Vulcan’s Soul Book II - Exiles

by Josepha Sherman

  I can almost hear Jim’s voice: “Scotty, you’ve got to give us just a little more power.” Yes, and Scotty’s voice pleading with him, “Captain, the engines willna stand the strain!”

  But now he actually could hear Scotty. The human had come part of the way down the slope to meet them, and between Spock and Scotty, they all but carried the exhausted Chekov out of the car and up to the top of the butte.

  The vehicle, with complete lack of drama, simply sputtered out behind them and was silent.

  “That’s about the way I feel,” Chekov muttered. “I see Spock dragged you into this mess as well, Mr. Scott.”

  “Aye, that he did. ’Tis good to see you, lad.”

  “‘Lad’? I’m older than you now, Captain.”

  Scotty chuckled. “That you are, Admiral, that you are. Let’s be getting you onto the shuttle.” As Spock and Scotty guided Chekov toward the Alexander Nevsky, Scotty asked, “What about the others?”

  “There are others?” Chekov asked. “It wasn’t just you two?”

  “No,” Spock said. “Admiral Uhura gave us our mission, though it is not one officially sanctioned by Starfleet Command. Captain Saavik awaits us in orbit on the Alliance, and Uhura also assigned us Lieutenant Commander Data of the Enterprise and a…friend named Ruanek.”

  “We cannot desert them,” Chekov said with as much finality as his frail voice would allow.

  “No, we cannot,” Spock agreed. “Never again. We will retrieve them. I give you my word.”

  As they fastened their safety harnesses, Spock took the controls, and the shuttle lifted off. As it climbed back up through the winds and the layers of clouds, Spock told Scotty, “Locate the transponders for Data and Ruanek.”

  A faint voice, half hidden by static, broke through. “Spock?…is…you…?”

  “Saavik. Yes. I have Captain Scott and Admiral Chekov with me. But Ruanek and Data are still planetside.”

  “Understood.” Another burst of static, and then, “…here…repeat, come back here…transport them…break in the weather…”

  “Understood,” Spock said.

  The trip out from the planet was hardly easy, but not nearly as rough as the trip planetside had been. Even so, Spock heard himself give a small sigh of relief as the shuttle finally passed the planet’s atmospheric envelope and settled into the smoothness of space.

  Scotty let out a whistle. “Would you look at that! They’ve been in a battle, sure enough. Poor ship, with that ugly scorch mark on its side.”

  Soon they were back on board the Alliance, being hastily briefed by Saavik.

  “My science officer reports that a break is occurring in the Watraii storms. Apparently this is a rarity, but it should provide a sufficient window of opportunity for us to beam Data and Ruanek aboard—if the ship’s approach is very close.”

  “I’m off to the transporter room,” Scotty announced. “This is one beam-up that I am going to handle myself!”

  On the bridge, Spock settled into his chair beside Saavik’s command chair. Chekov, refusing flatly to go to sickbay, settled into the other.

  Saavik’s quick brush of a hand against Spock’s let him know—as if he’d had any doubts—how thankful she was that he was back and in one piece.

  “Helm, take us in. And yes, those are the proper coordinates. We’ll be able to make only one low pass before the Watraii realize what’s happening and start firing. But that should be enough time to beam up our two shipmates.”

  It will be, Spock told himself. With Scotty at the transporter controls, it will be.

  “Ah, Ruanek?”

  Ruanek, panting, turned, turned again, then stopped with a resigned sigh. The Watraii had them surrounded.

  “Ah well,” he said to Data with a Romulan grin, “it was a gallant adventure! We die with—”

  But before he could say “honor,” a familiar shimmering surrounded Data and him…

  …and they were beamed up.

  “Got them!” Scotty crowed. But then he added to Data and Ruanek, “Hang on, both of you. They’re shooting at us.”

  “Strap in,” came the shipwide warning. “All personnel, strap in.”

  On the bridge, Saavik put the Alliance into a steep climb, out of the edge of the atmosphere, dodging the continuing flashes of garish green ground-to-air fire and not retaliating. Once out of the atmosphere, she ordered, “Shields and cloaking up at full. I assume that we do have cloaking again?” she added. “Yes? Excellent.”

  “Watraii ships launching,” Lieutenant Abrams warned.

  The Alliance sped away for the system perimeter, the two Klingon ships with them once more and the Watraii ships in pursuit.

  “We are clear,” Lieutenant Abrams announced.

  “Very good,” Saavik said. “Go to warp three. Get us out of here. And you, Admiral Chekov, to sickbay.”

  Chekov started to speak, then lowered his head, his breathing labored. “I regret to say, Captain, that I do not have the strength to argue with you—which is all the more reason to report to sickbay. I don’t suppose you have Dr. McCoy waiting for me down there?”

  “No, simply my chief medical officer.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” Chekov muttered as he entered the turbolift.

  Once in deep space, the Alliance returned to sublight, waiting for the two Klingon ships to rejoin them.

  “Once again, Captain Saavik,” JuB-Chal announced, “you have given us a glorious fight.”

  Tor’Ka added, “It will be joyous to join you in battle again.”

  “So be it,” Saavik said carefully.

  Spock glanced up as the bridge door slid open. Chekov stepped onto the bridge—a Chekov looking healed of a wound he might not have even known he had.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Spock. The doctor has given me a clean bill of health. There is nothing that sleep, a good meal, and some vodka won’t cure.”

  “Would you like to order the Alliance home, Admiral?” Saavik asked politely.

  “No, Captain Saavik, that von’t be necessary.” With a courtly smile and the slightest of bows, Chekov added, “Consider me formally retired as of two months ago. And let me say that I will be glad to get home.”

  Ruanek, standing behind Spock, was all but radiating contentment: He had received a belated message from T’Selis that had come as close as a Vulcan could come to expressing her love for him.

  But the problem of the artifact, and deciphering the artifact, remained.

  For now, Spock thought, the artifact would surely be safest on Vulcan. Saavik had, indeed, already ordered that course change to be made.

  But I would not be surprised to learn that Romulan Tal Shiar agents have noted that course change, and are already sending that news to Romulus. The near future promises to be…fascinating.

  But at that moment, Lieutenant Abrams cut in urgently, “We’re not alone. Captain, what looks like the entire Watraii fleet is coming after us.”

  Thirty-One

  Memory

  “Three years after I took it upon myself to volunteer my House to establish a mining colony on the less hospitable of our two new worlds, we have made what progress we could without actually taking up residence. The time to move has come.

  “For the past three years, the fleet has helped those of us who will be the colony’s inhabitants for the first six months after it goes officially online create a habitat that is, at its worst, no colder and no more comfortless than Shavokh during the journey. I am told that when our rotation is over, we will be able to look forward to settling on land where a prefabricated house has already been built. And I will have had the satisfaction of laying down my role here on Shavokh, having fulfilled all my responsibilities in accordance with the dictates of my conscience.”

  Ending his last transmission on board Shavokh, Karatek removed the coronet, secured it in its case, and tucked it into his shipsuit. He had tested it: it would fit into his environmental suit as well.

  T’Vysse and the rest
of his family attended him in the living areas of their quarters. Although the rooms were stripped bare, they would take only a few personal possessions, the most useful or most cherished, with them to the mining facility. The rest, they had been assured, would be ferried to the new home being prepared for them on the northern continent, within sight of the mountains and the sea. Solor had assured him of the site’s beauty as well as its richness.

  After three years, Karatek would have thought himself accustomed to making the journey out of Shavokh down to the ice. The few shuttles that remained functioned at least adequately. The pilot touched down more smoothly than usual. On the last trip, Serevan had installed stabilizers beneath the field. They too were in satisfactory operating condition.

  Sealing the helm of his environmental suit, Karatek led his family out of the battered shuttle and activated its light, which cast a deceptively warm glow over the ice and frozen gases. The outpost would retain this shuttle and two more, along with an array of smaller craft, including one dagger.

  When his eyes grew accustomed to the encompassing darkness, he led the way across the landing field to the seal that opened into the tunnels beneath the ice. Most of the settlers finally had mastered the art of navigating across ice. Nevertheless, it was a long walk on deceptive and harsh terrain. He was panting before they had gone halfway.

  Initially, Karatek had protested the distance between the landing site and the habitat, but he had been overruled. The shuttles were old, he had been told. Until they could be replaced with shuttles built from metal produced from the veins of ore beneath his feet, it was only prudent to put distance between the landing field and the colony’s inhabitants. And as the colony grew, Serevan had argued, it would expand its system of tunnels, potentially undermining the field: hence, the need for stabilizers that would, if all went well, have to be enforced.

  Karatek had yielded to the logic of necessity as well as his son-in-law’s greater expertise. Nevertheless, it was a long, cold walk. Karatek watched T’Vysse turn to stare at the silvery plume erupting from a nitrogen vent. Sarissa put an arm around her mother, steadying her against the frozen ripples of ice. Their boots crunched against it, a counterpoint to the rhythm of their breathing and the rapid beating of their hearts.

  Ahead of them, crew from Shavokh and Gorget finished unloading supplies that had been calculated to last them six months with ease, or eight months with austerity, in case accidents or weather conditions on the other world prevented relief. They settled the last canisters in place, then headed back toward their own shuttles.

  As the bulky figures in envirosuits passed Karatek like great lumbering creatures, each with one glowing eye, he nodded greetings and thanks. They had darkened their faceplates to preserve their night sight; he could not see who hurried past. Karatek understood: the way the wind was picking up, there was likely to be a storm, with visibility dropping to zero. He picked up the pace. Serevan had gone on ahead and was already unsealing the outer entrance to the habitat that would be “home” for the next six months.

  Bleak it might be, but its heat and air would be welcome after the long walk. Karatek was in the first lift down. He and his family unhelmed immediately after the pale, silvery doors slid shut and air pressure equalized.

  Even before they took their personal belongings to the quarters they knew were theirs, they went to the operations center, a much smaller version of Shavokh’s central installation, to watch the shuttles take off, leaving steam, then pools of glittering melt that quickly froze again on the landing field.

  Sarissa glanced at the screens and the readouts below them, then came to full alertness.

  “Husband, their engines,” she asked. “Have they failed to achieve escape velocity?”

  “They’re past it,” Serevan said. “They’re turning. They’re all turning.”

  “Shuttle One, can you hear me?” Already, Sarissa was calling out to the shuttles.

  “Do you require assistance?” That was Serevan, as if his deep voice could penetrate the rock, the ice, and the storm building up on the surface.

  Then Karatek glanced over at T’Vysse. The expression on her face made his blood chill as if he stood naked on the surface of the planet as the wind lashed him.

  If anyone understood the violence of Vulcan’s history, it was T’Vysse. But that did not stop her from crying out in horror as the massed shuttles opened fire on the tiny colony’s shuttles, exposed on the landing field so far away from any help.

  To Karatek’s own horror, surface scanners showed four or five suited figures—it was hard to tell, given how the wind blew ice crystals and plumes across the desolation—burst from the entrance and race toward the landing field, just as the shuttles targeted the small ships. One figure, faster than the others, was caught by the blast and sent flying. It landed hard and moved no more as the enemies with whom they had journeyed through the long night of the Sundering from Vulcan stranded them on the ice.

  “So that’s why they wanted the field so far away from living quarters,” Sarissa murmured, her voice as cold as the storm outside. “Logical.”

  The landing field had been created to be a killing ground that gave their betrayers the opportunity to take out any ships before the mining colonists could get them into the air.

  “Karatek?” The technocrat’s face appeared on-screen, pallid and somewhat blurred thanks to the perpetual storms overhead.

  “It’s Shuttle One,” Sarissa said.

  “Karatek here, Avarak. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “A rhetorical question, surely. You were quick enough to take all the credit for volunteering for this colony and make certain you’d get the best of anything being distributed on our new homeworld, weren’t you? Well, I simply changed the terms of the transaction.”

  How controlled Avarak was, as if he too had studied Surak’s disciplines. And how very sure of himself, now that his ships could exploit the gravity well to menace Karatek and his people.

  “Call off your shuttles!” Karatek ordered. “We have people out there!”

  “Call them back, or we will blast the rest of them where they stand!” All the younger man’s carefully manufactured urbanity was gone. What came through was arrogance and sheer menace.

  At a wave of Avarak’s hand to an unseen subordinate, their third and final shuttle exploded. A moment later, two more of the single-person ships lit smaller fires.

  “Call them back, Karatek!” He heard a scuffle behind him. It took little logic to conclude that Serevan was wrestling someone to the floor—Solor, Karatek assumed—to prevent him, too, from rushing outside.

  Another of his people had actually gotten the dagger off the ice. With a spectacular disregard for personal survival, the pilot aimed directly at Shuttle One, clearly with intent to ram. The dagger, too, disappeared in one blast.

  “Stop!” Karatek cried, not to the shuttles overhead, but to their own people. “Get back in here.”

  “The landing field will have to be repaired,” Avarak said. He allowed himself a sharp grin. “In addition to fulfilling your initial mining quotas and expanding the habitat.”

  “S’task,” T’Vysse whispered. “He cannot know. Or can he?”

  S’task was ill, aged before his time. In delegating function, he had ceded some authority and lost valuable information. Karatek would not believe that the fleet’s commander could betray them.

  “Does S’task know of this treachery?” Karatek demanded.

  “Does it matter?” came the reply. “We will keep him busy until he falls ill again. He may not even notice. So, pay attention to what I say now. We are about to transmit your final instructions for the next six months. You will see that we are modifying the quotas in view of repairs to the field and the need to establish your infrastructure downworld. We would not wish to be unreasonable.”

  Another blast from Shuttle One knocked out their principal communications facility. Avarak’s face disappeared. Karatek took a deep breath, wishing it h
ad been he who had blotted it from existence.

  “When you have assembled the ore, crystals, and processed metals specified in our orders to you, you will signal us. Our shuttles will come and pick it up in return for supplies of food, structural materials, and medical supplies. If you fall short of quotas, the amounts of supplies we will off-load will be proportionately reduced. If there is a catastrophic failure of a reactor or some natural calamity damages the habitat, you will signal us. Otherwise, you will keep silent, and you will follow the instructions I have now sent you.”

  “We barely have power enough to send out those signals,” Serevan muttered.

  Avarak and his associates had planned well. With communications so sharply restricted, this colony had no chance of appealing to S’task or more reasonable members of the exile living on their brother world.

  In addition to betraying Karatek and his family, Avarak had made victims out of some exiles and accomplices out of others. In the years to come of this second exile from what should have been his home, Karatek would remember. Memory had always been his duty. And, until reparations were made, he would not forgive.

  The ice overhead shuddered, a sharp quake, followed by after-shocks. Overhead raged the storm, the first of the many they must survive until they took back what was theirs.

  Static hissed, disrupting communications again. Then, as reception improved, Avarak’s face came back into focus, and Karatek heard his voice, assured, arrogant, and enjoying himself far too much.

  “You will expand the current habitat. You will harden the landing field to receive ore transports, and you will keep yourselves fit so you can work.

  “You will work, or you will die.”

  TO BE CONCLUDED IN VULCAN’S SOUL, BOOK III EPIPHANY