by Brad
“It is natural,” responded Spock. “I am your son.”
“Yes, you are.” After a moment, Amanda said, “I suppose you want to know what happened. And I’m sure that Sarek didn’t tell you.”
“No, he did not. But if you do not wish to speak of it—if the memory is painful—”
“No, I don’t mind.” Amanda sighed. “It was strange, Spock. Yesterday morning I received a call from town. A man who called himself Wurnall introduced himself as an Arkadian merchant and told me that he had heard I collected exotic plants. He claimed to have a full selection of Ceti IV desert succulents, and he displayed some for me. I bought twenty-five, and he agreed that he would deliver them to me this afternoon. I suppose I should have been suspicious.”
“Why is that?”
Amanda shrugged, then made a face. “Ouch. It still gives me a twinge when I move suddenly. Why should I have suspected something was wrong? Well, to begin with, Wurnall didn’t really look human. He wore the traditional turban and veil of a Cetan desert nomad, but he was very short and strongly built for a Cetan. And his accent was not quite right—he spoke Vulcan, and so the Universal Translator didn’t take over.”
Spock nodded. “And the attack?”
“It was a stupid thing. Wurnall arrived late this afternoon, with the plants in two flat cartons. He volunteered to help me carry them into the garden, and I led the way. Just as I was setting my carton down, I heard him drop his, and from the corner of my eye, I saw that he had drawn a weapon, a short, curved dagger. I’m afraid I screamed. Spock, are you all right?”
“Yes, Mother,” Spock said.
Amanda gave him an intense look. “You’re pale. This is upsetting you.”
“I can control my feelings. What happened?”
“Remember I am all right, Spock,” Amanda said, touching his hand. “The man slashed at me. I threw up my arms and warded off the attack, but the dagger wounded my left arm. Fortunately, T’Lak was working in the study. She rushed out when she heard my scream. I was backing away from Wurnall and stumbled over the plants—they were rolling everywhere in their little pots. Wurnall was bending over me, ready to strike again, when I saw T’Lak over his shoulder. She simply reached out and gripped his neck, and the man fell unconscious.”
“I know the technique,” Spock said, “though I have never really used it.”
“That’s about all,” Amanda said. “Except that Sarek is shaken.”
Spock’s eyes narrowed. “Father? I cannot believe that.”
“It’s true,” Amanda said with a smile. “It is ironic, isn’t it? I am the emotional human, but I escaped with nothing more serious than a scratch. Your father is the unemotional Vulcan, but he went into a frenzy of activity, calling you back from the Science Academy, ordering guards from the security service. I think what disturbed him most was discovering that Wurnall was not a Cetan at all, but a Marathan.”
Spock gasped. “What?”
“You see? Even you are startled.” Amanda yawned. “I am sorry. One effect of accelerated healing is that it makes me very sleepy. Ask your father the rest. And don’t worry, Spock. The man is in custody, and I’ll be fine.” She closed her eyes.
Spock sat beside her bed until he was sure that his mother had fallen asleep. Then he left quietly, careful not to disturb her. He found Sarek in his darkened office, sitting before his computer, his chin resting on his interlaced fingers.
“I am sorry for my behavior earlier,” Spock said.
“It was understandable. You may sit if you wish.” Spock took a seat beside his father. After a few moments of silence, Sarek said, “Something is terribly wrong. The assassin is a Marathan.”
“Mother told me that.”
“He is a member of the Minak clan. A former rebel. But he is related to the Tuan clan as well. He will tell the authorities nothing.” Sarek sighed. “I have just been in touch with the security director assigned to his case. I am about to go there to urge a mind-meld.”
Despite himself, Spock was startled. “Father! A mind-meld is a serious violation of individual privacy.”
“I know that very well,” Sarek returned. “But I must defend my family, Spock. And even more is at stake. Already some voices are calling for a return to Vulcan’s traditional isolation. Our space ports are too open, they say. We have had no serious violence for centuries, but now this happens. All my life I have worked to help Vulcan become a comfortable and valuable part of the United Federation of Planets. It would be a tragic irony if an act directed at my family should result in Vulcan’s becoming a closed planet once more.”
“I understand,” Spock said. “Father, may I accompany you?”
“You are safer here.”
In the darkness, Spock could see only the silhouette of his father’s face. “I had a Marathan friend,” Spock reminded him. “And the trouble affects me personally. And I am your son.”
For several seconds, Sarek was silent. Then he pushed himself up from his chair slowly, as if he were an old, tired man. “Very well. Come with me.”
The trip to the security center took only a few minutes by air car. Two security officers, a man and a woman, both rather more burly than most Vulcans, led Spock and his father to an extra cubicle, its gray walls plain and empty. At the far end of the room, the captive, a middle-aged Marathan, stood behind a flickering yellowish force field. He wore a plain tunic and trousers, and his face was set in determination, his mouth clamped tightly shut.
“He has said nothing,” the woman officer, whose name was T’Mar, said quietly.
“That is why I am urging a mind-meld,” Sarek returned, glancing at the defiant figure confined behind the force field. “Since we cannot be certain that this is not part of some larger conspiracy, we must take the risk of violating his privacy.”
Shanak, the male security officer, shook his head. “No, Sarek. It is impossible.”
“But this could be a crisis that affects our people’s future relations with every other sentient species,” argued Sarek. “Surely the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one.”
T’Mar made a gesture of disagreement. “What you ask might be possible, Sarek, however distasteful, except for one thing.”
“And what is the objection?”
T’Mar lowered her voice. “It is a logical objection to which we see no answer. Surely it has occurred to you as well. The treaty of agreement between Marath and the United Federation of Planets is not yet in force.”
“Therefore,” added Shanak, “Marath is not part of the Federation and is not subject to its laws and regulations. Technically, a mind-meld may be legal if a Federation citizen is apprehended for some crime on Vulcan. But this man is not a citizen.”
“Surely,” Sarek said, his voice rising just a little, “it is illogical to extend to noncitizens rights and immunities greater than those we offer citizens.”
“We do not see it that way,” said T’Mar.
The argument went on for many minutes. Spock stopped listening, because he was concentrating on the terrible expression in the captive’s eyes. The prisoner’s gaze never once left Sarek, and it was venomous, filled with deadly hatred. This man would gladly kill us all, Spock thought. Father, Mother, and me. But why? What strong emotion drives him?
He stepped away from the group and came closer to the prisoner. Still the Marathan did not look at him, but only at Sarek. Softly, Spock asked, “Why did you attack Amanda?”
The captive gave no sign that he had even heard.
“I must understand,” Spock said. “I am Spock, son of Sarek and—”
He flinched back involuntarily. With a howl, the Marathan threw himself at Spock. Unarmed, barefoot, dressed in a thin tunic, apparently helpless, he launched himself with hands clenched like claws. The force field sputtered, buzzed, and hurled him back. He hit the gray wall behind him so hard that the breath chuffed out of his lungs. He slipped to the floor, sprawling, with his back against the wall, and panted.
Bu
t his expression did not change, even when T’Mar and Shanak hurried Sarek and Spock from the confinement cubicle. He glared at them with murderous hatred, silent, overpowering, and evil.
The next days were hard ones. Sarek suggested that if Spock wanted to return to the Vulcan Science Academy, he could do so as long as two security officers accompanied him as bodyguards. Spock refused. “That would make me even more out of place than formerly,” he pointed out to his father. “I am certain that the presence of security guards would be disruptive. It would be better for me to remain here.”
A distracted Sarek agreed. By the next morning, Amanda was out of bed, much better. By the day after that, her physician removed the bandage, and her arm was as good as new. Unfortunately, life in the house was much slower to return to normal.
Sarek tried his best. He installed a complex, sensitive security system, and he made sure that the guards were unobtrusive. Still, he asked Amanda not to go into her garden for a while. “The hills overlook the garden in too many places,” he pointed out. “Although it is very unlikely, it is possible that the Marathan may have friends with long-range weapons.”
And so the three of them were stuck in the house. They ate together, but Sarek was too wrapped up in the problem of identifying the attacker to be any company. He spent long hours communicating with security headquarters and with the distant representatives of Marath, who denied all knowledge of the assassin’s identity.
Spock read, meditated, and became more and more uneasy. He had a sense that something else was about to happen, but what, he could not say. When it came, it caught him by complete surprise.
It came early one morning in the form of a call from Lieutenant Commander Christopher Pike. The young Starfleet officer’s smiling face materialized in the virtual screen above Spock’s computer. “We meet again,” he said. “I hope you are well, Spock.”
Realizing that Pike probably had not heard of the assault on his mother, Spock merely nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander Pike.”
“Spock, I’m calling on behalf of Captain April. You might not have thought his compliment was serious, but it was. And he has a considerable amount of influence, so he has an offer for you.”
Spock raised his eyebrow. “What kind of offer?”
Pike grinned. “This is the most irregular appointment I ever heard of, but here it is: Captain April proposed you for admission to Starfleet Academy. And you have been accepted.”
For a moment, Spock did not reply. He blinked. “I did not request an application.”
“I know. Ordinarily, you’d have to take entrance exams, go through the selection process, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But you have unusual qualifications. You have already been accepted to the Vulcan Science Academy, whose standards are at least as high as Starfleet’s. And then, too, you helped us get the Enterprise out of a tough spot.” Pike’s expression became more serious. “Spock, we humans are grateful for Vulcans joining Earth as a founding member of the Federation. And we appreciate Vulcan’s contribution of the Intrepid as a Starfleet vessel—you probably know that the entire crew of the Intrepid is made up of Vulcan Science Academy graduates. But there’s a general feeling in Starfleet that all of our starships would benefit from having Vulcan officers. You can open the door for them. You can be the first Vulcan cadet at Starfleet Academy.”
Chapter 8
Sarek’s expectation of another attack was accurate. The news came the next morning—from the Vulcan Science Academy. Sarek called Spock in, and the two of them heard the grim report from a security officer on the viewscreen. “Sirok was seriously wounded,” the officer said. “He is in the Healing Center now. He will recover, but the process will be a long one. He suffered internal trauma.”
“Sirok?” Spock asked. “When did this happen?”
The security officer said, “Not more than an hour ago. The event was captured by security sensors. Would you care to see?”
“Yes,” Sarek said.
“Very well.” The officer touched a control panel before him. The picture changed, showing a walkway beside one of the fountains on the academy grounds. Two young Vulcans passed, going in opposite directions. The guard’s voice said, “Sirok was on his way to a seminar. He will be visible in three seconds.”
And three seconds later, the tall, robed figure of Sirok appeared. The young Vulcan was walking slowly, his head down, his palms pressed together before him, as he often did when pondering some question of science. “I will slow the action,” the security officer said.
From the lower corner of the screen, a short, burly figure rushed into view, moving fast even in slow motion. Spock tilted his head. He saw the figure’s arm sweep up. “Please stop the action,” Spock said.
The picture froze. Sirok was just beginning to react. The assassin had gripped the edge of his robe with one hand, and the other held a curved blade high overhead. Spock leaned closer to the display. “Magnify the weapon five times please.”
The weapon, immobilized on the screen, became larger. It was of some silvery-gray substance, not metal. And blade and handle were not two separate pieces, but one continuous carved surface. “Father,” Spock said, “notice the Marathan glyphs on the blade.”
“I see them, Spock,” Sarek returned. “They are the Lorval clan symbols—the same as those on the blade that wounded your mother.” Sarek spoke a little more loudly: “Thank you. Please restore the image and resume slow motion.”
They saw the blade plunge downward. Sirok reached out, fingers curved, trying for a neck pinch, but his assailant had taken him by surprise. His face contorted as the blade, hidden from view by the assassin’s body, found its mark. He reeled backward, striking the curving base of the fountain. Sirok fell to the ground and rolled, leaving a spatter of copper-green blood. The assassin leaped toward him, but at that moment, two Vulcans ran into the picture. The attacker spun, brandishing his dagger, his iridescent hair flying with the motion. He yelled something, and then a sonic beam struck him, sending him crumpling to the ground.
“He was stunned, of course,” the security officer said. “He is in custody, but he refuses to answer our questions.”
“What did he cry out just before falling unconscious?” asked Sarek.
“That is why we called you.” The security officer appeared on the screen once more. “He thought his victim was dead. Apparently the assassin was unfamiliar with Vulcan anatomy and was under the impression that he had struck Sirok in the heart. He shouted, ‘Sarek’s son is dead—next is Sarek.’ ”
Sarek blinked. “My son?”
“He must have waited outside the residence building. Sirok and your son, Spock, are somewhat similar in appearance. The assassin believed he was striking at Spock.”
“Why me?” asked Spock. “That is illogical. I have done nothing to warrant an attack.”
“Nor has your mother,” the officer reminded him. “And alien species do not often behave logically.”
Sarek straightened. “Keep me informed of anything the prisoner says. I am trying to persuade the authorities to permit a mind-meld.”
“If you will forgive my saying so, Sarek, that will be difficult. But we will do as you request.”
The virtual screen vanished. Sarek looked at his son. “Why?” he asked. When Spock raised an eyebrow, Sarek shook his head. “A rhetorical question only. Of course, you do not know why. It is a disturbing development. If the different parties to the Marathan treaty indeed were in disagreement, why did they pretend to agree at Bel T’aan?”
“I do not know,” Spock said. He frowned slightly. “But perhaps the attacks really are not a direct result of the treaty. It is possible that the rebel factions who attempted to immobilize the Enterprise lost face when I found a way for the ship to escape. I do know that Marathan fighters have a fierce pride. Perhaps the vendetta is a punishment for a perceived humiliation.”
Sarek considered that, but his expression showed that he did not accept the possibility. “No, Spock. Th
e trouble must have begun earlier, with the treaty. I must review every clause in it carefully to see what objection the rebel forces may have. And the treaty will give us our best chance of finding the other assassins.”
“You believe there are more?”
“Certainly there are more,” Sarek replied. “The authorities have told me that a number of Marathans are presently on Vulcan. Those who can be accounted for appear to be peaceful traders, all from the home planet. But some have simply disappeared. Their refusal to obey Vulcan law is a major reason for the debate currently going on about sealing Vulcan from the galaxy. It is a trivial problem, really, since it focuses on our family only—”
“It is not trivial to us,” Spock objected.
“The needs of the many, Spock,” Sarek reminded him. “At any rate, if I let it be known that I plan to transmit the treaty to Federation headquarters for final ratification, I believe the assassins will make a concerted effort to stop me.”
“You mean to kill you.”
“Yes.”
Spock stared at his father. “But would you lie, Father?”
“No. I will merely let everyone know that it is my intention to transmit the treaty, as it really is—eventually. I will put no date on the transmission, however, and I will arrange to travel to Earth in person. Any spies will assume that the purpose of my trip is to ratify the treaty. That should bring the remaining assassins into the open.”
“It is dangerous,” Spock said.
“I have weighed the danger.”
Spock paced, his head down. “Father, allow me to study the treaty with you before you take this step. Perhaps together we can discover the problem.”
“I would be gratified by your help, my son. The language of diplomacy is an important acquisition, even for one who wishes to be a scientist.”
They worked in the confinement of their home. Sarek even darkened the windows, allowing no chance for an outsider to peer into the house from a distance. Spock noted the methodical, logical structure of the treaty. Under even the closest analysis, the agreement seemed fair to all sides. The treaty specified that each party, homeworlders and colonists, would have absolute control of their own territory. However, Marathans also gained freedom of movement within the system as long as visitors agreed to abide by the rules and laws of local governments. And the spaceways remained open to all.
