Vulcan’s Soul Book II - Exiles

by Josepha Sherman

  “All personnel have withdrawn to safety.”

  “Prepare for takeoff.” The pilot bent over the controls. The great hatch opened to space. A few stray canisters that had not been lashed down were sucked out into the dark.

  “I require access to communications,” said T’Partha as the great hatch opened.

  True to her word, she would not betray the lady’s name to males not related to her.

  Karatek settled back in his chair as the shuttle left the Shavokh and set course for the nearest of the ships. He glanced out the viewport. The ships had drawn together in a formation like a spearhead. The gods grant they would hit their target.

  It was the Fifth of Tasmeen. Karatek had much to remember—and much more to survive before he would be allowed to rest.

  Two

  Now

  EARTH STARDATE 54103.7

  Ambassador Spock stood with hands behind his back, looking calmly over the room in the Palais de la Concorde in Paris. It was large, rectangular, and soothingly, simply furnished in warm reddish wood paneling and deep blue carpeting. The curtains that half covered the tall windows were a slightly lighter blue—Federation blue, the color was officially named. It was the same shade of blue as the beautifully enameled Federation logo on the far wall. The seat of the Federation government, with the Federation Council chambers on the first floor and the president’s office on the top, this building was constructed on the site of the signing of the Traité d’Unification that united Earth’s governments into one in the twenty-second century. This was one of the larger meeting rooms in the building’s middle floors. The room’s main furnishing was one long, rectangular table of the same reddish wood as the paneling, with terminals placed in front of every seat.

  It was a room that had been deliberately designed to seem tranquil to many species, but, Spock thought, it certainly wasn’t doing its job just now. The restlessly milling crowd of Federation dignitaries—human, Bolian, Zanri, and others—were definitely not interested in anything soothing. Nor were any of them anything even remotely approaching calm.

  The reason for their impatience was that the whole purpose of this meeting that had brought them here from so many different worlds concerned one non-Federation species, one that was unaccountably missing.

  There were no Romulans present.

  Ambassador Dara Mellon, who, Spock mused, had the ill fortune to be the head of this particular mission, brushed back a stray wisp of her pure white hair, which was caught up in an elegant corona of braids. She gave Spock one of her charming political smiles, the sort that involved her mouth only. Her clear blue eyes remained, as ever, coolly calculating, almost as unreadable in their deceptive clarity as the eyes of a Vulcan.

  “Ambassador Spock, you know the Romulans far better than any of us.” Her tone was almost sweet. “Do you believe that they’ll show?”

  Since her career had been in diplomacy almost from the start, Ambassador Mellon had seen many more ambassadorial missions than he. But one of the reasons for her success was her ability to accept that others might know more about specific subjects.

  “They have no logical reason not to appear,” he replied without hesitation.

  She sighed. “Then they are deliberately keeping us waiting.”

  “That does seem likely.”

  “How childish of them.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “Such stalling is, we both know, hardly a new tactic, and one that is used not only by the Romulans.”

  “That is true,” Mellon said flatly. “Ah well, you will excuse me, Ambassador Spock. I must speak with Dr. Ikata.”

  He dipped his head slightly in courtesy. “Of course.”

  Self-control might be Ambassador Mellon’s forte, Spock thought, watching her walk away, but impatience is definitely a general Federation trait, regardless of species. Any successful diplomat or ambassador soon became far too well acquainted with the wide application of that ancient military rule, “Hurry up and wait.” But that didn’t mean that they had to like it.

  No one seemed about to do anything as calming as sit down. Instead, they continued to mill around the large, rectangular table, little groups of two and three forming and breaking up again.

  This agitated behavior is hardly likely to inspire the Romulans to arrive any sooner, Spock thought. Far easier for them all to accept what cannot be changed and simply relax.

  By now, of course, he was thoroughly familiar with the ways of many Federation species, including the more emotional ones. But the not-quite-suppressed wave of this group’s concerted uneasiness was beginning to be more than a touch…disconcerting. Comfortable enough in his dark, heavy ambassadorial robes despite what was to a Vulcan a rather chilly room, he moved away from the others to stand alone by one of the large windows, quietly enjoying the view since he could hardly slip into full meditation here and now.

  The curtains had been drawn back enough to let in the clear Parisian light of an early winter morning, and sunlight glanced brightly off the windows of buildings on the far side of the Champs-Elysées, sparking Spock’s insignia and House sigils into small rainbows. There was no snow yet, and the street two stories below where he stood was crowded with a mix of busy officials and eager shoppers.

  The vista was quite agreeable. Paris was as much a city of the past as it was of the future, and structures that had stood for a thousand years were crowded in between ultramodern buildings constructed since the end of the Dominion War one year, two months, and seven days earlier. Just barely visible in the far distance were the tops of the structures of the Paris Spaceport, and the sun turned one thin contrail into bright silver. The complex was also known, Spock thought, by a form of its ancient name, the Paris Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport and Spaceport.

  Tradition is important here, he thought, understanding.

  Closer, Spock could see the now charmingly archaic structure of the five-hundred-year-old Tour Eiffel, the Eiffel Tower that, he’d learned, few people had liked when it was built back in the nineteenth century.

  Change is a constant. A fact that our sundered cousins do not always accept.

  But his hopes for unification rested on what would happen in this room.

  “Well, Spock, what do you think?” a voice asked suddenly, bringing him abruptly back to the present. “Is anything positive actually going to come out of this meeting?”

  Spock raised an eyebrow once again, recognizing the man without having to turn. Dr. Eric Nagata, a short, stocky, and earnest human, was an excellent diplomat in his own way, but he lacked patience, and his brusque manner could be quite disconcerting to a Vulcan.

  I believe it was a human, Will Rogers, who might have described his technique: “Diplomacy is the art of saying ‘Nice doggie!’ until you can find a rock.”

  “Extrapolation without sufficient data is illogical, Dr. Nagata, as we both know. However, it would also be illogical for the Romulans to have come as far as Earth for no purpose.”

  “Well, yes, there is that, of course. But it’s been two months of this cursed stalemate, two months without any progress,” Nagata insisted. “Oh, other than agreeing on a proper tariff on Romulan ale,” he added wryly.

  “It has been one month, twenty-nine days, and 8.25 standard Earth hours, to be precise,” Spock corrected gravely. Not quite two months since the encounter with the Watraii. And, he added with a sharp little pang of sorrow, the death of Pavel Chekov. But nothing of what he was feeling showed on his face or in his stance. Spock merely continued calmly, “That is, you must surely admit, not a very long span of time, especially when compared to the centuries of noncommunication. It should not be surprising to anyone that Federation–Romulan relations have not yet advanced very much.”

  Even, he thought, with all of what these people might call my “behind-the-scenes” work.

  “Good point,” Nagata conceded with a wry grin. “Sorry. We humans just can’t be as patient as you Vulcans.”

  “Patience is not only a Vulcan trait
. And at any rate,” Spock added, turning from the window at the sound of the doors opening, “there is no need to wait any longer.”

  “Uh-oh,” Nagata muttered, tensing. “Here we go.”

  Into the chamber stalked—there was no other word for it—the Romulan ambassador, T’Kala. She was a slim, cold-eyed, straight-backed woman who would be—and presumably often was—not out of place on the deck of a warbird. Although Spock had never chanced to meet her either on Romulus or elsewhere, he was well aware of her reputation as an ambassador. T’Kala was as strong-willed as she was undeniably beautiful, even in her unornamented, steel-gray diplomatic garb.

  The ambassador’s entourage followed her closely, their glares constantly sweeping the room. All six of them were grim-faced, muscular Romulan men and women who carried themselves more like warriors than diplomatic aides—hardly a surprise, Spock thought, since they probably were her bodyguard first and her aides only second.

  “Ambassador T’Kala,” Ambassador Mellon greeted her just as warmly as if the Romulans hadn’t kept everyone waiting. “Pray be seated.”

  But T’Kala remained standing. “I have studied your terms,” she told them all without preamble, “and they are not acceptable.”

  And you, Spock retorted silently, are quite predictable. If you could have hurled down a scroll onto the table, you would have done so. “No insult is meant to you or to your people, Ambassador T’Kala,” he said smoothly, “but we all know that it would not be logical for you to have come all the way to Earth merely to tell us that.”

  He sat. Sure enough, the Romulans took the hint and sat as well. So did the Federation diplomats. Ambassador Mellon shot a glance at Spock that mingled humor and gratitude.

  “Now, Madam Ambassador,” she said charmingly to T’Kala, “let us begin anew.”

  “Indeed,” the Romulan woman snapped. “First, I wish proof and guarantees that the Federation will make no further incursions into what you call the Neutral Zone.”

  “Ah, but surely you agree, Ambassador T’Kala, that the Romulan Star Empire must issue similar proof and guarantees.”

  T’Kala raised an eyebrow. “Do you claim that we are the offenders?”

  “Surely,” Spock commented mildly, “both sides have been equal offenders over the centuries. But I agree that both sides must, indeed, issue similar guarantees—even as we agreed to do one month and 4.5 days ago. I believe, Ambassador T’Kala, that we may now safely move on from there and discuss other matters.”

  “Indeed we may,” she agreed as firmly as though she’d been the one to suggest it. “And there are many other matters that need to be settled. Let us begin with reparations to the Romulan Star Empire.”

  Murmurs shot up and down the row of diplomats.

  “Your pardon, Madam Ambassador.” Ambassador Mellon’s voice was sweet and gentle. “I wouldn’t deign to insult you by defining terms. But since the Romulan Star Empire fought as part of the allied forces against the Dominion, and was not defeated by the Federation, surely reparations are neither possible nor, in fact, legal.”

  The Romulan ambassador gave a sharp little laugh of contempt. “How typical of the Federation—and how predictable! We have helped them win a war, we have sacrificed the lives of countless numbers of our brave warriors for the cause, and now the Federation rewards us with semantics.”

  Dr. Nagata leaned forward, both arms on the table. “Perhaps the ambassador forgets that we have already offered your people Federation help in the rebuilding of the empire’s damaged defenses.”

  “Oh yes,” T’Kala snapped, “I am certain that the Federation would enjoy learning all the details of our defenses!”

  “Please,” Ambassador Mellon said, hands raised, “let us not quarrel.”

  “Romulans do not quarrel,” T’Kala retorted coldly, sitting back in her chair. “We fight, and we win. And we do not tolerate being considered a secondary power.”

  “We don’t—”

  “No?” T’Kala cut in. “Then what of the behavior of our sector of the Cardassian Union as opposed to that in the other powers’ sectors? Is it mere coincidence that we should have so very generously been given the most unstable of regions?”

  “Oh dear,” Ambassador Mellon returned, “has the Romulan Star Empire, then, become so weak that it cannot control its sector?”

  “Ah, and now you mock us. Is it the custom of the Federation to attack those who fought as its ally?”

  Spock, face absolutely unreadable, watched the diplomatic battle. Words, he knew, were being carefully chosen by both sides and were meant to sound more dangerous than they were. This would, he knew from personal ambassadorial experience, go on for hours. Both sides knew exactly what they wanted, and what they would not consider worthy of argument. But they would continue to argue over exactly what the Federation was willing to cede to Romulus, and what Romulus was willing to accept.

  No matter, Spock told himself. They would come to terms eventually. This was not a matter in which Vulcan needed to intervene—not yet, at any rate.

  “…war crimes on the part of the Dominion,” T’Kala was continuing, eyes fierce.

  “The Federation is already looking into that issue,” Ambassador Mellon returned.

  “Ah yes, of course, just as the Federation is already looking into the exploitation of the Gamma Quadrant!”

  “As is the Romulan Star Empire.”

  “That is a lie!” T’Kala all but shouted. “We do not look to exploit others—not as the Federation does!”

  Ah yes, this was still predictable. Romulan pride was guaranteed to make this meeting more difficult, since it was all but impossible for Romulans to be totally open about their military or private affairs—particularly not when they were speaking to the Federation.

  But then Spock straightened ever so slightly, suddenly aware of the faintest change in T’Kala’s tone, listening to what was all at once hidden behind the practiced words.

  This is more than an example of Romulan pride, he thought. Something is wrong, and the Federation is not meant to know it.

  Bit by delicate bit, Spock put together the small scraps of data, logically working out that yes, there must have been another attack on the Romulans. By the Watraii? Was there something more to it, something even worse than that?

  But before he could ask any leading questions, the meeting suddenly broke up in confusion. “I have had enough of this nonsense!” T’Kala declared, springing to her feet and storming off, closely followed by her warrior-aides.

  Again, quite predictable, Spock thought. But hardly logical, or desirable.

  Spock got to his feet with seeming indifference. If he went after her, perhaps he could convince T’Kala to abandon theatrics and return. Yes, and perhaps be more forthcoming about Romulan problems, difficult though she would find that.

  But before Spock could get more than a few strides down the hallway, an urgent beeping from his small message unit stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at it in genuine surprise: The coded signal was from none other than Admiral Uhura.

  “Admiral?” he asked.

  “Sorry to be so abrupt, Spock, but I need to see you, and Ruanek with you. And Spock, I know that this isn’t the best time for either of you. I’m sorry to interrupt your meetings, but I mean now!”

  It was an open secret—at least to some, most of them Vulcan—that Ruanek, who was apparently a Vulcan, was actually a Romulan living in exile on Vulcan. It was a relatively contented exile by this point since he had a Vulcan wife and had served for years as an aide to Spock’s late father, Ambassador Sarek, and as a lecturer at the Vulcan Science Academy.

  Spock wasn’t surprised that Uhura knew that Ruanek was on Earth just now. She would know that he was here both as a member of the Interplanetary Linguistics Conference and as someone with a vested interest in Romulan–Federation peace. Uhura was, after all, head of Intelligence for Starfleet Command, and it would have surprised him only if she hadn’t known.

  But th
at she should ask for them both was fascinating…

  Logically, it could only be a matter concerning private Romulan affairs. Security affairs, perhaps, to do with the renewed attacks he’d just postulated—and possibly concerning Federation security as well.

  There was an ancient saying on Earth, a cleverly worded curse. There was little logic in the idea of a curse, but the words were wise: May you live in interesting times.

  We most certainly do, Spock thought.

  Three

  Memory

  As Karatek found himself part of a wedge of people thrusting themselves on board the shuttle that would take them away from Shavokh, memory struck again, almost making him reel.

  This was a waking dream. He was still on Vulcan, and the news was grim. The light from Vulcan Station—all those lives snuffed out, those katras lost!—still smoldered in the sky. The dust, sand, and grit stirred up by the explosion had rendered it the violent crimsons and violet-black of sand and rock in the Womb of Fire, and the wind was fierce. Over the wind’s howl came shouts as raiders broke through the perimeter of the launch site. Security had pressed close, pushing strangers among family, thrusting them onto shuttles to take anyone they could into what seemed like the greater safety of the great ships.

  My eldest son, his wife, my grandchild, Karatek recalled with the anguish a lifetime of meditation had never been able to control. They had been separated: Karatek knew himself fortunate that T’Vysse had not managed to rush away to search for them.

  And there they were, thrust onto shuttles with no regard for family, clan, or nation-state.

  When had N’Veyan found time to seek a bondmate on board one of the ships? Some city people, Karatek knew, maintained contact with the desert-mad te-Vikram. They said it linked them to Vulcan’s most ancient traditions and kept them strong.

  He shook his head. He took a deep breath. Control, he told himself. He would need it when he boarded Rea’s Helm, the flagship commanded by S’lovan. Already, he knew some of the subjects that would, once again, be debated. He could assign a 100 percent certainty to the appearance by a deputation of physicians and healers demanding a systematic collection and storage procedure for reproductive material. He knew, too, that some on the council would condemn their petition as indecorous at best, and impious and corrupt at worst.