, but when Sarek attempted to follow his advantage, the commander
kicked him hard in the left patella.
Pain seared through Sarek's leg, and it nearly buckled beneath him.
Somehow, the Vulcan managed to stay on his feet, but he was gasping
painfully. Fire shot through his veins, and for a moment he couldn't
decide whether it was from the poison, or lack of air. Blackness hovered
at the edge of his vision, but several deep, gasping breaths forced it
to retreat.
"You are better than I expected, Ambassador," Taryn said. Sarek was too
winded to be gratified by the sweat that shone on the commander's face
and chest. "But you are in no condition for this and you know it. Step
out, and I guarantee you a quick, clean death with honor. Why prolong
this?"
I must end this soon, Sarek thought. Then a possible strategy occurred
to him, and he began shuffling toward the commander, feigning (he did
not have to playact much, actually) weakness along his entire left side.
Right-handed as usual, Sarek aimed an awkward, underhand slash at
Taryn's shoulder. The commander, as he'd planned, leaped to Sarek's
left, closing in for the kill. Sarek pivoted away from the other's
blade, and then with every ounce of control he could muster, the
ambassador flipped the senapa into the air--
and caught it left-handed.
Taryn was still leaning into his swing, unaware that his
entire side was now a target. With a flick of his left wrist, Sarek
slashed him lightly, along the ribs, once ... and then again.
Two slashes. Enough poison to disable even a strong opponent in a matter
of m
inutes. Dimly, Sarek heard Savel's anguished gasp. Quickly, he
disengaged, stepping back, still careful not to step into one of the
comers.
Feeling the sting along his ribs, Taryn checked, then stared down at
himself incredulously. Slowly, he looked back up at the weapon Sarek
still held left-handed. The commander chuckled faintly, hollowly.
"Better and ... better ... old one." He was beginning to gasp. "Very
well, then ... finish me. Go ... ahead."
"I have no desire to kill an old friend," Sarek said. "Let us declare
the challenge at an end. All I want are the Vulcan youths."
"You think ... I wish ... them harm?" Taryn's breath came hard, now,
and it was painful to hear. "No ... I never ...
"I did not think you wished them harm," Sarek was quick to say. "Let us
stop this now, Taryn. With a doctor's help, it is possible we both can
survive. I ask you ... as a friend ..."
"Please, Vadi!" Savel cried out, unable to restrain herself.
"No!" Taryn roared, and lunged forward, slashing wildly.
Sarek parried with his own senapa, and the brittle blades rang against
each other--and shattered. Taryn gasped, his eyes rolled up in his head,
and he fell.
Sarek stood staring at him, his eyes widening in distress as he saw the
small streak of green crawl across the commander's knuckle. Three
slashes ... fatal, in all likelihood.
"Where is your physician?" the ambassador demanded, dropping down beside
the commander's still form. "Bring the physician immediately!"
"No ... forbid it ..." Taryn mumbled, his eyes closed.
"Poldar ... take command ... do whatever you must to honor the outcome
... of the challenge ..."
"I will, Commander," the young centurion promised, bending over his
dying officer.
"He might be saved!" Sarek insisted, touching Taryn's forehead, feeling
the life throbbing within his body and his mind--though it was ebbing
fast. "Bring the doctor!"
Poldar steadfastly shook his head. Even when Savel added her voice to
the ambassador's, the young centurion stood firm, obviously determined
to honor Taryn's last orders.
In a final effort to save the commander, Sarek slid both hands around
Taryn's head, instinctively finding the correct points. "Make them bring
a doctor," he ordered Savel and Spock, who was crouched beside him, and
then he sent his mind into the commander's, melding with him, lending
him strength, keeping him alive--at the risk of his own life.
The meld deepened as Sarek poured more mental energy into the dying
commander. He and Taryn shared each other's minds, each other's lives.
In vivid flashes, the ambassador relived events from Taryn's past. The
births of his children. His wedding. His promotions. Their chess games.
Political allies, and deadly enemies ...
But all the while the other Vulcan's mind was growing weaker, weaker,
forcing the ambassador to pour more and more of his own strength into
this last, desperate effort.
Sarek deepened the meld, and felt himself going back, back in time, to
Taryn's youth ... then his childhood. Back all the way to his earliest
memory--one that, even in his dying, weakened condition, filled the
commander's mind with horror and revulsion ... Taryn remembered ...
and Sarek shared that memory, for they were One.
Sarek was Taryn, only his name was different--Sarenw and he was four
years old, aboard his parents' small trading vessel. All the Vulcans in
that sector knew that ships were disappearing ... piracy and hijackings
were assumed to be the cause. Orion slavers roamed the spaceways, and
the tales of rape, pillage, murder, and enslavement were rampant--and
horrifying.
So when their small freighter was suddenly seized in a tractor beam, and
a huge, unknown ship loomed over them, seemingly materializing out of
nowhere, Taryn's parents had made a decision that seemed right to them.
In whispers, his father and mother had decided that they would fight, to
the death if necessary, rather than allow themselves to be taken captive
and probably enslaved. If they were not killed in the fight, they
resolved to link their minds, and use their training in biocontrol to
stop each other's hearts. After long minutes of discussion, they decided
that they must include Taryn in their link ... they did not want their
son to suffer, and growing up as a slave seemed to them worse than not
living to grow up at all.
"Saren ..." said Mother, holding out her hand to her child, who stood
wide-eyed and trembling in the doorway to the tiny control room. "Come
here. Give me your hand."
"Yes, Saren," echoed Father, reaching out for his son.
"Come here. Take our hands." Instinctively, Taryn knew that if he did as
they bade, he would come to harm. Trembling, he shook his head
word-lessly.
"Come now, Saren," said Father impatiently. "You are letting your
emotions rule. We are Vulcans ... fear has no part in our lives. Do you
wish to be a coward?"
"No ..." little Taryn whimpered, tears beginning to trickle down his
face. He hadn't cried since he was a baby, and he was profoundly ashamed
of himself. He was a Vulcan, and Vulcans didn't cry! Or let themselves
be afraid.
But he couldn't help it.
"Saren, my son." Father's voice was stern. "Come here-- now!" The little
ship shuddered as something clamped on to their airlock. Mother cried
out that they must hurry--hurry!
Both Vulcans removed weapons from a locker.
Old-style stunners ... little defense against phasers or dis-rupters.
"Saren!" Father commanded, coming toward him. "Give me your hand!" The
child's remaining control snapped, and he shrieked aloud, "No! I'm
afraid!" Sobbing with terror, Taryn turned and bolted out of the control
room. It was only after he'd reached the airlock door, and it had begun
its ominous turn the moment he'd touched it, that the child's terror of
the unknown had overcome his fear of his parents, and what they'd
decided they must do.
As the invaders pushed their way into the ship, weapons drawn, Taryn had
bolted back up the corridor. He'd flung himself inside, and was
immediately struck by the stun beam. Helpless, he'd lain there,
unmoving' forced to watch as the invaders in their uniforms had burned
down the door, shot his father with a disrupter, vaporizing him
immediately, and then turned their attentions to his mother. As they'd
reached for her, she'd stiffened suddenly, her eyes glazing, then
crumpled in their arms, dead.
Sarek understood so much now about the commander why he'd issued the
challenge, why he could not abide the charge of cowardice or fear.
The ambassador knew that the commander had locked those memories away,
repressed them until they haunted him only in dreams. You were only a
child, he told the stricken commander. ,,l small child. You are not
responsible for what happened. You could not have changed it. Know this,
and let the pain go ... let it go ... Sarek sensed Taryn's
understanding, sensed that the commander was f
inally released from the
terror and guilt of that time--but his new understanding would do him
little good, because, despite his best efforts, the Freelan was slipping
away. Sarek clung to the meld with stubborn, dangerous persistence,
clung even when he felt the change, the dissolving sensation seize his
body.
Death? he wondered, dimly. Is this death?
But moments later, he recognized the sensation for what it was--he was
caught in a transporter beam.
James T. Kirk stood in the transporter room, watching Dr. McCoy and his
medical team struggle to stabilize the dying Romulan. "Tri-ox!" the
doctor shouted, and a nurse slapped a hypo into his hand.
Sarek was crouched beside the Romulan, both hands
pressed to his head, clearly melding with him--but, even as Kirk
watched, the ambassador, who was clad only in his undergarments,
suddenly slumped over onto the pad.
"They are suffering from senapa poisoning, Doctor," Spock said, his
voice incongruously calm in the organized melee of the medical team. "It
may be possible to reproduce the antidote." Grabbing a stylus from a
technician, he scribbled a chemical formula and diagram. "This is it."
McCoy quickly pushed the formula at a tech, and the man hurried out to
get it replicated. "What else do you know about how to treat this?" he
grunted, giving Sarek a tri-ox hypo also. "It sure as hell messes up the
blood's ability to carry oxygen!"
"The ancient text mentioned treating it by blood filtration and