Strange New Worlds IX

by Dean Wesley Smith

  He’d never completed Kolinahr either, though he had tried. She had seen him once then, during his short stay on Vulcan before V’Ger called him back into space and Starfleet. Spock’s hair had been disheveled from the rigorous mental trials. Yet even in his struggle, there remained that steady gaze…that rigid grace that transcended any Vulcan’s, as if his efforts to circumvent his human side had elevated him to an unknown level of calculated stillness…of purposeful serenity.

  Two days later, T’Pring paced in her ship’s quarters. The action concerned her, for Vulcans never paced. It was a sign of anxiety—an emotion she couldn’t possess. She concluded it must be logical, as she had nothing else to occupy her mind. Except for Spock.

  Rather than attend the Vulcan Science Academy, he had left for Starfleet, making a name for himself beyond his father’s shadow. During his Enterprise years, everyone heard about the half-Vulcan who had denied his heritage and served under humans. That was when she had decided she did not want to be married to a legend. Or at least, that’s when she decided that it would be the reason she gave Spock when he fought James Kirk for her hand.

  Yet even minutes before rejecting Spock, she had considered marrying him, for she wondered what she could achieve because of Spock’s absence. There still would have been his nearly mythical status to overcome, but with him being offworld, could his standing have given her even more input into the political and cultural affairs of their world?

  “Arrival in one hour,” the computer announced in its tinny, feminine voice.

  T’Pring exited her quarters and strode to the bridge, which consisted of two black chairs, a viewscreen, and a console shaped in a half-moon.

  “On screen,” she ordered. The dormant viewscreen wavered until an M-class planet appeared in the distance. “How far is the alien ship from the planet?”

  “At present speed,” the computer responded, “the Romulan shuttlecraft will arrive at planet Veridian Three in twenty-two hours, seventeen minutes.”

  T’Pring leaned back into her chair. “How soon before sensors can track the ship without use of the deep-space probe?”

  “Fifteen hours, three minutes.”

  That meant the other ship wouldn’t be able to track her until then either. “In ten hours, engage the cloaking device.” Being a high-ranking diplomat had advantages, including access to confiscated alien technology.

  “Acknowledged,” the computer replied.

  She sat for several hours, weighing the option to return to Vulcan. But there was the other matter, making it quite logical for her to continue. So why did she doubt herself? She couldn’t remember ever questioning her actions to such an extent, except when she had selected Kirk to fight her betrothed. There had always been the chance that Kirk would beat Spock, regardless of his inferior strength, and would desire to keep her.

  Humans were quite illogical that way. How Sarek lived with Amanda for all of those years was something she never understood. Though she had to admit, in some ways, Amanda reminded her of Stonn.

  The sound of the engaging cloaking device caught her off guard. The planet had grown large on the viewscreen, requiring her to diminish the magnification. The next few hours passed quickly until a blip on the scanners made her look up—the ship had come into range.

  She put her ship in orbit and scanned the planet until she found the pile of stones above the human remains. After turning off the deep-space probe, she focused on the approaching Romulan shuttlecraft for the next few hours, until it likewise entered orbit. A few minutes later, her planetary scans showed a Vulcan had beamed down.

  She considered waiting, but felt it best to act immediately rather than interrupt him later. She beamed down a hundred yards from where he stood beside the stones. As the green lights faded around her, he shot her a wary look. Though he wore a ceremonial black mourning robe, his stance was as she remembered. She focused on him, ignoring the brown, rocky mountain range around them.

  Rather than approach, she waited with reverence. As he drew near, she took a deep breath, hoping her arrival had not been a mistake. When he was close enough to recognize her, his expression turned to surprise.

  When he was a few feet away, she raised her hand in the traditional V shape and bowed her head. “Forgive the intrusion. I did not wish to desecrate your moment, but you have been difficult to communicate with these past years and I have been sent to inquire of your actions.”

  “T’Pring.” Spock’s arms were crossed over his stomach, each hand tucked into the opposite sleeve. He withdrew one hand and returned her greeting. “I did not expect anyone to find me here, much less you.”

  She looked up at his curious stare, then beyond him to the grave site. “I only wish to talk when you are ready.”

  “Being wanted by Romulus forced me to be patient. They expected me to come immediately. However, I’ve waited a year for their suspicions to fade and make my journey possible. Therefore, a short while longer makes little difference in offering my final condolences to James Kirk.”

  “As you wish. I knew you would eventually come, so I had a deep-space probe monitoring for any ship arriving here from Romulus. I’ve come alone, but I ask forgiveness for the timing.”

  “Accepted.” Spock placed both hands behind his back in a less mournful posture. She almost cringed at his next statement, though she knew he was simply being polite. “I trust Stonn and your household are doing well.”

  “Fine, of course.”

  As Spock frowned at her words, she chastised herself for saying of course rather than thank you, which would have sounded far less defensive. But she ignored it and pressed on. “It was imperative that someone talk to you face-to-face and understand your true intentions.”

  Spock cocked his head to one side. “My true intentions?”

  “Your Reunification talks with the Romulan underground have sparked major interest on Vulcan.” She began walking across the lone, barren rock, with him keeping pace. “We wonder why you work so adamantly, when it is uncertain if Vulcan wishes to reunite with its ancient ancestors that dismissed Surak’s teachings.”

  “You question my goals,” Spock said. “And you are here to ascertain my objectives.” Regardless of the wrinkles in his face, his profile hadn’t changed. He remained stolid as he awaited her questions, rather than volunteering explanations.

  “While potentially beneficial,” T’Pring said, “reunification could destroy each half. So rather than developing the whole, the pieces are diminished. Maybe even destroyed.”

  “The Romulans are powerful militarily,” Spock said. “Given a galactic conflict against an aggressive species, they would stand far longer. I adhere to passive solutions, but such a methodology can become overly optimistic. Consider the Borg. We would do well to strengthen our way of life if it is to last.

  “On the other hand,” he continued, “our ancient teachings of discipline would assist the Romulans in understanding that war and subterfuge need not be the only answer. So as you can see, cooperation and trust between our peoples is not simply an alternative, but a far superior solution.”

  T’Pring took a deep breath while considering her next question, both in relation to Vulcan and Romulus, as well as to her own personal dilemma. “Logically speaking, why should one wish to reunite with another, who long ago chose another path?”

  Spock stopped walking and turned his stone face toward her. “Assuming peaceful cohabitation can exist, to seek out what one has lost is not only to understand one’s self, but serves as its own reward.”

  She watched for any hint that he suspected the full weight of her question. If he did, his expression did not betray it. She would bring his words to Vulcan and the Federation, though she wished he would return…to stand in his own defense, of course.

  “T’Pring,” he said while studying her intently, “I am confused by your presence. An encoded subspace transmission would surely have had the same effect.”

  “In matters of motive, there are things one c
an discern in person that a mere transmission will not allow.”

  “True. However, I see no logic in—”

  —preferring Stonn over me.

  “—your course of action. Another delegate could have seen me. I cannot accept that they would have sent you alone to stand before me.” Spock took a deep breath. “Forgive me for being as blunt as a Tellarite, but I sense you have an ulterior motive.”

  T’Pring slid one hand into the pocket of her robe and withdrew the silver brooch. One of Spock’s eyebrows shot up in recognition. “As is our custom,” she said, “I should have returned this to your mother when the ritual failed between us. But it had been misplaced and was found years later.”

  As a Vulcan, she was supposed to be incapable of lying. Why then did it come so easily now?

  “At the time of its discovery,” she continued, “your mother had already died. I thought to return it to your father, but that somehow seemed improper.” She held it out. “As I’ve grown older, I wish to put my house in order. It’s a small thing, but families should not be without their relics, so one will never forget or forsake their past.”

  Spock accepted it. “If you wish.” His stern gaze harbored unspoken questions, but he did not ask them, for which she was grateful. “I remember my mother wearing this and the story she told of Sarek’s mother giving it to her. I never thought to see it again.” He rotated the object. “However, without any descendants, I have no use for it. Maybe you should keep it.”

  “It would not be appropriate.”

  “Very well. Perhaps it will please a Romulan child. And when she wears it, other children will ask of its origin, and in some small way, learn of our people.”

  His words pained her, though she knew they shouldn’t. It was, after all, just a brooch. Maybe it was because she felt bothered by his selfless attitude—a trait Stonn rarely exercised by delighting in her presence.

  Spock placed the brooch in his pocket. “Vulcan and Romulus will not reunite in mass, but slowly, over time. The tiniest pebble may start the largest avalanche.”

  “If that’s how you feel about Reunification, I will give it further consideration and discuss it with our people.”

  “Most kind.”

  They resumed their silent walk in the direction they had come, until they returned to the area where she had beamed down.

  “It was good to see you again, T’Pring,” Spock said. “It reminds me that entire realities can be triggered by the smallest choices, giving me hope that my work is not in vain. For had you chosen me during Koon-ut-kal-if-fee, neither of us would be where we are today.” Spock held up a hand in a V shape. “May you live long and prosper.”

  The words escaped her before she could consider them. “I have done both, but now in the twilight of life, I question if it’s enough.” As Spock’s face changed to a frown, she replicated the hand gesture and pressed her hand flat against his. “If your human half will allow it, Spock, may you find happiness as well.”

  She pressed the transmitter on her wrist. Green lights danced before her eyes as Spock’s curious expression faded from sight. After instructing her ship to return to Vulcan, she retired to her quarters. She sat on the edge of her bed and studied the bare walls. With a hesitant hand, she turned away the picture of her and Stonn. The simple act triggered another statement Spock had spoken that day long ago, which he had addressed to Stonn…

  After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.

  In her lifetime, she had only cried a few times as a child. Otherwise, even at the grave sites of her family members, she never flinched. Never gave in to emotion. To do so would have been disgraceful, especially to one who had achieved the purity of Kolinahr.

  So how odd that now, in the quiet stillness of her cabin, a single tear escaped and slid down her cheek. She willed no more to come, yet she did not wipe it away. As it dangled from her jaw, she sought meaning in its trembling uncertainty while it wavered between maintaining its fragile hold and falling onto her folded hands. Strange it should come now, from nine simple words that had forever haunted her….

  I see no logic in preferring Stonn over me.

  Star Trek

  The Next Generation®

  Staying the Course

  Paul C. Tseng

  “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness.”

  —Ancient Terran Scriptures

  “You have ten minutes to hand over the body of the Ambassador Rozhenko, or I will unleash the Metreon Wave over Cygnus Three. You’ve already seen the painful and slow deaths this type of radiation causes on Federation Outpost Fifteen, less than an hour ago. Now imagine not just thousands, not just Starfleet personnel, but millions of innocent civilians, women and children alike.” Toral’s eyes burned with unadulterated hatred as he spoke on the recorded transmission.

  Chancellor Worf’s lip curled and a low-pitched growl emerged as he glared at the cold countenance of the Klingon on the recording.

  “Place his body for collection at the center of R’kalla Square. I want him killed with a traditional Klingon hand weapon, such as a bat’leth or a dk’tahg. No disruptors, no phasers, no mercy. Ten minutes!”

  The chancellor’s first reaction was naturally a Klingon one. Let them destroy the planet. That should not concern me.

  He slammed the console to terminate the message, and the rough surface of his desk scraped the heel of his hand. He wished that he’d made sure Toral had died years ago when they fought for the Sword of Kahless.

  The warm Qo’noS sun shone brightly through his office windows and onto his back, but this was becoming the darkest hour of his life.

  After a moment of silence, another voice spoke over his terminal.

  “Chancellor,” Admiral Jean-Luc Picard said. “I hate being the bearer of this message. I know how you must…”

  The Klingon’s voice rose in a steady and formidable crescendo.

  “ You have no idea how I feel!” he bellowed. “You have never had a family, never had a son!”

  “Chancellor, with all due respect…”

  “You have no understanding of the position I am in as a chancellor, much less a father!”

  “Worf!”

  The chancellor gripped the stone edge of his desk so hard that hairline fractures began to run toward the center. Thank Kahless Picard wasn’t actually in the room with him or he might actually have killed his former captain in his rage. But he remembered the human saying “don’t shoot the messenger,” and that the admiral, now some eighty years of age, had been a trusted friend since Worf was a junior officer on the Enterprise-D. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Picard’s voice softened. “Worf, one need not have a son to appreciate the gravity of this situation. But I must remind you that there are millions of others whose very lives are at stake here as well.”

  Worf leaned in toward the terminal so that Picard could get a good look at his angry fangs.

  “You would have my son…murdered?!”

  The admiral’s shoulders heaved and fell. “No, Worf. I could never ask a man to do such a thing. But we must remain focused and aware of all that is at stake, beyond personal interests.”

  Could there be anything more important to a father than the life of his only son? And yet, there was no other way to stop Toral—the entire world of Cygnus III would die. Worf struggled to see beyond the internal battle which he felt he was quickly losing.

  “Do we have anything at all on Toral’s location?” the chancellor asked.

  Picard hesitated and then exhaled. Worf knew that meant he was trying to find a way to answer other than saying “no.”

  “Starfleet Intelligence is following the few leads it has,” Picard replied. “But the information is unreliable, at best, and it will take at least three hours before the data can be compiled and theorized upon.”

  The
chancellor stood and paced around his desk, not caring that his image would go in and out of view on Picard’s terminal. He clenched his fist in frustration and wanted to strike anything or anyone within reach. The anguish and fury in his heart caused it to beat like ritual Kot’baval drums.

  “We do not have three hours.”

  “No, Chancellor.” Then Picard rose from his chair and walked right up to the monitor. “I want you to know that there is absolutely no way that the Federation will give in to threats like these.”

  Fine rhetoric, Worf thought. But there isn’t any way of stopping Toral right now. It’s either Alexander or three point eight million people on Cygnus Three.

  “Has Alexander been told of Toral’s demands?” the chancellor asked.

  Worf saw what looked like gloom fill Picard’s eyes.

  “Yes,” the admiral answered, running his hand over his head and shutting his eyes. He seemed to exhale his words more than he spoke them. “Protocol requires that we keep any Federation ambassador completely ‘in the know’regarding matters as such.”

  For the first time in this conversation, Worf allowed himself to drop his duranium façade and speak to Picard as a friend.

  “Jean-Luc, I know you are doing everything you can.” In the thirty-eight years that Worf had known Picard, he could think of only one or two other times where he addressed him by his given name.

  “Thank you, Worf. I do not envy your position, nor the ambassador’s.”

  Worf nodded his appreciation.

  “We will contact you the moment we have any news,” Picard said, his voice galvanized once again. “In the meantime, I believe you will want to spend the next few minutes…discussing this matter with your son.”

  The mighty warrior, the larger-than-life chancellor of the Klingon Empire, was reduced to a pile of withering thoughts and sentiments. He tried his best to hide it and refrained from uttering a word, lest his voice crack before Picard. Instead he glanced quickly at the admiral and nodded.

  “Godspeed, Worf. Picard out.”