Sand and Stars

by Diane Duane

  “Kruge? I mean, Captain Kruge?” Peter was nonplussed. “But…that was over three years ago!”

  “ ‘Revenge, like atarg, rouses hungry after a sleep,’ ” she said, obviously quoting an old proverb.

  “Wait a minute. Captain Kruge ordered my cousin David’s death,” Peter argued. “Kruge’s men murdered him in cold blood. If anyone has an old score to settle, it’sus, not you.”

  Valdyr frowned. “What is this, ‘cold blood’?”

  “Uhhh…that means that Kruge thought about David’s murder, then ordered it and was obeyed. He didn’t kill him during a fight, or kill him by striking out blindly during an argument.”

  “That is not true!” Valdyr defended hotly. “David Marcus was a prisoner of war, who was executed while attacking a guard.”

  Peter glared at her. “That’s not the way I heard it.”

  “My uncle told me,” she said, matching his intensity.

  They glowered at each other for a moment; then Peter relaxed. This was crazy, he decided. They were acting like the Hatfields and the McCoys. “Neither one of us was there, so we’ll never know for sure. It’s been my experience that the truth usually lies somewhere in the middle.”

  Valdyr gave him a surprised glance, then nodded slowly. “That has been my experience, too, Peter Kirk.” The way she said his name made it sound like “Pityr.”

  She moved toward the heavy wooden door, but never turned her back. She wasn’t going to be as easy to outwit as the goons they’d sent into his last cell, he realized. “I have brought you clean clothes.” She nodded, indicating a pile of fabric that sat perched on the end of the stone bunk. “There are cloths in there…you would say for washing, for drying. There is soap. I will be bringing a basin for washing when you are no longer so thirsty and are ready to bathe. Your odor is too strong! If you do not willingly bathe, I will be forced to wash you myself!”

  He couldn’t help it. The mental image of this lovely but alien woman forcibly stripping him and lathering his naked body forced a smile onto Peter’s bruised mouth. He winced even as he did it.

  Her face darkened, and she advanced on him threateningly. “What is funny?”

  He held up his hands placatingly. “Come on, Valdyr! Think about it. Don’t Klingons have a sense of humor? Have you ever given a grown man a forced bath out of a basin before? What a…fascinating…image that idea presents!”

  She scowled, but slowly her expression thawed, as if against her will. “Do not imagine that having me strip you and bathe you would be a pleasurable experience, Kirk, just because I amfemale! ”

  Peter widened his eyes innocently. “Why, Valdyr, such a thought never crossedmy mind. But apparently…it crossed yours.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she digested this, then her skin visibly darkened.She’s blushing!

  “Of course…it is a potentiallyappealing scenario!” he continued, giving her a sidelong glance. “I don’t believe humans and Klingons have ever had such…an intimate interaction. Truly an interstellar first!”

  Valdyr’s mouth dropped open, just slightly; then she whirled, opened the door, and slammed it shut almost before he realized what she was doing. Peter heard the locks on the other side activating in rhythmic succession. His jailer appeared on the other side of the observation port, glaring at him balefully.

  Keep pushing your luck, mister. With a little more provocation, she just might beat you to death!He leaned forward and said quietly, “No disrespect intended to my most honorable opponent.” He prayed his voice would carry through the port.

  She seemed to relax at that, and her fierce expression lightened. Then, suddenly, a male Klingon appeared at her side, surprising both of them.

  Oh, no,Peter thought, stunned as the man came into view.This was her uncle? Could it really be? He recognized Kamarag instantly—the Klingon who had declared so publicly that there would be no peace while James T. Kirk lived. Peter swallowed. Things were becoming entirely too clear.

  Kamarag was big, his long dark hair and thick beard shot with gray, with heavy, jowly features that appeared never to have smiled. He glared at the young Kirk, and Peter could feel his hatred, as palpable as a clenched fist. The ambassador wasnot in uniform, but wore a longish oyster-white tunic over dark gray trousers, with a dark cape slung over one shoulder. An intricately carved leather strap held it in place. The strap bore the same insignia as the other Klingons wore—the insignia, no doubt, of the house of Kamarag.

  The cadet stared at the ambassador.Ambassador? he thought.What a joke. Sarekwas an ambassador, a diplomat, a man of peace…this jerk was nothing but a warmonger, a kidnapper, a pompous ass, a…

  Peter ran out of silent epithets—his rage was suddenly too all-encompassing to be vented with mere insults. He had been drugged, kidnapped, beaten—and it was this man’s fault. Trembling with fury, he glared at Kamarag, feeling a tirade on the verge of erupting.

  Slowly, the impulse faded. What good would cursing and insulting Kamarag do? He needed to keep his wits about him, Peter realized. Jim Kirk might lose his temper at an enemy, but Sarek never would. And right now, he, Peter Kirk, needed to bediplomatic.

  “Ambassador Kamarag,” he said, and nodded politely to the older male.

  But the Klingon ignored his greeting as he leaned forward and stared at the human. Slowly, his thick lips parted, and a terrible smile transformed his features. Peter felt every hair on his body rise. Then the Klingon turned to his niece. In Klingonese, he said, clearly, “He ate and drank?”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he continued, still in his native tongue. “I am depending on you, niece. Do not fail me. Make your prisoner strong and healthy. Treat him well.” He patted the woman fondly on the shoulder. “He must be able to withstand your…”

  Peter couldn’t translate the last word, and searched his mind for its meaning, but came up blank. He’d caught the word for women, or female, in there, but as for the rest…he’d be willing to bet it wasn’t a trip to the local equivalent of an amusement park that Kamarag was referring to.Ordeal? Trial? He had no way of knowing.

  Kamarag was still conferring with Valdyr, smiling solicitously. When the older man turned back to stare at his prisoner once more, Peter found that the look the ambassador gave him chilled his blood. Then the elder Klingon stalked away. Peter turned back to Valdyr to ask her about what that term,be’joy’, meant, and found, to his surprise, that her rich amber color had paled into a sickly yellow. Her eyes were wide as she watched her uncle stride away.

  “Valdyr?” Peter asked softly, trying to get her attention. “What doesbe’joy’ mean? I couldn’t translate it. Hey, Valdyr!”

  Her head snapped around and she stared at him wild-eyed. “Donot speak to me, human!” she commanded. “Remember your place. You are myenemy. Myprisoner. And I am a Klingon!”

  He was stunned to see her eyes filled with frustration and genuine grief; then she turned and stormed away, leaving him alone in his stone cell.

  Sarek materialized on the windswept plateau high in the steppes above ShiKahr only minutes before sunset. Before him lay the steps leading to the top of Mount Seleya, where the ancient temple and amphitheater were located. The ambassador’s robes flowed around him as he strode forward and began climbing. The stairs were steep and long; the Vulcan’s heart was pounding by the time he reached the top, but he did not pause to catch his breath. Instead he detoured around the ancient, cylinder-shaped temple, heading for the small amphitheater.

  The Vulcan was surprised by the number of people on the steps and ranged around the old temple. Glancing ahead, he could see that the amphitheater, reached by a narrow stone walkway that hung precariously over a thousand-meter gulf, was even more crowded.

  Many people, it seemed, wished to pay last respects to the memory of his wife.

  The ambassador had arrived on his homeworld only thirty minutes ago. First he had gone to the med center, where, after spending a few minutes with the physical shell that had housed his wife’s sp
irit, Sarek authorized the cremation. Now he was at the temple, barely in time for the memorial service. The ceremony would be brief…his son had asked T’Lar, the High Master of Gol, to preside, and she had agreed.

  As Sarek moved toward the small, shallow amphitheater, the crowd parted before him. The ambassador’s gaze touched many familiar faces from his homeworld…diplomatic personnel and their families, as well as high-ranking government officials whom Sarek and Amanda had entertained during official functions. Members of his family whom he had not seen in years were there, heads respectfully bowed as they murmured the traditional words, “I grieve with thee.”

  Amanda would be gratified that so many of those who initially disapproved of our marriage have come to honor her memory,the ambassador thought, as he moved through the crowd.

  As he crossed the narrow bridge, he saw that the highest-ranking officials and closest family members were awaiting him in the amphitheater—and there was his son, wearing a formal dark robe with ancient symbols embroidered in silver on the breast. Spock was standing with his crewmates from theEnterprise. As Sarek walked toward him, Spock glanced up, recognized his father, then, deliberately, looked away.

  Sarek had not spoken to his son except for the brief, stilted words they had exchanged when Spock had called to inform his father of Amanda’s passing. By the time Spock called him, the ambassador had known for nearly six hours that his wife was dead. When Sarek had attempted to speak about her, Spock had cut him off, then curtly informed his father that the final repairs to his ship would be completed within forty-eight Standard hours, and that he would be leaving Vulcan with his vessel.

  As Sarek walked to the forefront of the gathering, Spock, still avoiding his father’s gaze, silently took his place beside the ambassador. Together, they walked up to stand before the two huge, smooth pillars on the raised platform. From the side of one of the pillars, there was movement; then T’Lar, accompanied by two Acolytes, stepped forth. The High Master wore a dark brown robe with a pale gold overtunic.

  As Sarek and Spock stood there, T’Lar began to speak: “Today we honor the memory of Amanda Grayson Sarek,” she began, speaking Standard English in deference to the humans present. “She was a human who honored us with her presence on our world.

  “From Amanda Grayson Sarek, we learned that our people and humans could live together in peace…that they could be allies, friends, and bondmates. Amanda Grayson Sarek possessed great strength, fortitude, and courage: the strength to survive a world that poses great hardships for outworlders; the fortitude to endure the suspicion and distrust in which humans were frequently held; and the courage to forever alter the way Vulcans view the people of Terra. She changed us, not through strident protest, but by quietly prevailing, becoming over the years a living testament.

  “Today we honor her…we honor the wife, we honor the mother, we honor the teacher, we honor the person of Amanda Grayson Sarek. Her life is one to be held in highest regard and esteem.”

  T’Lar delivered her words in measured tones, raising her voice only to be heard above the wind, for the large crowd stood in complete, respectful silence.

  After the High Master had finished, by tradition the spouse was supposed to speak. Sarek hesitated for a long moment after the last echo of T’Lar’s voice had faded into silence, then said: “As a diplomat, I use words as a builder would use tools. But words will not serve me today. Grieve with me, for, with Amanda’s passing, we have all lost someone very…rare. I can say no more.”

  Spock glanced at his father in surprise; then his expression hardened and he deliberately looked the other way. Sarek waited a moment to see whether his son wished to say anything, then he raised a hand in salute to the waiting crowd. “My family, my friends…I wish you peace and long life.”

  “Live long and prosper,” T’Lar said aloud, speaking for the crowd. Many of the watchers held up their hands in the Vulcan salute, heads respectfully bowed.

  The ceremony was over.

  Unlike human funerals, etiquette following a Vulcan memorial service demanded that the family of the deceased be left in private. Sarek watched as James Kirk came up to his son and said something quietly to him; then the group of Starfleet officers silently took their leave.

  “What did Kirk say?” Sarek asked, when he and Spock were alone, standing amid the stark peaks surrounding Mount Seleya.

  “He asked if we could both meet with him tomorrow at nine hundred hours aboard theEnterprise to discuss the Freelan situation. I gave the captain a brief overview while you were gone.” Spock still did not look at his father as he spoke. Instead his eyes remained fastened on the mountain peaks, scarlet from the reflection of Nevasa’s sunset.

  “Good,” Sarek said. “I was going to request such a meeting with Kirk upon my return. I have new information to add to what I have already told you.” The Vulcan hesitated. “Spock,” he said finally, “about your mother…I would have returned home if it had been possible. I—”

  “She called for you,” Spock interrupted, staring straight ahead. His features seemed carved from the same rock that surrounded them. “Whenever she was conscious, she called for you. Her decline was rapid, after you left.”

  “The situation with Kadura was grave,” Sarek said. “Lives were in jeopardy…. Amanda told me that she understood.”

  “She understood very well.” Spock’s voice held a bitter edge. “But the fact that she understood and forgave you does not make your actions correct. Any competent diplomat could have negotiated a settlement for Kadura’s freedom. But onlyyou could have eased my mother’s passing.”

  Spock took a deep breath. “The entire time I sat there beside her…twodays …there was only one thing in the world that she wanted—you. And you were not there. Without your presence, there was no solace for her…no tranquility. She called for you, and would not be comforted.”

  “Her ending was not…peaceful?” the ambassador asked, his voice a hollow whisper. Pain that was nearly physical in its intensity struck him like a blow.

  Spock hesitated. “Even her sleep was restless,” he said finally. A muscle twitched in his jawline. “She was not aware of my presence at all.”

  Sarek closed his eyes, struggling for control. He experienced a brief impulse to tell Spock how he had attempted to reach Amanda, but that was a private thing…not to be spoken of. Grief washed over him anew.So…I did not reach her, there at the end. I thought I might have…I thought perhaps she could detect my presence…but it was not so, evidently….

  “You were not there to ease her passing,” Spock went on, inexorably. “Despite my presence, she died alone.”

  Slowly the elder Vulcan drew himself up, gazing impassively at Spock, his face a cold mask. “These highly emotional recriminations are both illogical and distasteful, Spock. Your logic has failed you, my son…which is regrettable, but understandable, under the circumstances. You are, after all, Amanda’s child as well as mine. You are half-human…and it is your human half I am facing, now.”

  At last Spock turned his head and met his father’s eyes. Their gazes locked. The younger Vulcan’s mouth tightened…his gaze was as scorching as the desert that lay around them. But his voice, when he finally spoke, was icy. “In that case, I will take my distasteful human half and depart…sir.I bid you farewell.”

  Spock swung around and walked away, his pace light, even. His control was perfect; his movements betrayed nothing of the anger Sarek had sensed. The elder Vulcan hesitated, wanting to call him back, but he had been perfectly logical—and right. One did not apologize for being logical or correct….

  As the ambassador watched, his son crossed the narrow bridge, then strode away into the gathering darkness, leaving his father alone.

  James T. Kirk sat in his conference room at 0855 hours, awaiting Sarek and his first officer. Spock had returned to his cabin aboard theEnterprise to spend the night, instead of remaining with his father. In Kirk’s estimation, that did not bode well…he’d seen his friend’s
reaction when he spoke of Sarek’s leaving when Amanda was dying. Kirk had known Spock for many years, but had never seen him like this. If he had to label it, he would call it anger.

  Spock’s brief revelation three days ago concerning Romulan moles masquerading as Freelans—a whole damnedplanet of them, apparently, was extremely worrisome. James T. Kirk had had many run-ins with both Romulans and Klingons in his career, and, while it could not be denied that Klingons were fierce warriors and made awesome enemies, Kirk had decided long ago that he would rather confront Klingons in a knock-down, drag-out rather than Romulans.

  There was something about Romulans…a subtlety, a canniness…It was the idea of Vulcan intellect without Vulcan ethics that Kirk found frightening.

  And now…the Romulans were planning something big, if Sarek was right. That did not bode well for the Federation. Kirk recalled the moments after he had saved President Ra-ghoratrei at Camp Khitomer. The delegates and envoys had milled around, congratulating the Starfleet officers, everyone exclaiming over the fact that the supposed Klingon assassin had actually proved to be Colonel West, a human.

  While Kirk was standing there, being congratulated and thanked by President Ra-ghoratrei and Chancellor Azetbur, he’d noticed the Freelan envoy, shrouded in his or her muffling robes, facing Ambassador Nanclus, the Romulan who had plotted with General Chang and Admiral Cartwright to bring about war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Beside the Freelan had stood a young Vulcan woman, lovely and serene, her short black hair cropped to reveal her elegant ears.

  Kirk shook his head, slowly, his mind churning with questions and speculations. If someone had ripped the Freelan’s robes away, what would they all have seen? If Sarek was correct in his reasoning…and Vulcans were, after all, noted for their reasoning abilities…then they would have all seen a Romulan face beneath that muffling cowl and mask.

  If that was true, then what did the Romulans want out of all this? Was Sarek correct in his deductions?Was the Freelan goal to cause war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire?