by Diane Carey
was. He gawked at me. "What?"
"The bit with the hogs!"
"Well, it wouldn't have except that they didn't
know we were coming," I said.
Only then did we sense the presence at the end of
the hallway. We paused, looked at each other, then
turned and stared into the muzzle of a phaser.
From the end of the hall, a soft voice emerged.
"Greetings, Commander Piper. Your presence is
most gratifying."
There was no mistaking him. Even among his own
kind, lost among the people who bred him and taught
him so thoroughly to fish the ice patterns of the mind,
he would have stood out. Only for an instant was he a
stranger to me. Unfamiliarity lasted no more than a
second. Suddenly, I knew himmpersonally, intensely.
He carried the gravity of the situation with polished
Vulcan composure. His hair, a mass of soft ebony
waves, was longer now than it had been in the photo-
graph Spock had shown us. It fell over his shoulders,
drawing attention down to a splendidly sculptured
tunic of sage-green quilt, and up, to graceful back-
swept ears and canted eyes. The eyes--they were pale
gray, almost silver, striking in raven hedges of lashes
and upswept brows, and they held an undefined wild-
ness. The deeper I looked into them, the more surely I
saw that touch of self-indulgence, even turbulence.
Vulcan ways could bridle him, but only to a certain
point. He wore his attire, his long hair, his Vulcanness,
and his independence like a crown.
Perten raised an arm in a beckoning gesture. Dol-
man sleeves on the surcoat, slashed with crescents of
silver hiding between quilted green panels, immedi-
ately created the illusion of a cape. His beautiful
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clothes might have seemed pretentious--he had obvi-
ously been well paid for his talents--had it not been for
a bawdrick of platinum clasps sloped across his hips,
enameled with the cool azures and greens Vulcans
dream of as they mediate on their hot red planet. There
were chips of semiprecious metals in the belt that
caused a faint glitter, but all were very small and
tasteful, providing subtle reminders of Vulcan heri-
tage. Only the phaser in his left hand, held casually
downward, but ready, jarred the image we saw before
US.
Embarrassment made me resist Scanner's glance. A
do zen questions flashed into my mind, all beginning
with "how."
I swallowed hard, straightened my spine, and
walked forward. Scanner stayed behind, his hand on
the door bolt.
"I greet you, Commander," Perren said. "I presume
you wish to speak to Sarda. I shall escort you to him.
There are automatic defenses that will injure you if
you go unaccompanied."
He raised his arm again and stepped backward,
gesturing down a dim corridor. The phaser also came
up just enough to maintain the subtle intimidation.
Only his eyes spoke now
In my defeat, so sudden and quick, I couldn't think
of anything to say to him. What does prey say to its
conqueror? My throat was tight with anguish. I
pressed my lips and moved forward.
Perren herded us both into a small laboratory annex.
High stone walls were lined with computer crates,
discarded equipment, and storage boxes. Two sturdy
folding tables held more equipment and stacks of
computer spools.
"You will remain here," Perren said. "I advise you
strongly against attempting to escape. This farm has
been impregnated with rather sophisticated defense
devices that will be unmerciful should you encounter
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them. You must be confined, of course, but I have no
desire to see you injured."
Scanner turned his back on Perren and leaned to-
ward me. "This is the bad guy?"
I cleared my throat. "We're only here because of
Sarda," I said, hoping the lie couldn't be discerned in
my tone of voice. With a little luck, I could deflect
their attention from whatever Captain Kirk and Mr.
Spock would be doing next. "I don't care about any-
thing else. Where is he?"
Perren bowed his elegant head, tipped one shoulder,
and punched a button on a portable communications
unit. "Sarda."
Breath froze in my lungs. Beside me, Scanner
tensed.
"Yes," came a voice that was chillingly familiar.
I stared at the corn unit as though it had bitten me.
Perren spoke quietly, but with poignance. "Have
you completed repairing the circuit usher?"
"Very nearly. 1 will need your assistance to recali-
brate."
My chest tightened as I heard his voice. Mornay and
Perren might have brought Sarda here against his will,
but I knew very well there was no physical threat that
could make a Vulcan work against his will. Perten
knew that too. His eyes touched me as he spoke into
the eom unit. "Your visitors are here now."
There was a pause. My mind screamed in an effort
to define that long moment. The communications unit
beneath Perren's hand zoomed up and swelled to fill
my field of vision. My eyes blurred.
"Very well," Sarda responded distantly. "I shall be
right there."
It ended with a heartsickening click. Perren straight-
ened and observed us coolly. I wondered if he could
see my turmoil, the pain I felt as the idea rammed
home that Sarda might actually be here voluntarily. He
wasn't a prisoner... he was free to move around. My
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mouth clamped tight and my whole body went torpid. I
was forced to stand there and add up the obvious. A
trap.
A trap... a trap.
In my periphery I saw Scanner looking at me with
concern, but I couldn't respond. I couldn't move. The
deep wound burned.
There was a noise in the hallway. A faint shuffle.
He appeared. Amber eyes struck me like a hard
wind. He wore only his standard Fleet uniform, the
tenne gold fabric catching lights from his brassy hair,
as though nothing had happened to spoil his right to
wear it. His brow was slightly furrowed even before
we spoke. He strode past Perren with familiarity that
hurt me and stopped before reaching us. His lips
parted.
Scanner burst out from behind me, clutched Sarda's
collar, and rammed him backward into a wall. Sarda's
arms flared outward, but he did nothing to resist the
attack as Scanner growled, "You mule-eared son of a
Romulan, I oughta pin you up like a fish !"
Perten took one step, then wisely stopped.
Sarda accepted Scanner's acid glare and hot breath
with a calmness that said he had expected it. "Things
are not as they seem, Judd," he said quietly.
"They seem dang plain to me, you rock-hearted
rat," Scanner seethed.
Sarda shifted his eyes to me. With his Vulca
n
strength he could have thrown Scanner off like a
snowflake, but he waited under that malicious grasp
and did nothing.
I moved up beside them, making no effort to get
Scanner under control. He was acting out my most
frightening feelings, giving vent to a piece of myself I
was just as glad not to see right now. Even with
Scanher's fists jarred up against his throat, Sarda
merely gazed at me, and I at him.
"We thought you needed us," I said. Obviously, I
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was struggling. The quiver gave it away. I wished I
could be Vulcan too, so I wouldn't have to feel this.
But capped inside this human casing, the anguish
bubbled to the top.
"There are things I must tell you," he said.
Scanner bumped him harder against the wall again.
"You mean explain, right?"
Perren came closer. The phaser was raised now.
"No," Sarda said to him, bringing a hand up to his
colleague, his mentor. "No need. Please leave us."
The phaser went down, but cautiously. The other
Vulcan nodded once in acknowledgment of Sarda's
right to privacy even above his right to safety. "As you
wish."
When Perten left, closing the door behind him, the
tension remained.
"Okay, Points," Scanner growled, "start tawkin'."
In a rare tactile moment, almost in relief, Sarda hung
his hand on Scanner's arm. He was still looking at me.
Moments ticked by. The silent communication con-
tinued.
When it had done all it could, words had to come. I
took a deep breath and swallowed. "Scanner."
"You gotta be kiddin'."
"Back off, please."
"Not till I get what I want."
"You'll get it. Back off."
He hated what I asked. Perhaps he even hated the
fact that I wasn't really ordering him off, but just
asking him, friend to friend. Somehow that made it
different, more potent. With one more threatening
bump against the wall, he let go and backed away.
Suddenly it was almost as though Sarda and I were
alone on a rock somewhere in the middle of nothing.
Sarda lowered his hands slowly to straighten his
tunic. Still we gazed at each other in that uncomfort-
able knowing silence. The answer was there he was
no prisoner. If he started out that way, it hadn't lasted.
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On top of the pain of having been betrayed by my
friend came the hurt of being overshadowed in our
friendship, being displaced by Perten. I'd been con-
gratulating myself for a bond that might have already
become secondary.
I dug deep, and found my voice. "Why did you
answer our carrier signal if you knew we were walking
into a trap?"
The complexity of the situation shone in his eyes.
"It was not I who answered your signal," he said. "It
was Perren."
"Because you told him."
Even through the Vulcan shields, he flinched. The
misery now showed itself in his eyes, too, but for
different reasons. With effort, he went on. "I would
never have told him. I hoped you would know me
better."
Guilt swarmed in. We both felt it, both felt victim-
ized by the situation.
"There's no other explanation," I said. If I was
wrong, at least the truth would have to come out now.
Insult was a strong medicine.
He didn't respond immediately. He seemed embar-
rassed. With a momentary glance at the floor, he
steeled himself to tell us things no Vulcan would
ordinarily volunteer--unlesS the reasons were gravely
important to him.
"Perren knew about you because he knows me," he
struggled. "Through our training meids, he has come
to know you... what to expect from you. When the
stampede diverted our sensor system and the guards,
he knew there was a 98 percent probability it was
you."
The effort of saying that in front of Scanner, much
less to me if we had been alone, drained him. For a
moment his breathing was ragged. He quickly recov-
ered, though, and contained his discomfort.
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With a tremble of relief, I continued, "And the
signal we sent?"
Fortified somewhat, he answered, "Perten also un-
derstands about the Outlast. He had no trouble inter-
preting the appearance of the carrier waves."
Behind me, Scanner slumped back to sit on one of
the tables and hung his head, disgusted. He crossed his
arms and heaved a rumbling sigh.
"We were worried about you," I said to Sarda. "I
thought you'd been kidnapped. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he admitted, even though I got the feel-
ing he would much rather have given me the answer
I'd hoped for that he'd been shanghaied at phaserpoint
after a grueling ambush and beaten into cooperating.
"You weren't kidnapped," I concluded.
"Not precisely, no. I . . . elected to come. I am
needed here."
"You're helping Mornay and Perren hold the galaxy
hostage?"
He bristled. "I am not helping them, per se," he
insisted. "I designed the correct containment equip-
ment for transwarp energies. I alone know how to use
the safety and backup systems properly. Mornay is
attempting to build a transwarp device. Had I allowed
them to build the device without my help, I would
have been endangering countless lives on this planet. I
could not... do that." The weight of responsibility
was plainly still pullinghim in two different directions.
He was exhausted. "The experiment is too delicate for
me to ignore. There has already been one slippage, but
I managed to deflect the waves into space at the last
moment."
"You bet you did!" Scanner exploded. "And we
were right in the middle of 'em when they came
through!"
Sarda stared at him. His face went ashen. He even
stopped breathing. I hadn't quite realized th e depth of
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the transwarp danger until he supported himself on the
edge of the table and physically fought for control. He
won, but he had to close his eyes to do it.
Even Scanner was affected by the sight. With a
shake of his tousled head, he sighed, "Damn it,
Points."
Sarda's brassy head dropped slightly. He gazed at
the table, ashamed, yet committed.
"In other words," I continued, "you didn't elect to
come at all. They blackmailed you. Your inaction
would have cost lives, so you came with them."
"Yes," he said softly. He didn't look up.
Silence settled around us like fog. Without taking a
step, we waded through it.
I was the first to move. I strode to the table, beside
Sarda, turned and leaned against the edge. Now only
inches separated us. When I looked up, so did he.
My words were careful, sincere. "I understand."
If there was anything more, any lingerin
g regret or
guilt, we beamed it out. If Sarda had betrayed us, I
didn't want to know about it. There was no profit in
repaying a mistake with another mistake.
He gathered himself with a solemn nod. "You're
wise," he said. His gratitude was there, but sheltered.
Neither of us made any attempt to uncover it further.
"Tell me about Perren," I asked. "What makes him
tick?"
Sarda blinked, confused by the slang, then remem-
bered what it meant and tried to find the best words to
explain a complex individual. "You saw him," he said,
as though that explained something. "He is supremely
in charge of himself. He believes in the rationality of
Vulcan philosophy, but he cannot abide the Vulcan
tenet of not making moral judgments, even rational
ones. Like Vice Admiral Rittenhouse, Perren believes
there is an overwhelming moral difference between
Federation philosophy and those of the Klingons,
Romulans, and the handful of minor hostile powers.
150
He believes the illogic lies in ignoring the differences."
"Are you telling me he doesn't believe in the Vulcan
philosophy of pacifism?"
Sarda's eyes flared in a wave of frustration. Maybe I
didn't completely understand Vulcan ways, but now
wasn't the time to chastise me for it. He realized that
and continued, "Even on Vulcan, logic continues to
evolve. Minor points in logic can extrapolate into vast
differences in philosophy. Contrary to common belief,
there are those among my people who do not accept
the Vulcan system of pacifism. Things do change,
Piper," he said, raising a hand to emphasize his point.
"Even Spock was a renegade at one time. He dis-
agreed with cloistered Vulcan ways. Since then, the
Vulcan patterns of logic have grown outward to in-
clude our place as a major Federation contingent.
Someday, Perren's ideas may be accepted, as Spock's
have."
Scanner crossed his arms over One knee and argued,
"That don't excuse putting the whole galaxy on the
edge of a cosmic scramble, bud."
Sarda struck him with a deadly look. "No," he
snapped, "it does not. But even pacifism has violent
results when those who embrace it refuse to defend
others' rights to peace." His tone was sharp, carrying
