by Brad
The tall, dignified Vulcan towered above the stocky Marathans around him. As the two boys maneuvered toward him, Spock noticed that one of the Marathans standing near Sarek was Cha’s father, Karos Mar Santor. Like his son, Karos looked tense and unhappy. His mane of hair, even more impressive than his son’s, had lost some of its luster, and the rainbow colors were muted, but Karos was a healthy, vigorous man. As he spoke to Sarek, he gave the impression of great energy under weak control. Spock wondered what emotion Karos felt. Was the word angry? Or was it a different feeling? Spock could only guess.
Sarek nodded a greeting as Spock and Cha drew near. “Welcome, my son. Good afternoon, young Mar.”
Cha murmured some pleasantry and then spoke to his own father: “Well?”
“The majority have approved a treaty,” Karos said shortly, his voice harsh, rasping. “We will not speak of it now.”
“But, Father—”
“We will talk of it later!” snapped Karos.
The abruptness of Karos’s manner surprised Spock. Like his son, Karos was an easygoing, humorous individual. True, Spock had come to realize that even a being who enjoyed laughter could be very serious indeed when dealing with matters of importance. And it was equally true that the negotiations had lasted for a long time and had been most demanding. And yet …
And yet something more was wrong. Spock could sense it in the tension between father and son, in the hopeless but determined glare Cha gave the older Marathan, in the way they both turned abruptly and walked away.
Spock moved to his father’s side. “Have you reached a satisfactory accord?”
Sarek replied, “We have at least forged a treaty. It recognizes the unity of the Marathan peoples but grants sovereignty to each group. No side is completely satisfied with it.”
“Then it is not a good treaty?”
Sarek gave his son a considering look, the faintest hint of warmth in his eyes. “On the contrary, Spock. The best treaty always leaves every party a little unsatisfied, because all must surrender something of importance in order for the whole group to gain.”
“I will remember that.” The groups had rearranged themselves, with heated but quiet conversations going on all around the room. Outside both suns had set, and the sky had grown quite dark. Marath was near a cluster of bright stars, or rather was within a few dozen light-years of them, and some were so brilliant that Spock could see them through the glass windows, even with the interior of the conference center radiant with light. In a far corner, Cha and his father had joined a group of negotiators from Shakir, the cold outpost of the Marathan civilization. They kept looking Sarek’s way, and none of the looks were friendly. One of them, a grim-looking elderly Marathan whose hair had faded to silvery blue, turned his craggy, wrinkled face toward the two Vulcans and scowled at them. The hum and murmur of conversation were urgent and low. “Father,” Spock said, “the Shakir delegation appears to have strong reservations about the treaty.”
“Yes,” responded Sarek with a sigh. “The old man is Hul Minak Lasvor, a rebel leader in the space war fought between Shakir and Marath thirty years ago. He was opposed to any agreement, and in some ways, the other members of the Shakir delegation agreed with him. They wished to include some concessions that the Marathan delegation refused, chiefly having to do with rights of passage to and from the home world. It was a serious block to negotiation, and at last I was able to overcome it only by specifying in the treaty that such questions will be resolved through more negotiations over the next ten standard years.” After a pause, Sarek added, “I do not fully understand the heat with which the diplomats argued this problem. Strong emotions enter into it, and the Marathans are most reluctant to explain their reasons to an outsider.”
“I have noticed that, Father.” The two Vulcans were walking toward a bank of turbolifts that would take them to their quarters. “Still, a treaty of any sort will help the Marathans in their application to join the Federation, will it not?”
They stepped into the turbolift, and Sarek said, “Habitation level, diplomatic guest quarters one.” To Spock he said, “The treaty will do much more than that, my son. You must understand what has happened here. Thanks to diplomacy, the system has avoided bloodshed and war. That is an accomplishment of great merit in itself. And perhaps they have taken a first step, a small step, toward becoming truly one people. That is an even greater accomplishment. Do you understand me?”
The turbolift sighed to a stop, and father and son got out. The corridor into which they stepped was softly lit, arched, and silent. They walked toward their rooms as Spock slowly answered, “I believe I do understand, Father. You have taught the Marathans the value of diplomacy, the logic of settling their disputes bloodlessly. You have given them a start on the path to full civilization.”
“Not I,” Sarek gently corrected his son. “The Vulcan way of logic. I am only the instrument of logic on Marath. Spock, I want you to consider how rare logic is in the universe. Our scientists believe there are hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of sentient races in the galaxy. What is the norm among them? War, hatred, bigotry, force. What is the greatest good we can do for them? To teach them there is a way out: the way our forebears discovered in the control of emotion and the use of logic.”
The door sensed their approach, identified them as the occupants of the rooms it guarded, and silently opened for them. They stepped inside, and the lights immediately came on. Spock said slowly, “Yes, Father. I understand.”
“Good.” Sarek sighed. “I know your gifts, Spock. You wish to be a scientist, and you have won a great honor in being admitted to the Science Academy on Vulcan. However, remember that a good diplomat may also be a good scientist. The universe is full of warring peoples, and many of them live in planets that our science has neither discovered nor described.”
After a moment of silence, Spock said, “Are we to return home now, Father?”
The way Sarek looked at him might have made a human teen anxious, for it was a glance that clearly said Sarek had grasped Spock’s strong desire to change the subject. But Spock was only half human, and his Vulcan side enabled him to do away with anxiety. Well, almost.
Sarek said, “Yes, now we will prepare to return home. The treaty will not be official until transmission to the United Federation of Planets for archiving and verification. The little work that remains can be done by subspace communication. We must prepare to leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Spock asked, not managing to hide the surprise in his voice. “So soon?”
“Yes. A Federation ship has entered orbit around Marath, and it will transport the Marathan offworlders to their own homes. It will also take us to Vulcan, so we need not call for a Vulcan ship.”
“I see. And what is the ship?” asked Spock.
“I did not make a point of asking its name. A ship is a ship,” replied Sarek. After a moment, he said, “Though now that I think of it, I did overhear some Marathans speaking of it. I believe the ship we are to take is called … Enterprise.”
Chapter 2
The cloud-streaked turquoise sky, the level plain, the misty distant blue volcanoes of Marath shimmered away, and a moment later, a dim, cool cubicle shimmered into existence. Sarek stepped down from the transporter platform, and Spock followed him. A young human man, dressed in the greenish-gold tunic of a Starfleet command officer, left the console from which he had operated the transporter controls. “Ambassador Sarek, Mr. Spock, welcome aboard the Enterprise. I am First Officer Christopher Pike. The captain will be pleased to see you.”
Sarek inclined his head. “And I to see him. Thank you, Lieutenant Commander Pike.”
“Captain April wanted me to show you to your quarters,” Pike said. “He thought you might want to accustom yourselves to our gravity and atmosphere for an hour or so. He will meet you at eleven hundred if that is agreeable.”
“Certainly,” Sarek said.
They left the transporter room and walked down a curving corri
dor. The first thing Spock noticed was the gravity, lighter than that of Marath, far lighter than that of Vulcan. He moved carefully, accustoming himself to his new weight. Crew members, men and women, hurried past them, giving them inquisitive but friendly glances as they passed. “I understand that congratulations are in order for young Spock,” Pike said as they took the lift to the accommodations deck. “It isn’t every eighteen-year-old Vulcan who receives an unconditional appointment to the Vulcan Science Academy.”
Spock gravely inclined his head. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander Pike. I did not realize my acceptance was news.”
“Oh, certainly,” Pike said. “Your father is a gifted diplomat, and those of us in Starfleet are grateful to him. The Marathan system is a real weak spot in our border with the Klingon Empire, and Sarek’s work will make the Federation much more secure. Naturally we’re interested in all the news about him—and in his son. You must be excited about attending the Science Academy.”
“No,” Spock said honestly. “I am—gratified but not excited.”
“Of course,” Pike said with a grin. “Excitement is a human emotion. I forgot for a second. Well, here you are: adjoining cabins. Your luggage has already been brought here. I’m afraid it’s a little plain, but the Enterprise has been called on to fight battles more than to transport honored guests. I hope these will be all right.”
“They fulfill their function admirably,” Sarek said. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander Pike.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Pike indicated a wall-mounted device. “If you wish to set the environmental controls to something more like a Vulcan atmosphere, just call Engineering on the intership communicator here. I will come for you shortly before eleven hundred hours and escort you to the captain’s conference room.”
“Thank you. I shall use the interval to meditate.”
As Pike turned to leave, Spock said, “Father? May I see the ship?”
Sarek replied, “That is up to Lieutenant Commander Pike.”
“Sure,” Pike said. “Come along.”
As they walked along the curving corridor, Spock breathed deeply and looked around. The atmosphere was ideal for a human crew, but to someone used to the thin air of Vulcan, it was incredibly rich with aromas: lubricants, faint hints of protein and fruit as they passed a dining area, undertones of minerals, and a strong tang of oxygen.
“Like to see the engine room?” asked Pike.
“That would be most gratifying,” Spock returned.
Their tour started there. Assistant Engineer Welborne welcomed them; showed them the dilithium containment chambers, the reactor coils, and the power controls; and explained about Cochrane warp generators. Spock listened politely, never once indicating that he knew all about these rather elementary processes. Pike then took him to the xenobiology labs, the sensor control center, and finally suggested returning to the transporter room. “The Marathans are coming aboard,” he explained. “We’re giving some of them a lift to their home worlds. I think we’ll just have time to see them aboard before your father has his appointment with Captain April.”
They returned to the same transporter room where Spock and Sarek had beamed aboard. Pike took his position behind the control console and explained the principles behind the matter-transport device. “I understand that Vulcan scientists have helped to refine this invention,” he said as he finished.
Spock nodded. “Yes, the biological pattern buffer has been made much more reliable thanks to Sunok of Vulcan. Prior to his invention, the transporter was only 99.9992 percent accurate in transporting living subjects. Thanks to Sunok’s incorporation of Vulcan uncertainty physics, it is now virtually impossible for the device to malfunction—from a purely physical perspective, I mean. There is always human error.”
“Hey,” laughed Pike.
Spock gave him an inquisitive look. “Forgive me. Of course I should have said operator error. The species of the operator is immaterial to the point. It was thoughtless of me.”
“No offense taken,” Pike said.
At that moment, the intercom came to life: “Enterprise, the Marathan delegates are ready to come aboard. Twenty-four to beam up.”
“We will take them in groups of six,” Pike responded. “First group, stand by.” He adjusted the controls. “Energizing.”
Spock watched as bands of Marathans came twinkling into existence on the transporter pad. Cha was in the third group, and he made his way over as soon as he stepped off the pad. “Hello, Spock.” His voice was low, guarded.
“Hello, Cha.”
“Well,” Cha said with a nervous smile, “at least you’ll get to see my home.”
“I look forward to that.”
Crew members had come to show the Marathans to their quarters. They were a silent group, and Spock realized that something was not right. None of them looked around at the starship or its crew. None showed the least interest in their surroundings. And, except for Cha, no one spoke.
As for Cha, he muttered quick, meaningless observations—“Very warm air, isn’t it? Wonder where that goes?”—that called for no response.
In a low voice, Spock said, “Forgive me, Cha, but what is wrong?”
Cha gave him a quick glance, his iridescent hair glittering electric blue, magenta, yellow. “Wrong? I don’t know what you mean, Spock.”
“You don’t seem yourself.”
“Cha!” It was the loud voice of Karos Mar Santor, Cha’s father. “Come. Here are our quarters.”
Cha hurried away, not even looking back. The door hissed open, the Marathan father and son entered their quarters, and the door closed again.
“We just have time to escort your father to the captain’s conference room,” Pike said. Spock followed him, still wondering about the transformation that had come over Cha. It was—disturbing.
Pike led Sarek and Spock to the conference room, where the tall, craggy Captain Robert April welcomed them with a smile. He turned to Pike and said, “Lieutenant Commander, report to the bridge and take us out of orbit. Set a course for Gandar, standard impulse.”
“Yes, Captain,” Pike said. “Permission to allow Mr. Spock on the bridge?”
Captain April raised his eyebrows. “Granted. Enjoy yourself, Mr. Spock.”
Spock did not point out that Vulcans did not enjoy themselves. He was too filled with anticipation—a sensation, he thought fleetingly, that in some ways almost resembled excitement. He followed Pike into the turbolift, where Pike ordered, “Bridge.” To Spock, Pike added, “Don’t expect anything spectacular. You won’t even feel anything when we leave orbit, although you’ll get a good view of Marath from where we are.”
“I understand,” Spock said.
“They stepped from the lift onto the bridge. Spock quickly took it all in: a large circular room, the forewall dominated by an enormous viewscreen. At the moment, the green-, blue-, purple-, and white-streaked world of Marath rotated there, huge in the viewscreen, with a clear band of twilight separating the night side from the day side. That, of course, was the effect of the binary sun.
“Mr. Bann, I’m here to take us out of orbit,” said Pike.
The helmsman, a completely bald young man, glanced over his shoulder. “Aye-aye, sir.”
Pike settled into the captain’s seat. “We have a visitor on the bridge,” he announced. “This is Mr. Spock. Spock, the lieutenant in the driver’s seat is Ledrick Bann; our navigator is Selena Niles; at communications is Lieutenant Michael Daron; our science officer is Lieutenant Richard Cheyney; and the grumpy old man at the engineering station is Chief Engineer Powell.”
Spock nodded to each in turn. “Lieutenant Cheyney, may I join you?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Cheyney, a strongly built young human with a closely cut crop of red hair. Spock went to stand slightly behind him, marveling at the compact science center. “If you want to know what anything’s for, just ask,” Cheyney said. “It’s really pretty quiet now. I’m just monitoring our status, that’s
all.”
“Thank you.”
“Computer,” said Cheyney, “show us a schematic of the primary stars in this system.”
“Working,” the computer said in its mechanical, but strangely feminine, voice. A moment later, one of the display panels lit with a representation of the two suns, the crushed oval of the red giant, the brilliant blue pin-head of the fierce companion. Swirls of gas connected them.
“Fascinating,” Spock said. “A binary system that has remained stable for more than three billion years.”
“It’s the strange composition of the blue-white companion that does it,” Cheyney replied. “It takes up just enough cast-off matter from the companion giant to compensate for its own rate of reaction. Most binaries in this configuration are doomed to a few million years of existence at best, but the Marathan system’s good for another four billion years or so.”
“Four billion three hundred and seventy-one million nine thousand six hundred and three,” Spock replied.
Chapter 3
Gandar was huge and terrible in the viewscreen, its gaseous surface whipped by hydrogen winds rushing at hundreds of kilometers per hour. Along the night terminator, branches of lightning forked and sputtered, some so long that on Vulcan they would have reached from one hemisphere of the planet halfway around the other. At the poles, coronas of electromagnetic energy pulsed and glowed a hundred colors, all shades of red, blue, violet, green, and yellow.
Watching the chaotic surface, which moved visibly—the enormous planet spun on its poles every 8.3 hours, giving it days and nights just over four hours long each—Spock wondered what it would be like to live on either of the two habitable moons. The moons were both in tidal lock, with one face forever toward the gas giant, the other eternally facing space. Anyone on the inner hemisphere would always see that vast orange sphere hanging overhead, day or night, taking up half the sky, seeming almost close enough to touch. It must be oppressive, Spock thought. It would be like waiting for the sky to fall.
