by Diane Duane
Sarek sighed. “T’Rea,” he said. “My first wife.”
“You weremarried? And you didn’ttell me?” She sat bolt upright, furious. “How could you?”
Sarek regretted his lapse. Amanda’s temper was not one to be trifled with. “Yes, I was married to T’Rea. Briefly. But she divorced me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because, to explain how she became my wife, I would have to reveal something so private to Vulcans that it is never spoken of to outworlders. But you are my wife-to-be, so I must tell you. I had intended to wait until after the marriage ceremony, however…” He spread his hands upward.
“Explain, then,” Amanda said, waiting.
Sarek launched into a fairly composed, concise explanation of the Vulcan mating drive, and how a Vulcan couple in the throes ofpon farr could mate, and yet have little interaction in each other’s lives. He concluded, hesitantly, “Amanda, there is one final thing you must know. I never…shared…with her, what I experience with you. Understand that. My marriage to T’Rea was not a marriage in terms of what you and I will experience as a married couple. We have agreed to share our lives together, which is far different than the brief encounter I experienced with T’Rea when my Time came.”
“I see,” she said, finally, thoughtfully. “And will you experience this…pon farragain? When?”
“I cannot tell,” Sarek said, honestly. “But I believe that I will, and that it will be soon. My Time with T’Rea was almost seven years ago, now.”
“What a honeymoon,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Oh, Sarek, I wish you had told me all this before!”
“I explained—I could not speak of it to anyone except my wife. No outworlder must know.”
“I understand,” she said, finally.
Just then, the ship’s intercom chimed, informing them that they were about to enter Vulcan orbit. Amanda jumped up from the couch, clearly flustered. “Oh, dear. I have barely an hour to make myself presentable for the wedding!”
“You should assume the traditional garb,” Sarek said. “But your appearance is…everything that could be desired, Amanda.”
Meeting his eyes, she flushed. “What a lovely compliment,” she said. “Now I know why you’re such a successful diplomat. But my hair…” She peered at the mirror in his cabin. “I must run,” she said. “I will see you in an hour.”
“In an hour,” he promised….
Remembering his wedding, Sarek turned the page to see what Amanda had written about it.
September 16, LATER
I am so tired, and yet before I allow myself to close my eyes, I must note down my thoughts, my feelings, lest they slip away by morning’s light.
I am sitting here at a small table in the corner of the bedchamber. Vulcan beds are hard, barely yielding, but I suppose I will become accustomed to that with time. I am writing by the light of my pen, clad only in my lightest nightgown—because, despite Sarek’s having air-conditioning installed specially for me, it is hot. By midnight, Sarek assures me, the temperature will have dropped, as it does in desert climates.
My husband is asleep. I can hear him breathing, lightly, slowly. I wonder if any Vulcans snore? Thank all the gods that ever were, Sarek does not!
The ceremony went well, all things considered. It was held in a stone-pillared and rock-walled sort of natural amphitheater that Sarek told me was the traditional marriage site for his people for many, many generations. It reminded me of Stonehenge. 40 Eridani hovered just above the horizon as we spoke our vows, staining the red stone even redder. I managed to follow Sarek’s cues without any horrible gaffes, and though the few words of Vulcan I managed to speak probably sounded like nothing ever heard before on the planet, no one reacted.
The marriage rite was presided over by two Vulcan women—T’Kar, the oldest female in the family, a wizened old creature who seemed to be half-asleep during the entire ceremony, and the person who actually officiated, named T’Pau.
I don’t quite understand T’Pau’s exact relationship to Sarek—Vulcan kinships are complicated, and somewhat differently structured than human families—she is something on the order of his eldest great-aunt, I believe. T’Pau is some kind of matriarch, either by right of blood, or natural authority. Her word is, apparently, law. I suspect she’s not exactly thrilled at having a human join her family…but she could teach Emily Post a thing or two about tradition and cutting-edge etiquette!
Fortunately, the ceremony only took about fifteen minutes—if it had been any longer, I’d have dropped from the heat, I’m sure. We then boarded ground transport and returned to the ancient family enclave, where the reception was held.
(I gather that many receptions are held outside, in the gardens, but this one, in deference to my human constitution, was held in the central hall. The temperature controls had been adjusted downward a few degrees. All the Vulcans were wearing jackets and shawls, while I could hardly wait to shed my outer robe, light and gauzy as it was!)
Earth’s ambassador, Eleanor Jordan, was the only other human present. She offered a typical human toast to the wedded pair, which all the Vulcans courteously drank.
As soon as was decently possible, Sarek touched my arm, and we slipped out. He led me through stone corridors opening onto chambers filled with ancient furnishings, down a winding staircase to a transporter pad installed in the basement of the building—it looked so anachronistic set into that millennia-old red stone floor!
Sarek’s house is located in ShiKahr, and is quite nice. Sparsely but impeccably furnished. It was long past sunset when we beamed here, so I received only a hazy impression of the outside. Sarek says there are gardens, which pleases me immensely. I brought some desert plant seedlings with me, in the hopes I can coax them to grow and thus have some touches of Earth here on my new home.
Even while he is asleep, I can sense Sarek’s mind brushing mine.
Today, before the ceremony, Sarek enlightened me about Vulcan sexual drives. Very different from a human’s libido! It seems that Vulcans undergo something he calledpon farr…much like the heat cycles experienced by some Terran creatures. Vulcans are capable of mating and conceiving at other times, but, during pon farrthey mustmate—if they don’t, they can die!
Sarek, my husband…I can scarcely believe it, even after tonight. It seems too wonderful to be true, that we can now share the same bed, and that I will wake up next to him tomorrow, and tomorrow, and for all the tomorrows we will have together….
Sarek closed the journal with a sigh, unable to read any more. Resting his head in his hands, he strove to meditate, but images of Amanda intruded, filling his mind.Amanda, he thought, feeling grief fill him anew.Amanda…that was the happiest night of my life, too.
Valdyr watched Karg salute her uncle, then exit, leaving them alone on the cloaked warbird’s small bridge. The last thing Karg did before the doors slid shut behind him was give her a long, promising leer.
I can wait for our wedding night,his expression said,for my wait will not be long.
Valdyr glowered at him, touching the hilt of her dagger, and her gesture was just as suggestive. His very presence sent her blood boiling with passion—but not the passion he wanted.You will wait, Karg, she thought with murderous hatred,until Qo’noS’s polar caps melt. Unfortunately, with the destruction of Praxis and the subsequent environmental problems the Klingon homeworld was facing, that might not be very long indeed.
If she could only talk her uncle out of this disastrous plan of his! She turned to face the ambassador, who was absorbed, watching the surveillance screens.
“Uncle,” she said with a firmness she did not feel, “we must talk.”
He glanced at her, then went back to watching the image on the screen. A lone human male lay curled in an embryonic position on the narrow, shelflike bunk. “Niece, come see your charge.”
Valdyr moved closer to him, staring at the silent, unmoving human. She could detect no movement, not even breathing. Was the prisoner
still alive?
“He will be your responsibility,” Kamarag reminded her. “The warbird’s crew tells me that young Kirk has eaten nothing in the five days since his capture. He only uses his food to ask questions, and spell out his name, rank, and some meaningless number. Worse than that, he has drunk only a small amount of water. For the last day, they said, he has not moved at all.”
How grotesque,Valdyr thought,to just curl up and surrender. This is what her uncle thought was an honorable prisoner?
“Typical,” Kamarag remarked, studying the prisoner and shaking his head. “Most humans, it has been my experience, are a weak, spineless lot. I regret that this one will probably not afford you much amusement, niece.”
In Klingon society, guarding prisoners of war was traditionally women’s work. And, for the most hated prisoners (and humans certainly qualified for that category), the female jailers took delight in administering thebe’joy’ —the ritualized “torture-by-women.”
In a world controlled by Klingon warriors, a woman could release much of the frustration engendered by the male-dominated society on a strong, healthy prisoner.
“It is critically important that this man live and be healthy, do you understand, my niece?” Kamarag’s order intruded on her thoughts.
Valdyr scowled. She would have tonurse this feeble weakling? Klingon prisoners were not usually coddled. A touch of hope glimmered in her breast. Was her uncle finally realizing the magnitude of his actions? Was this his way of softening the offense? Yes, that had to be it. He would strengthen the dying human so as to have a healthy hostage to return in exchange for Captain Kirk. It could, perhaps, salvage some honor in the end.
“He must be strong, so that when Kirk comes to claim him,” Kamarag explained in his most rational, ambassadorial voice, “this sniveling weakling can endure a good, lengthybe’joy’ —while his uncle is forced to watch!”
Valdyr’s color deepened and her eyes widened against her will. Where was the honor in that? There was no craft in this plan, no politics, just duplicity and cruelty. The shame of it made her glower at the deckplates.
“Don’t worry, my dear niece,” Kamarag said comfortingly, giving her a congenial hug, “thattask will be yours as well. A reward for the distasteful work ahead of you—guarding this stinking alien, this blood kin ofva Kirk! His torture will be my wedding gift to you—something to whet your appetites and insure a passionate night with your new husband!”
Valdyr had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from erupting into gales of hysterical laughter. Had all she learned at her father’s side of honor, battle, and glory been lies? Was thisreally the way Klingons conducted themselves—by betraying their leaders, lying, cheating, and abusing the helpless? Her father would have killed this man for what he was about to do.
“Now, what is it you wished to speak to me about?”
The young woman blinked, having nearly forgotten. She swallowed, knowing already how futile this would be. “I…I wish to speak once more…of my plans. The plans I made for my life, while my father was still alive.”
Kamarag drew away from her, his face taking on his more “official” look.
“My father, as you must know, encouraged my learning,” she reminded him. “He trained me himself, along with my four brothers, in all the warriors’ arts.”
Kamarag nodded. “You were your father’s favorite, of that, I’m well aware. Training you was his way of proving your worth, since he made the healers work so hard to save you in infancy.”
She nodded, lowering her eyes. In many families, a weak, small, sickly baby as she had been would have been allowed to die. But her father would not permit it and demanded the healers save her. Perhaps it was because she was his only daughter. Her mother liked to tell her that he’d bellowed at the doctors that Valdyr’s will to live was proof that she carried a man’s share of noble warrior’s blood. And he’d trained her as stringently as her stronger brothers. She’d loved him for that.
“My father,” she reminded Kamarag, “felt my mind was as strong as my skills, as strong as my will to live. He wanted me to continue my schooling. He knew I was not strong enough to serve as a warrior…but hoped I might have other skills almost as valuable to offer the Empire. He hoped—and I shared his dream—that I might followyou, Uncle, into diplomacy.”
Kamarag raised his head in surprise. It was a compliment, and she could see he was taking it as such.
She continued quickly, before he could stop her. “At the time, it was a dream, a fantasy, but now…with Azetbur holding such an important political role, it would not be thought so unusual if I…”
The ambassador glowered. “Azetbur! The role she has usurped is a travesty! If she were a decent female she would have married again! Then, she could hand her seat over to her husband, as it should be!”
Valdyr yearned to remind her uncle that Azetbur’s husband had been killed in the same attack that had killed the chancellor’s father—but that it had been Azetbur herself that Gorkon had wanted to succeed him.
“And it is this depraved female you would model yourself after?”
“Oh, no, Uncle, it isyou I would…”
“Do not flatter me, niece! I have been a politician since long before you were born!” He was furious now, and Valdyr had no idea how to placate him.
“But…my father—”
“Your father isdead!” he reminded her brutally.“I am the head of this family, and you will follow the life I prepare for you! You will marry Karg, and be a faithful wife, and bear him as many male children as your body can grow. Your glory will be in the success of your husband and male children. You willnot live a life of perversion and depravity as that damnable Azetbur has. Do you understand me?”
Valdyr was stunned by her uncle’s reaction. Stunned and heartsick. But she showed not a trace of it on her face. She would not shame her father’s memory by displaying weakness. “Yes, my uncle. I understand clearly.”
“Then, let us be family,” he said quietly, “and never speak of this again.” He turned back to regard the surveillance screens.
Valdyr struggled to control her disappointment. She’d hoped that her uncle would listen to reason…but he would not.
While she and her uncle had had their brief discussion, she’d been peripherally aware of the screens that displayed Karg’s progress through the warbird. His lieutenant, Treegor, accompanied him. The two officers had picked up Peter Kirk from a rendezvous point on the edge of explored space, from the tramp freighter/contraband runner that had smuggled him off Earth.
Now, after landing on Qo’noS, at TengchaH Jav, the spaceport closest to Du’Hurgh, Kamarag’s huge estate, it was time, at last, to remove the prisoner from his cell. As Karg stalked through the corridors, he carried in his gauntleted hand an electronic key that was the only means of opening the door to the security cell.
Through all of this, the figure on the bunk had never stirred, never twitched.Yes, Karg, Valdyr thought bitterly,bring my uncle his dead prize.
Finally, Karg and his lieutenant reached the prisoner’s cabin. Karg inserted the key and left it in, so that the doors would remain open. Both men were relaxed, talking and laughing with each other, confident that the human, even in health, could be no match for them.
Karg leaned over the prisoner and shook the man’s shoulder. There was no response; the captive’s arm swung limply, then hung, flaccid.
“He…cannot bedead?” her uncle muttered, as if contemplating that possibility for the first time. “If he is dead…”
You have nothing,Valdyr thought,nothing but shame.
“No, he lives!” Kamarag muttered as Karg and his assistant lifted the limp form by the arms, slapping him lightly. The man seemed almost boneless, his head lolling back and forth, his eyes shut, his mouth sagging open.
He had to be alive, or his body would have stiffened with the death rictus. Karg slapped the human’s face again, harder, but there was no response.
Suddenly, the pr
isoner groaned piteously and sagged even more. Karg and his lieutenant bowed over his form to prevent him from collapsing to the deck, and for a moment the human was lost to view, blocked by the warriors’ broad backs.
Then, in the next instant, the two Klingons lurched toward each other, their heads meeting with a resounding crack. They fell backward, staggering. The human had suddenly awakened, grabbed the warriors and forced them together.
The human was upright now, his entire demeanor changed dramatically. Spinning on one foot, he lashed out with his other, catching Treegor on the chin. The warrior crashed to the deck, unconscious. Karg was up now, and in a murderous rage, blood trickling from a head-plate cut. With a roar, he charged the human, who moved low and struck the warrior with his fists hard, once, twice, three times just below the breastplate, in a warrior’s most vulnerable place. The air rushed out of Karg’s lungs, and all he could do was swing wildly. He managed to strike the human on the shoulder, but the man took the blow well, and punched Karg twice, in his right eye.
This human knows us,Valdyr realized. He’d wasted no energy attacking the places where warriors would feel little pain. Her gaze sharpened with interest. She had not realized that humans could fight so well—or be so clever!
Karg lunged after the human, meaning to snatch him up and throw him into the nearest wall, but the smaller male held his place until the last second, then dodged the attack. Grabbing Karg by his armor, he shoved the big warrior hard, and Karg’s forward momentum ran him right into the bulkhead. His head struck with stunning force, and he slid down the wall, dazed.
Without a wasted moment, young Kirk raced out of his cell, grabbing the electronic key on his way out. Karg struggled to his feet to pursue his escaping quarry, but the doors slid shut in front of him, locking him inside. Valdyr stifled her laughter as she took in Karg’s stupefied expression.
“Hu’tegh!”Kamarag cursed, slapping his palm on the alarm button. The raucous sound of the blaring klaxon instantly filled the air.
They watched the human on the surveillance screens as he raced down the corridors. Kamarag’s hands flew over the control panel, and on another screen the two warriors Karg had gotten the key from suddenly appeared. They were in the mess hall, eating. They looked up in response to the alarm.
