by Susan Wright
“Yes, sir!” they shouted as one.
Such bright and eager faces, the best and the brightest from all the Federation planets. Bobbie Ray showed his teeth in a grin. This was going to be interesting.
Read on for an excerpt from
Vulcan’s Forge. . . .
VULCAN'S FORGE
by
Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz
Please turn the page for asn excerpt from
Vulcan's Forge . . .
Intrepid II and Obsidian,
Day 4, Fifth Week, Month of the Raging Durak,
Year 2296
Lieutenant Duchamps, staring at the sight of Obsidian growing ever larger in the viewscreen, pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Would you look at that. . . .”
Captain Spock, who had been studying the viewscreen as well, glanced quickly at the helmsman. “Lieutenant?”
Duchamps, predictably, went back into too‑formal mode at this sudden attention. “The surface of Obsidian, sir. I was thinking how well‑named it is, sir. All those sheets of that black volcanic glass glittering in the sun. Sir.”
“That black volcanic glass is, indeed, what constitutes the substance known as obsidian,” Spock observed, though only someone extremely familiar with Vulcans–James Kirk, for instance–could have read any dry humor into his matter‑of‑fact voice. Getting to his feet, Spock added to Uhura, “I am leaving for the transporter room, Commander. You have the conn.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waited to see her seated in the command chair, knowing how important this new role was to her, then acknowledged Uhura’s right to be there with the smallest of nods. She solemnly nodded back, aware that he had just offered her silent congratulations. But Uhura being Uhura, she added in quick mischief, “Now, don’t forget to write!”
After so many years among humans, Spock knew perfectly well that this was meant as a good‑natured, tongue‑in‑cheek farewell, but he obligingly retorted, “I see no reason why I should utilize so inappropriate a means of communication,” and was secretly gratified to see Uhura’s grin.
He was less gratified at the gasps of shock from the rest of the bridge crew. Did they not see the witticism as such? Or were they shocked that Uhura could dare be so familiar? Spock firmly blocked a twinge of very illogical nostalgia; illogical, he told himself, because the past was exactly that.
McCoy was waiting for him, for once silent on the subject of “having my molecules scattered all over Creation.” With the doctor were several members of Security and a few specialists, such as the friendly, sensible Lieutenant Clayton, an agronomist, and the efficient young Lieutenant Diver, a geologist so new to Starfleet that her insignia still looked like they’d just come out of the box. Various other engineering and medical personnel would be following later. The heaviest of the doctor’s supplies had already been beamed down with other equipment, but he stubbornly clung to the medical satchel–his “little black bag,” as McCoy so anachronistically called it–slung over his shoulder.
“I decided to go,” he told Spock unnecessarily. “That outrageously high rate of skin cancer and lethal mutations makes it a fascinating place.”
That seemingly pure‑science air, Spock mused, fooled no one. No doctor worthy of the title could turn away from so many hurting people.
“Besides,” McCoy added acerbically, “someone’s got to make sure you all wear your sunhats.”
“Indeed. Energize,” Spock commanded, and . . .
. . . was elsewhere, from the unpleasantly cool, relatively dim ship–cool and dim to Vulcan senses, at any rate–to the dazzlingly bright light and welcoming heat of Obsidian. The veils instantly slid down over Spock’s eyes, then up again as his desert‑born vision adapted, while the humans hastily adjusted their sun visors. He glanced about at this new world, seeing a flat, gravelly surface, tan‑brown‑gray stretching to the horizon of jagged, clearly volcanic peaks. A hot wind teased grit and sand into miniature spirals, and the sun glinted off shards of the black volcanic glass that had given this world its Federation name.
“Picturesque,” someone commented wryly, but Spock ignored that. Humans, he knew, used sarcasm to cover uneasiness. Or perhaps it was discomfort; perhaps they felt the higher level of ionization in the air as he did, prickling at their skin.
No matter. One accepted what could not be changed. They had, at David Rabin’s request, beamed down to these coordinates a distance away from the city: “The locals are uneasy enough as it is without a sudden ‘invasion’ in their midst.”
Logical. And there was the Federation detail he had been told to expect, at its head a sturdy, familiar figure: David Rabin. He stepped forward, clad in a standard Federation hot‑weather outfit save for his decidedly non‑standard‑issue headgear of some loose, flowing material caught by a circle of corded rope. Sensible, Spock thought, to adapt what was clearly an effective local solution to the problem of sunstroke.
“Rabin of Arabia,” McCoy muttered, but Spock let that pass. Captain Rabin, grinning widely, was offering him the split‑fingered Vulcan Greeting of the Raised Hand and saying, “Live long and prosper.”
There could be no response but one. Spock returned the salutation and replied simply, “Shalom.”
This time McCoy had nothing to say.
It was only a short drive to the outpost. “Solar‑powered vehicles, of course,” Rabin noted. “No shortage of solar power on this world! The locals don’t really mind our getting around like this as long as we don’t bring any vehicles into Kalara or frighten the chuchaki–those cameloid critters over there.”
Spock forbore to criticize the taxonomy.
Kalara, he mused, looked very much the standard desert city to be found on many low‑tech, and some high‑tech, worlds. Mud brick really was the most practical organic building material, and thick walls and high windows provided quite efficient passive air cooling. Kalara was, of course, an oasis town; he didn’t need to see the oasis to extrapolate that conclusion. No desert city came into being without a steady, reliable source of water and, therefore, a steady, reliable source of food. Spock noted the tips of some feathery green branches peeking over the high walls and nodded. Good planning for both economic and safety reasons to have some of that reliable water source be within the walls. Add to that the vast underground network of irrigation canals and wells, and these people were clearly doing a clever job of exploiting their meager resources.
Or would be, were it not for that treacherous sun.
And, judging from what Rabin had already warned, for that all too common problem in times of crisis: fanaticism.
It is illogical, he thought, for any one person or persons to claim to know a One True Path to enlightenment. And I must, he added honestly, include my own distant ancestors in that thought.
And, he reluctantly added, some Vulcans not so far removed in time.
“What’s that?”McCoy exclaimed suddenly. “Hebrew graffiti?”
“Deuteronomy,” Rabin replied succinctly, adding, “We’re home, everybody.”
They left the vehicles and entered the Federation outpost, and in the process made a jarring jump from timelessness to gleaming modernity. Spock paused only an instant at the shock of what to him was a wall of unwelcome coolness; around him, the humans were all breathing sighs of relief. McCoy put down his shoulder pack with a grunt. “Hot as Vulcan out there.”
“Just about,” Rabin agreed cheerfully, pulling off his native headgear. “And if you think this is bad, wait till Obsidian’s summer. This sun, good old unstable Loki, will kill you quite efficiently.
“Please, everyone, relax for a bit. Drink something even if you don’t feel thirsty. It’s ridiculously easy to dehydrate here, especially when none of you are desert acclimated. Or rather,” he added before Spock could comment, “when even the desert‑born among you haven’t been inany deserts for a while. While you’re resting, I’ll fill you in on what’s been happening here.”
Quickly and efficiently
, Rabin set out the various problems–the failed hydroponics program, the beetles, the mysterious fires and spoiled supply dumps. When he was finished, Spock noted, “One, two or even three incidents might be considered no more than unpleasant coincidence. But taken as a whole, this series of incidents can logically only add up to deliberate sabotage.”
“Which is what I was thinking,” Rabin agreed. “‘One’s accident, two’s coincidence, three’s enemy action,’ or however the quote goes. The trouble is: Who isthe enemy? Or rather, which one?”
Spock raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “These are, if the records are indeed correct, a desert people with a relatively low level of technology.”
“They are that. And before you ask, no, there’s absolutely no trace of Romulan or any other off‑world involvement.”
“Then we need ask: Who of this world would have sufficient organization and initiative to work such an elaborate scheme of destruction?”
The human sighed. “Who, indeed? We’ve got a good many local dissidents; we both know how many nonconformists a desert can breed. But none of the local brand of agitators could ever band together long enough to mount a definite threat. They hate each other as much or maybe even more than they hate us.”
“And in the desert?”
“Ah, Spock, old buddy, just how much manpower do you think I have? Much as I’d love to up and search all that vastness–”
“It would mean leaving the outpost unguarded. I understand.”
“Besides,” Rabin added thoughtfully, “I can’t believe that any of the desert people, even the ‘wild nomads,’ as the folks in Kalara call the deep‑desert tribes, would do anything to destroy precious resources, even those from off‑world. They might destroy us, but not food or water.”
“Logic,” Spock retorted, “requires that someone is working this harm. Whether you find the subject pleasant or not, someoneis ‘poisoning the wells.’”
“Excuse me, sir,” Lieutenant Clayton said, “but wouldn’t it be relatively simple for the Intrepidto do a scan of the entire planet?”
“It could–”
“But that,” Rabin cut in, “wouldn’t work. The trouble is those ‘wild nomads’ are a pain in the . . . well, they’re a nuisance to find by scanning because they tend to hide out against solar flares. And where they hide is in hollows shielded by rock that’s difficult or downright impossible for scanners to penetrate. We have no idea how many nomads are out there, nor do the city folk. Oh, and if that wasn’t enough,” he added wryly, “the high level of ionization in the atmosphere, thank you very much Loki, provides a high amount of static to signal.”
Spock moved to the banks of equipment set up to measure ionization, quickly scanning the data. “The levels do fluctuate within the percentages of possibility. A successful scan is unlikely but not improbable during the lower ranges of the scale. We will attempt one. I have a science officer who will regard this as a personal challenge.” As do I, he added silently. A Vulcan could, after all, assemble the data far more swiftly than a human who– No. McCoy had quite wisely warned him against “micromanaging.” He was not what he had been, Spock reminded himself severely. And only an emotional being longed for what had been and was no more.
FB2 document info
Document ID: f562ac15-ef33-48c2-9d1d-1d3927ad4157
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 10.6.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.0 software
Document authors :
Susan Wright
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