Vulcan's Soul Trilogy Book One

by Josepha Sherman

  Lifelong habit as a good citizen made his conscience assail him: the men in the tunnel needed assistance. He should call Ivek and get his security teams in there.

  But he knew how hard he had hit. Those men would not wake for hours, assuming they ever waked again. They were evidence that someone was willing to kill or at least abduct him to prevent him from attending the VSI’s conference.

  How many others of the senior scientific staff would be missing?

  Unobtrusively picking up his pace, Karatek even arrived at the VSI’s underground installation early enough to be monitored, receive a fresh badge and attention for the cuts on his hands. The result of a fall, he explained. Yes, he would be more careful in the future, thank you so much; he was sorry to cause concern and extra work now, of all times.

  He slipped into the VSI’s largest conference room with a murmured apology and a courteous nod to the audience before he took his place at the table set on a dais. If he could not rush home and make sure his family was safe, as he really wanted, he longed just to sink into his seat and bury his head in his hands. But he would not do either. Not when he had a presentation to make and deadly new evidence—in the form of three assassins—to present.

  He made himself glance at the screens set into the conference table. T’Raya’s “Reconfiguring Cargo Bays for Hydroponics.” His own “Adapting Propulsion Systems for Protracted Deep-Space Flight.” Torin’s “Funding Generation Ships through Spinoff Technologies,” and many other presentations that might determine the survival of Vulcan as a race, if not a world.

  Monitors set up around the room showed scenes from across the Mother World. A crater in the Southern Hegemony whose fused sand sent up radiation that meant no Vulcan dared walk there for a thousand years.

  A crack in the land, from which steam rose as it did from the lava river beneath Mount Seleya.

  A slagged installation, fortunately very far to the north of ShanaiKahr, the result of a portable bomb smuggled in among trade goods.

  Demonstrators in the Old Town pleading for the High Command to join in a worldwide consortium to preserve Vulcan’s one shrunken ocean from further pollution by runoff from chemical factories erected in the Waste.

  Long shots of the corrosion on the faces of the immense, ancient statues fronting Vulcan’s last shrunken, polluted sea.

  As the audience filled, two chairs on the dais remained empty. Karatek closed his eyes, wondering what would become of the man and woman to whom they belonged. Then, with deliberate contempt, he met the eyes of the political officers who sat as unobtrusively as they could in a corner. High Command had taken pains to send men and women with scientific training, but they were still outsiders. Karatek let his eyes fall from their faces, on which no trace of awareness showed, to their arms. To the badges on their sleeves, which matched the badge he had taken from an assassin.

  Torin rapped on the table, a sign that his patience, always a scarce resource, was exhausted. “Although two speakers are late, I think we must start.”

  He raised his voice over the buzz of last-minute conversation, checking of personal messages, and late arrivals.

  “May we begin, please?” he asked with deceptive mildness. “In the interests of time, I will omit official welcoming remarks. We all know one another far too well, or at least, we think we do. And, with the exception of our two guests”—he inclined his head with insultingly elaborate deference to the political officers—“we all know why we are here: to gather information, to give it, and to make the best decisions we can in a hard time. Now that the High Command has severed diplomatic relations with the Northeastern Alliance, we must decide whether to repurpose the ships we had been building for them for long-range travel, abandon the project entirely, or complete them as ships of war for the High Command’s use. T’Kehr T’Raya has agreed to speak first. She will present a feasibility study about how cargo or weapons bays could be converted to agricultural use, potentially extending the length of these ships’ potential voyages indefinitely. T’Raya?” Torin inclined his head to her with sincere respect.

  Karatek could not have had a better cue.

  “Sir,” he rose from his chair. “May I speak?”

  Torin snorted annoyance, but suppressed the explosion Karatek might have expected. He pulled out the badge he had taken from the dead political officer and laid it on the table. Next to it, he set the blaster, the te-Vikram blade, and the drugs he had taken from the other two assassins.

  Finally, he held up his hands. They were bandaged. He had refused regeneration “so I can make it to the conference before T’Kehr Torin goes thermonuclear,” he had lied.

  Now, he unwrapped the bandages and let the livid abrasions show.

  “This morning, I took the qanat through the Old City. I was attacked along the way. Because I have been training with T’Kehr Torin, I was able to defend myself.”

  A ripple of amusement at the idea of Torin as a martial-arts instructor subsided, to be replaced by murmurs of sincere anxiety.

  “I killed one man. In the fight, I tore this from his tunic. You will see it matches the insignia on our guests’ tunics. I accuse them of attempted murder and violation of the laws of hospitality. That was one man. Two others lie in the tunnel. At least, I think they’re still there; I hit them pretty hard. But they should not be hard to track, and they need medical attention if they’re ever to be fit to interrogate. T’Kehr, if you would give orders that Subcommander Ivek be called? He has served us well in the past.”

  Torin whispered to an assistant, who left the room fast. “Seal the room,” he ordered. “You’re not going anywhere,” he told to the political officers. “I don’t want to hear a single word out of you.

  “Karatek, if you would, slide that blaster down the table.”

  Taking it, Torin propped his arms on the table and covered the two men.

  “My host, will you yield the floor to me?” asked a clear voice from the audience. After they had parted at the Gates of ShiKahr, Karatek had never expected to hear that voice again.

  Keeping one eye on the political officers, Torin rose. “If you were not a dangerous rebel,” he told Surak, “you would have made a fine actor. Talk. Talk as if all our lives depend on it.”

  Torin sounded furious, but Karatek suspected he was vastly amused.

  Skamandros rose and leaned against the wall, as if keeping the dais under surveillance. He moved rather stiffly, and a deep bruise shadowed one temple. What had happened to Surak’s shadow?

  Surak bowed with a deep irony. When he rose, he raised an eyebrow at Karatek.

  “T’Kehr Torin,” Surak began, “even before your colleague has given his scheduled talk, he has made an excellent presentation of new evidence, flawlessly argued. The conclusion is inescapable. If we extrapolate from the danger in which he found himself, we can logically conclude that you are all in grave danger.”

  “You make it sound as if we have returned to the days of the warring dukes between the First and Second Dynasties,” Torin remarked. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Nothing so civilized confronts us,” Surak replied. “The ancient dukes who endowed Mount Seleya and put up their statues by the sea preserved an honor code. Instead, we confront only politics.

  “The high priestess at Mount Seleya told me that she would stop her own heart before she permitted that to happen to her. What will you do? And what will you do if your permission is usurped?

  “What if agents who wish you harm come for you, as they did for Karatek here? You may not be as fortunate, or as well trained as he. The high priestess, I grant, posits an extreme case. You are reasonable men and women, and reasonable men and women do not wish to suicide. But what if they kill you? What if they hold your families? You could all be turned into weapons worse than those Varekat and his associates destroyed two years ago.”

  Whispers buzzed in the hall. Two people seated at the table flinched visibly.

  “You do not want to go,” Surak told them. “
That is understandable. But can you dare to stay?” Surak stretched out one hand to the audience, then at the monitors, which showed only disaster.

  Two or three people rose, heading for the corner where the political officers sat with determined looks on their faces. They lunged for the exits. Torin rose. Holding his old blaster in two hands, he took meticulous aim.

  “Let them go,” Surak called. “Kill them, and who knows when it may be expedient to kill you? Beginnings are important. What we begin here will alter the face of our world. And, if all goes well, possibly others.”

  Seventeen

  Now

  STARLEET HEADQUARTERS

  Uhura, seated in her tranquil office on Earth, smiled warmly up at Chekov as he entered, as though no time at all had passed since they’d last served together. She rose from behind the desk to take his hands in hers. “Pavel. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Uhura. Bozhya moi, voman, you look more beautiful than ever.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “You are deserving flattery.” He started to kiss her hand in full Russian chivalry, but then stopped in mid-bend. “Oops, but ve are not alone, I see.” He straightened and let her hands go. “Ambassador Spock! How good to see you again.”

  “And you, Admiral.”

  “And yes, here is Captain Saavik, too. Mrs. Spock as vell, yes?”

  She nodded, granting him the smallest hint of an almost-smile.

  “And, ah, you, sir?” Chekov added. “I’m afraid that I do not know you.”

  The third Vulcan dipped his head slightly in courtesy. “I am Ruanek.”

  “Ruanek. Pleased to meet you.” Chekov glanced about. “All in this together, are ve? Vhatever ‘this’ may be.”

  “Pavel,” Uhura said, “you are the only one in Starfleet to have had any contact with the Watraii.”

  “Contact.” Chekov snorted. “I hate to disappoint you, Uhura, but it could barely be called that.”

  “What, then?”

  He sighed. “Back in the days vhen I was still captaining the U.S.S. Undaunted, ve encountered von of their ships, and I got a glimpse of those strange masks they seem to like. But, vell, that’s about it. Negotiations never got beyond the ‘Ve do not vish to contact you, go avay, goodbye,’ stage.” He glanced about at the four sets of impassive faces. “And that, I take it, that little bit, makes me the von and only Vatraii expert.”

  “Precisely,” Spock said.

  “And isn’t that nice? Then ve are flying almost completely blind.” Chekov turned to Uhura. “And vhat, pray tell, is our mission to be? No, vait, let me guess: Ve are out to confront the Vatraii, even though ve don’t know anything about them other than that they like masks, and somehow conwince them to tell us the truth about themselves.”

  “No more difficult than for a Russian to work his way aboard an American nuclear vessel during the Cold War,” Uhura said slyly.

  Chekov snorted. “It is not the same thing at all, my dear voman, and you know it.” He glanced about at the others. “And vhat a big mission this will be for so few of us.”

  “It will not be ‘so few of us,’ ” Spock said. “The odds are 89.0005 percent in our favor that we will not be the only ones seeking the truth.”

  “That high a percentage?” Chekov asked dryly.

  “That is the lowest estimate,” Spock retorted.

  “Vell. That does sound a bit less hopeless.”

  “You do understand,” Uhura began, “that if things go wrong—”

  “You never heard of this mission,” Ruanek cut in.

  “Exactly. But should it go wrong or, for that matter, even if it doesn’t, you who are of Starfleet could well be looking at court-martial.”

  “Vhat, again?” Chekov asked wryly.

  Saavik said simply, “I remember when another colony was destroyed, this one most populated by defenseless Klingon women and children. And I remember when one Romulan commander risked everything—life, rank, honor—everything, even turning against her own people in combat in an attempt to defend the innocent.” She did not need to mention the name. Spock and Ruanek both knew she meant Charvanek. “I cannot be less brave than she.”

  “Understood,” Spock said gravely.

  As always when Spock saw Saavik’s ship, the U.S.S. Alliance, he found himself thinking how sleek and efficient it looked, an elegantly shaped Excelsior-class vessel. And as always, he had a most illogical but satisfying little thrill of pride in his wife’s accomplishments.

  What Saavik was thinking as they went on board, however, could not be read by even another Vulcan. She looked like the perfect image of a Starfleet captain in her neat uniform and decorations, her persona calm, cool, and unruffled. But Spock, who knew his wife better than anyone else, suspected that she was pleased to be back on board.

  As she entered the bridge of her ship, followed by Spock, Chekov, and Ruanek, the crew stood at attention.

  “Welcome, Captain!”

  “Welcome aboard, Captain Saavik!”

  These were the normal courtesies, Spock thought. He’d heard them often enough on various ships. But her crew, a mixed group of humans, Bolians, and Vulcans, did seem genuinely glad to see Saavik. Quite agreeable to see his wife so appreciated in her work.

  The bridge of Saavik’s ship had been slightly modified from the standard, since at least half the crew was Vulcan and expected a slightly different design. It was a clean and elegant blend of Starfleet and Vulcan tastes, absolutely logical in its layout, with nothing out of place. Spock suddenly remembered that awkward science station that had been his aboard the Enterprise. He nodded his approval of the roomier, more practically arranged design of this ship’s version. The Bolian man seated at the station gave him a slightly puzzled glance and politely nodded back.

  The smooth curve of the bridge included a central command chair and two slightly subsidiary chairs, one to its left, one to its right. As she took her seat, Saavik invited Spock to the right-hand chair and Chekov to the left. Ruanek, however, perhaps with some latent Romulan warrior instinct roused by being on the bridge of a fighting ship, refused to sit passively, and instead took up a guarding position behind Spock and Saavik.

  As though it would be logical that either I or my wife would need a bodyguard aboard her own Starfleet vessel.

  But then, more of Ruanek’s life had been spent as warrior than as scholar. Judging from the martial-arts lessons he taught on Vulcan, he had kept up all his fighting skills as well.

  Vulcan could ask for no more vehement defender. And, Spock added dryly to himself, T’Selis could have found no more unusual husband.

  “Lieutenant Suhur,” Saavik commanded, “open intership communications.”

  The communications officer, a slender young dark-skinned Vulcan man, said, “Done, Captain.”

  “This is your captain speaking,” Saavik said. “I wish to be certain that all aboard understand what we do. This is not a Starfleet-sanctioned mission. Even if we succeed, we will still be in danger of court-martial or other penalties. But you all do know why this mission must be undertaken. If there are any among you who feel you cannot take part, there shall be no punishment. But you must speak out here and now.”

  She waited, and Spock, watching, knew that though she seemed outwardly calm, the tension was fierce within her.

  Then the reports started flooding in:

  “Engineering: We stand with you, Captain.”

  “Sickbay here. We stand with you, Captain.”

  On through the ship the assurances rang out. All the Alliance’s crew stood with their captain.

  “I thank you,” Saavik said. “Helm, take us out.”

  Almost before Saavik’s ship had reached interstellar space, her chief tactical officer, Lieutenant Abrams, a stern-faced, solidly built human woman, reported, “We’re not alone, Captain. There are Vulcan ships joining us…ten of them Surak-class and, uh, seven of unknown designations.”

  The hesitation was understandable. Thanks to the constantl
y curious Vulcan scientists and their constantly updated designs, Vulcan ship classes rarely fit neatly into the Federation databases.

  Lieutenant Suhur, communications, announced, “Incoming message…correction, messages, Captain Saavik.”

  “Put them on screen, Lieutenant Suhur.”

  The messages came flooding in, the Vulcan ships’ captains’ serene, solemn faces appearing on the viewscreen one after another.

  “This is the T’Sarik.”

  “This is the Surani.”

  “—the T’Karis—”

  “—the M’retin.”

  “We greet thee,” Saavik replied in Vulcan formal courtesy.

  But as soon as they were safely out into interstellar space that was controlled by no one planetary government, the composition of the small fleet changed as other ships of other races joined them. The Vulcan ship names were soon followed by a wide variety of ship names, Cyreli, Bolian, Regara…Saavik and her crew were soon hard put to keep up with the tallies and the greetings.

  “Better than we expected,” Ruanek commented to Spock.

  “Expectations—”

  “Are not logical. Yes, I know that. But just the same, Spock, you can’t deny being just a little bit relieved. And yes, I know, I know: That isn’t very logical, either.”

  He and T’Selis must have…a very interesting marriage, Spock thought with a touch of wry humor.

  “At least you certainly vere not exaggerating, Spock. Ve have picked up quite a good deal of company after all.”

  “Would it ever be logical for me to exaggerate?” Spock asked.

  Even so, he had to admit that the fleet that was gradually coming together in interstellar space was…eclectic, to say the least. In addition to the Vulcan ships, and the independents such as an Arcturan cruiser and two Zedali battleships, there were now several Federation vessels.