by Diane Duane
He walked slowly up the crushed stone path, feeling the heat envelop him like a blanket. He welcomed the hot caress. Vulcan. No matter that he had spent more of his life with deck plates beneath his boots than he had treading the sandy soil of his homeworld—when he was back on Vulcan, he knew he washome.
The mountain villa was a low, redstone building with solar panels set into its flat roofs. Its design was deceptively simple and austere; from outside it appeared smaller and more rustic than it actually was. The surrounding foothills and the paths leading up to the mountain crests were as familiar to Spock as the corridors of his starship.
Just as he reached thekala-thorn hedge that enclosed the garden, a door opened onto the rearmost of the roofs and Sarek emerged. At his father’s signal, Spock halted and waited for him. Sarek took the side ramp down to the ground, then skirted the edge of Amanda’s garden until he stood before his son.
The Vulcan officer held up his hand in the salute of his people. “Greetings, Father,” he said in their native tongue. “I trust you are well?”
Sarek nodded. “Greetings, my son. Yes, I am well. It is good to have you here.”
Despite his father’s reassurance, Spock was concerned about the ambassador’s health. The lines in Sarek’s face had deepened, and his hair was grayer than it had been a month before. His shoulders seemed smaller, and the flesh of his hand, as he returned his son’s salute, was tightly drawn over the bones of his fingers.
“How is Mother?” Spock asked.
“Sleeping,” his father replied. “The monitoring devices will indicate when she awakes. The Healer has stressed her need for rest.” The ambassador glanced around. “We should go in.”
Spock nodded. “Nevasa is…formidable today. One forgets, after years away.”
Together they went into the villa, then sat down in the living room Amanda had decorated with handwoven wall hangings. Spock sipped appreciatively at a cup ofrelen tea, covertly watching Sarek as his father paced restlessly around the room, gazing at the bone-white walls and the desert-hued hangings as though he’d never seen them before. Finally, Sarek turned to face his son. “Your mother…” he began, then he fell silent.
“She…is dying?” Spock asked, feeling his throat contract over the words.
“Yes,” Sarek said, seeming relieved that his son had spared him having to say it aloud. “The Healer holds out little hope of recovery, even though she is being treated for Reyerson’s disease. The illness, in one of her age, is too debilitating.”
Spock nodded silent understanding.
Father and son occupied their time while waiting for Amanda to awaken by sharing a simple lunch. It had been years since he and his father had been alone together long enough to share a meal, Spock realized, and he found himself enjoying Sarek’s company. They spoke of the Klingons and the Khitomer Conference, of the current political situation in the Federation, and a host of other diplomatic concerns.
Spock rose from his seat and wandered over to examine the water sculpture in the corner of the room. Every time he came home, its design and flow were slightly altered—Amanda changed it periodically. This time, there was something different about it—the flowing lines were sharper, more angular than before. The water ran in clear perfection, instead of taking on colors from the underlying crystal and stone.
“It is different,” he said to his father, indicating the sculpture.
Sarek nodded. “I programmed it this time. Your mother did not have the energy to do the work herself, but she was tired of the old design.”
Studying the piece of art, Spock finally nodded. “Yes, I can see that. This design is far more…logical.” He hesitated, trying to frame the rest of his thought in a way that would not offend.
“But not as aesthetically pleasing,” Sarek finished for him. Taking in Spock’s surprised glance, he nodded. “I saved the old designs, every one of them. As soon as Amanda grows tired of the current design, I will reactivate one of her programs.”
Sarek hesitated for a long moment, then continued. “There is something that has been concerning me for some time now. I need your advice on a problem I am facing.”
Spock’s gaze sharpened with curiosity. “A problem?” he prompted. Never before had Sarek asked him—or anyone else, insofar as he knew—for advice.
“Recent events have convinced me that a serious problem is facing the Federation from an unsuspected quarter,” Sarek said, steepling his fingers on the table before him. “What do you know of the Keep Earth Human League?”
Just as Spock opened his mouth to reply, the monitor in the corner beeped softly. The ambassador quickly rose to his feet. “Your mother is awake.”
Soft-footed, Spock followed his father down the hall to his parents’ bedroom. Even though he had thought himself prepared for his mother’s illness, he was shocked by her extreme pallor and thinness, as she lay in the middle of the huge bed.
“Mother…” Spock said gently, leaning over her to take one of her hands in his own. The bones beneath her papery skin seemed no more substantial than those of a songbird.
“Spock…” she whispered, even before her eyes opened. Her familiar, loving smile shone out of her face, transforming it, making it suddenly familiar again. “Oh, Spock, it is so good to see you…. ”
The first officer stayed with his mother for nearly an hour, talking quietly to her. When Amanda’s eyes began to close, he squeezed her hand, then left.
Sarek was sitting at the table when his son reentered the dining room. Spock sank into a chair, and took a deep breath. “I did not want to believe it,” he said, dully.
“I know. I experienced the same reaction,” Sarek said quietly.
Father and son gazed at each other in silent accord.
Laser torch in hand, s’Kara straightened up slowly from her crouch beside the massive combination planter-harvester. Overhead, Kadura’s small orange sun, Rana (Delta Eridani), was trying to break through the winter cloud cover…and almost succeeding. s’Kara turned her face up, enjoying the brush of warmth against her dark green Orion skin. Her short, curly black hair, liberally shot with the gold threads of age, stirred in the chill breeze that cooled the sweat on her forehead.
Looking off across the fields, rusty brown instead of summer blue-green, s’Kara let her gaze wander to her village of Melkai. There were snug little homes, painted in shades of blue, yellow, green, and mauve, their rooftops black and studded with solar collecting cells.
The Orion woman grimaced a little as she rubbed her back with one hand. Squatting beneath the combine all morning while she tried to weld its sequencer into position again was a sure guarantee of a backache to come. Still, the combine would have to be used soon for planting, for spring, despite the cold grayness of the sky, was only a few weeks away.
With a heartfelt groan, s’Kara bent her knees and prepared to squat beneath the machine again, laser torch poised.
Just as she ducked to crawl beneath the combine, a dark shadow loomed overhead. s’Kara caught it out of the corner of her eye and involuntarily looked up.
What was that?she wondered.It almost looked like a ship going by.
s’Kara’s heart pounded as she slid back out into the open and stood up. Her eyes widened with fear.
A ship was swooping in for a landing not half atem away—a Klingon ship.Klingons! Great Mother of us all, help your children! Klingons! Heart slamming so hard she could scarcely breathe, s’Kara fought the impulse to crawl back beneath the combine and hide.
Stories of rape, murder, and stomach-churning atrocities ran through s’Kara’s mind as she began to run toward the settlement. She had to warn them!
Hearing a shout from behind her, she forced her legs to an even swifter pace, the chill air hurting her lungs. The whine of a stun ray filled her ears. Dodging frantically, she raced across the field, her feet flying so fast that she feared she’d overbalance and fall, breath sobbing in her chest.
The whine came again—
—
and, without knowing quite what had happened to her, s’Kara found herself lying on her face in the field, completely helpless. Her eyelids were closed, and she couldn’t open them. Frantically, she tried to pray as she lay there, wondering how long the stun beam would hold her. Her muscles screamed with pain, but she couldn’t adjust her position by so much as asendisat.
Time went by…s’Kara finally began counting her own heartbeats, and had reached 412 when she heard footsteps approaching. A voice barked an order in Klingonese, and the whine came again. Abruptly, she could move, and her entire body convulsed in agony as all her muscles went into spasms. Rough hands grabbed her, hoisted her up. Klingons…five of them, all armed. One of them grinned, showing a mouthful of snaggleteeth, and reached for the front of her insulated coverall, clearly intending to rip it open.
s’Kara closed her eyes tightly. She braced herself—only to have another of the Klingons reach out and strike down the hand of her would-be attacker. He snarled something that sounded like an order, and the other Klingon reluctantly stepped back.
This Klingon was wearing a more elaborate metal sash across his broad shoulders. He eyed her, then said, with a strong accent, “Do you speak Standard, woman?”
s’Kara nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. We talk, you translate. Help us, and you will not be harmed.”
A shrill shriek rent the air, and s’Kara darted an anguished glance in the direction of the village. Another scream followed.
“We are under Federation protection, here,” s’Kara told the leader. “When they find out what you are doing, it will mean war with your government.”
The leader uttered a short, ugly bark of laughter. “We have no government, woman. We are our own law, our own government. I am Commander Keraz. You will address me as ‘my lord.’ Is that understood?”
s’Kara nodded sullenly. One of the Klingons holding her cuffed her sharply. She took a deep breath. “Yes, my lord.”
“Better.”
All of them glanced up as yet another Klingon bird-of-prey hurtled out of the sky. Keraz gave an order to one of his men, and the Klingon trotted off.
“We will go into the village,” Keraz said to s’Kara. “We will assemble the people. You will speak to them in your own language. What you will tell them is this: We are in control, and we will stay in control. As long as they obey us, they will not be harmed. Resist, and we will kill them—or worse. Is that clear?”
s’Kara stared at him, wanting so badly to spit right into his swarthy face that her jaw muscles worked. He watched her as though she were some kind of mildly interesting insect. After long seconds, s’Kara nodded, then, as one of her guards raised his hand, said hastily, “Yes, my lord.”
Another scream rose out of the village—a scream that was cut off in the middle by a whine of disruptor fire. s’Kara tensed, her throat an aching knot of despair. Keraz nodded at her guards, and they all started across the field, passing the big combine.
I will survive this, Klingon,s’Kara thought grimly.When this is over, I will be alive, and free—and you will be sorry. By the Mother Goddess, I swear it…
As the little party entered the village, s’Kara forced herself to note every horror they passed, so she could tell the authorities when they came. Theywould come, she told herself. The Federation took care of its own. Theywould come….
But would anyone still be alive to be rescued?
“What is this threat to the Federation, Father?” Spock asked, later that same day, as he and Sarek walked in the gardens behind the villa. Sarek’s young aide, Soran, was watching the monitors that would signal when Amanda awoke again. “You aroused my curiosity with your reference to the Keep Earth Human League.”
Overhead, Nevasa was past its zenith, declining toward the horizon, but sunset was still more than an hour away. Sarek glanced about him at the stark beauty of his wife’s garden. Then he quietly spoke of the Freelans, summarizing his discovery that they were actually Romulans in disguise, and speaking of his discoveries aboard the Freelan space station.
“I have been collecting data for over a year,” he finished. “I would appreciate it if you would review it for yourself tonight.”
Spock nodded. “If it were anyone else telling me of this, I would dismiss his words as illogical paranoia,” the Starfleet officer said slowly. “That you have seen proof of your theory convinces me, but…how did you know? What made you suspect the Freelans?”
Sarek had known that Spock would ask. The ambassador drew a deep breath, steeling himself. “It is a long story,” he began. “One that I did not think I would ever speak of to another.”
His son raised an eyebrow inquiringly. “Obviously you have access to information the rest of the Federation does not. How did you obtain it? The Freelans are the most secretive of beings…. No one has ever seen a Freelan without his or her mask…. ”
Slowly, deliberately, Sarek shook his head from side to side. “Not true,” he said, heavily.“I have seen the face of a Freelan. When the incident first occurred, I remained silent about it for nearly seventy Standard years, because I could not be sure of what I saw that day. But now…now the puzzle is complete, and I must inform the authorities of what I have discovered.”
“Seventy years?” Spock was clearly taken aback. “Please elucidate.”
Pacing over to the bench that faced T’Rukh, Sarek sank down, arranging his robes meticulously while he searched for words. “It began when I was a diplomatic attaché at the Vulcan Embassy on Earth…some seven years before I met your mother. I had been bonded to T’Rea, the priestess”—the ambassador used the archaic Vulcan wordreldai, which in the old days, when Vulcan was ruled by the theocracy, meant both “female religious leader” and “female ruler or princess”—“as was traditional, when we were both seven years of age. I had not seen T’Rea since we were children; she was a stranger to me.”
Sarek paused, remembering his first wife as she’d looked the last time he’d seen her…her intense black eyes, her arrogant beauty, her proud, stern features. Mostly he remembered her hair, a rippling obsidian curtain that had hung down past her hips. It had felt as silken as her diaphanous wedding robe.
“As the newest of the diplomatic attachés on Earth, many of the routine or less-desirable tasks fell to me,” Sarek continued after a moment. “One of those was being appointed the diplomatic liaison to Freelan. I was fifty-nine Standard years old, and had not yet experienced my first Time. I knew that most males undergo their first Time in their thirties or early forties, so this delay was somewhat unusual….” He shrugged slightly. “But I also knew that residence off-world could affect one’s cycle, and I had lived much of the past fifteen years on Tellar, Earth, and several other worlds. Many factors, as you know only too well, Spock, can affect the onset and frequency of our Times.”
Spock nodded gravely.
“It was raining that day in San Francisco when the ambassador summoned me to his office,” Sarek continued, his voice deepening as the memories took hold, transporting him back to the past. “I was still new enough to Earth to find such an abundance of precipitation fascinating…even mesmerizing.
“I had been the liaison to Freelan for three years at that time. Freelan had only come to the attention of the Federation shortly before I was appointed, so, as it happened, I was the first person to travel to that distant world to discuss trade policies.”
“How many trips had you made?”
“Over the course of three years…seven in all,” Sarek said, after a moment’s thought. “Naturally, of course, I was not permitted to set foot on Freelan soil. I stayed on board their space station.”
“Had you ever met a Freelan personally?”
The ambassador shook his head. “No. At that time, no one had. They did not leave their world until decades later. All contact was by comm link. Despite all this, my contact on Freelan, a diplomatic attaché named Darov, was someone I had come to know and respect over the years. Darov and I had fallen into
the habit, following a day’s negotiation, of playing chess after our respective evening repasts. Darov was a challenging player,” the older Vulcan continued after a moment. “Many of our contests ended in a draw, and, more than once, I lost.”
His son raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That is indeed…impressive,” he murmured. It had been many years since father and son had sat down to a game, but the last time they had played, Sarek had still been able to win more than half the time.
“As we played, we talked…about many things. Darov was careful not to reveal much in the way of information about his people, or himself, but, over the years, I learned some things about the Freelans that outsiders did not know. For example, I knew that Darov was young, about my own age, that he was married, and had a family that he was quite…devoted…to. A son and two daughters, I believe.”
“Did you gain any knowledge of Freelan society and culture?”
“Yes, though Darov was extremely cautious and secretive. I gathered that his political leanings tended toward the moderate. Darov favored increased contact with other worlds…while the Freelan government’s official position was that outsiders constituted a potential threat to the Freelan way of life.”
“Darov wanted to change the way his world interacted with others?”
“I gained that impression over the years,” Sarek said, “though he never said so specifically.”
“Fascinating,” Spock murmured. “You did indeed learn more than is generally known even now about Freelan and its people. I had no idea the Freelans had political parties, or that not all Freelans favored their isolationist policies.”
“There are many things you do not know about the Freelans,” Sarek said gravely. “That day in San Francisco, Ambassador Selden assigned me to travel to Freelan to conduct trade negotiations concerning ore that had recently been discovered on a moon in the Freelan system. This ore, crysium, was a vital element in the construction and use of a new diagnostic and treatment machine recently developed by the Healers at the Vulcan Science Academy.”
