STAR TREK: TOS #44 - Vulcan's Glory

by D. C. Fontana

  “Oh,” she said as she saw the formal robe. “I beg pardon. I did not realize you were meditating. I will call again later.”

  “No. Please come in. I was having some difficulty concentrating properly.” He acknowledged ruefully to himself that it was not a prevarication. He had been having trouble keeping his mind in the correct state for clear meditation. He had received a formal message from T’Pring on the ship’s personal message channel. To be absolutely correct, he had received a statement of her bride price, and it was high—fifteen hundred nakh a month. He hadn’t especially minded that; the income from his estate would pay it easily. What had disturbed him was that when he had tried to bring T’Pring’s face to his mind, he found it difficult to do so. He had perfect recall, but when he concentrated on a memory of her features, he could bring up only a vague, formless impression of an oval face with dark eyes, framed by dark hair—and no more. Yet he frequently found himself clearly envisioning the face of this woman before him—and not only her face but her body, her movements, her voice. Perhaps it was only her proximity, the day-to-day working [98] relationship that had begun to develop between them, but he had worked with Vulcan women before, and none had ever hovered in his mind like this. He should be feeling the closeness of his betrothal link with T’Pring. Instead, he was haunted by this young widow to whom he had no more than working ties. He reflected ironically that he had never felt a link with T’Pring.

  He gestured T’Pris toward a chair. “Saya?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Spock went to the food compartment in the wall and spoke the order. In a moment, two cups of the steaming liquid were delivered in the small enclosure. He carried them over, gave her one, and sank into a chair opposite her, cradling his cup in his hands. “Was there something you wished to discuss with me?”

  “I have been thinking of the Glory. Do you believe there truly is a possibility of recovering it now? Even if the life shell safely reached Areta, so many things could have happened to it, to them—”

  “You are engaging in useless speculation. When we reach Areta, we will find what there is to find.”

  She sipped at the saya, her eyes fastened on the utilitarian carpet underfoot. “Of course, you are correct, Mr. Spock.”

  “Was that all?” He cursed himself for sounding too harsh. He had realized suddenly he didn’t want her to leave.

  “No. To be honest, I wanted to see what your life was like—in here. In private.”

  “Why should that interest you?”

  To his surprise, she looked up at him with dark eyes that sparkled with just a hint of humor. “You are something of an enigma, Mr. Spock. You know [99] Vulcans can never resist an unresolved puzzle. You are one of us and yet not. You are reputed to be more Vulcan than any other Vulcan. Certainly, you are reputed to be more duty-bound to Starfleet than the most dedicated officer of any other race. Yet you seem so alone among other officers, alone even in the midst of other Vulcans.”

  He shifted in his chair uneasily. Without directly inquiring, T’Pris had managed to raise questions he would rather not answer. It was interesting to him that he was not offended by her asking. “I may seem alone to those who do not know me. I have friends.”

  “On Vulcan?”

  “And in Starfleet. I am also”—he hesitated, then continued—“betrothed. I have declared the formal intent to marry.”

  “That is to be expected. But why is she not here with you?”

  “T’Pring does not serve in Starfleet.”

  “T’Pring, of the family of Solen?”

  “You know her?”

  “Of her.” T’Pris studied Spock a moment, then dropped her gaze. “When I brought Sepel’s body back to his ancestral estate for burial, Solen, his daughter T’Pring, and his sons came to pay respect. She and her escort were courteous to me.”

  Spock carefully considered the statement. Vulcan women never gossiped; they floated quiet whispers, but whispers of truth. “Her escort—Stonn, I believe. His family has served Solen’s house with honor for centuries.”

  “A shame you and she cannot be together,” she finally said. “My husband would not have considered [100] our marriage on any other basis.” She allowed her eyes to rove over the copy of the ancestor statue from his family shrine which dominated one corner of the room, the traditional woven cloth in his house design which draped it. Bringing her gaze back to his, she said quietly, “I wept for a long time after he was killed.”

  “It is not seemly to show grief, T’Pris.”

  “Nonetheless, Spock, I wept.” She set aside the empty cup and pushed to her feet. “Perhaps I am not the most Vulcan of all Vulcan women.” She looked at him levelly. “I trust it will not spoil our working relationship.”

  “No ...”

  “I am sorry to have disturbed your meditation. I will not keep you further.” He started to rise, but she held up a negating hand and quickly let herself out.

  It was only after the door closed behind her that Spock realized that not once had they addressed each other as officers, but rather they spoke as friends. He pulled the hood of his robe up over his head and settled himself again on the floor mat to begin his meditation. T’Pris’s face still floated on the viewscreen of his mind.

  Arrival over Areta was routine and uncomplicated. Pike actually enjoyed seeing the predominantly yellow-brown ball growing larger and larger in their viewscreen as they approached at impulse speed and dropped into a standard orbit. He noticed that the harsher colors of the devastated areas of the planet were more softened by blues and greens than when he [101] had been there before. Spock’s verbal analysis confirmed Pike’s notion that the two major city areas had begun to spread, encouraging the growth of trees and shrubs as well as irrigating more fields to raise crops.

  “Start a planetary sensor scan, section by section, Mr. Spock. If the life shell got this far, there’s a good chance it was able to set down somewhere.”

  “The He-shii’s accident occurred after Areta had suffered its own catastrophe, Captain, and before any major recovery of the planet’s environment.” Number One felt she had to point out the unpleasant possibilities. The executive officer frequently had that unhappy duty. “Even if the Vulcans were able to put the shell down safely, there may not have been any real chance of survival on this planet.”

  Pike nodded grimly. “I’m aware of that, perhaps more than anyone else here.” The townspeople in the two cities that survived were fortunate in that they had prudently placed a number of key facilities underground before the holocaust. The nomads who survived did so in bleak areas that were not involved in the devastation. The mutants barely managed to stay alive in small groups and probably only because the gene damage they suffered made it possible for them to live in the hot spots the others couldn’t tolerate. Gradually, the mutants had moved to the mountains and rallied there while the nomads held the deserts and the few oases close to the two cities. The life shell might not have had a choice about where it set down, and the Vulcans aboard probably had no inkling of Areta’s history. If they survived, it might have been as mutants. If their descendants were found alive, it was [102] possible they would no longer be recognizable as Vulcans. Pike glanced around at the silent, thoughtful bridge crew. “Start your sensor scan, Mr. Spock.”

  The tall Vulcan silently turned to his station and began to key in the elements for which the sensors would be scanning. Other bridge personnel went on with their routine duties.

  It was three hours before Spock straightened up and turned back to Pike.

  “Sensors are now picking up some scattered metal debris on the surface, definitely the alloy used in Vulcan starships and life shells.”

  “Position?” Number One asked quickly.

  “Planetary coordinates—latitude 90 degrees, 20 minutes, longitude 130 degrees, twelve minutes. According to the planetary maps logged on the preliminary scan of this planet, this area is one of the most desolate sections of the great desert.”

&
nbsp; “On the viewscreen, please.”

  Spock hit a switch, and the map quickly appeared on the screen. Pike recognized it, having studied the entire desert area and the sparse concentration of nomadic tribes before his first trip down to the surface. “Not only desolate, Spock. It’s still so wild that the nomads don’t even frequent it. A little too close to mutant areas to suit them, I think. The only good thing about it is that there was very little fallout detectable when the first scouting ship did the preliminary scans.”

  “Didn’t they do a full scan?” Boyce inquired from an unoccupied engineering station. “I’m surprised they didn’t spot the metal debris.”

  Spock had been consulting his library computer, [103] and now he looked around at the older man in approval. “In fact, they did, Doctor. However, they appear to have assumed it was a relic caused by the holocaust. They did not scan the makeup of the metal itself; they only marked its existence on the surface, as they marked other devastation. They were looking for life, not metallic pieces of what they would call junk.”

  “Mr. Spock, take your landing team down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Mr. Spock?” The Vulcan paused to look inquiringly at the captain. “I hope you find it this time.”

  “May it be so,” Spock replied.

  The scene was almost a duplicate of the one on GS391. The landscape was different and far more barren. The mountains in the distance were saw-toothed, jagged in their youth, and unlike the ground-down molars of the smaller and older planet. But the landing party personnel were the same, and the transporter chief had once again set them down close to the largest detectable piece of debris.

  It was recognizably part of an old Vulcan life shell. Pieces of it had been cut off and used to create several rude shelters. As the team slowly moved among the lonely relics, Spahn forged slightly ahead. Suddenly, he called out and pointed to a plot of ground a little behind the shelters.

  “There, sir!”

  The others, except for Spock, gathered around him to look where he was pointing. T’Pris let out a sad little sigh. The restless wind and the shifting sands had not been able to move the traditionally shaped rock [104] cairns that had been built over seven bodies laid to rest there. The spitting hum of a phaser sounded behind them. Reacting quickly, they drew phasers and ran toward Spock standing rock-still in the encampment near one of the shelters.

  “What is it?” Sefor called.

  “How many did you find?” Spock asked, ignoring the question.

  “Seven,” T’Pris said. “That could not have been all, though. Who would have buried the last?”

  “He was not buried,” Spock replied quietly. “He stayed to do his duty. Here.” Spock led them to one of the shelters. A makeshift door had been fashioned from one of the life-shell hatches. Spock had had to phaser it to be able to push it open. Inside the dim and musty interior stood a low table fashioned of rock and a slab of metal from the life shell. The desiccated skeleton of a Vulcan male lay stretched in front of it, as though he had lain down fully prepared to die. A container wrought of ancient silver in a geometric design sat atop the low table.

  Spock looked around at Sefor and nodded to him. “You are the eldest. Please,” he said, gesturing at the container.

  The astrophysicist hesitated, then he stepped forward and slowly opened the lid. And gasped. “It is the Glory. Spock, it is the Glory! Finally.” He reached in reverently with both hands and lifted the stone for the rest of them to see. Even in the weak light filtering into the shelter, the huge stone—the size of a large cantaloupe—gleamed in Sefor’s hands. Then, sensing who the body at his feet must have been, he replaced the great emerald in its container. “He would have [105] been clan Archenida, of course. By fate, he must have been the last to die, but even if he had not been, he would have insisted that he lie here with the Glory.”

  “I believe we will find you are correct, Sefor. We will look further in here to discover if any recorded message was left.” Spock indicated two small, flat trunks set against one wall. “If there was, we will know the final fate of the party. If not, perhaps it is enough that it was we who found them and who will bring them home.” He flipped open his communicator and said crisply, “Spock to Enterprise. Captain Pike.”

  “Pike here.”

  “We have found the remains of the Vulcans who escaped in the life shell, sir. We have also found Vulcan’s Glory.”

  “Well done, Mr. Spock. Will you need any assistance down there?”

  “Yes, sir. We will require a burial detachment to remove the bones of our honorable dead to the Enterprise for transfer to Vulcan and proper interment there.”

  “Security will have a crew down there in ten minutes. Anything else?”

  Spock looked around at his compatriots. “No, sir. We will bring the Glory aboard ourselves.”

  Chapter Seven

  PIKE WAS ALMOST CHEERFUL as he put together the articles he would take down to the planet surface with him. The question of the Glory had come to a successful conclusion. Starfleet Command was ecstatic at the message he had sent reporting the artifact’s recovery. That done, Pike had very little more interest in it. He had examined the stone when Spock brought it to him and acknowledged with Number One and Phil Boyce that it was, indeed, a remarkable gem. It had almost dwarfed Pike’s hands when he held it. Even uncut, its rough natural facets had glinted and glowed in the light, striking green sparks that enhanced its rich natural color. He had given it back to Spock with the order that it be placed in the security vault until they returned to Vulcan. Foremost in his mind now was Areta.

  Well, he mused as he laid out a nomad desert robe, Areta was almost foremost in his mind. Janeese had been too much in his thoughts since he returned from [107] leave. He welcomed the opportunity to get away from the ship, to beam down alone among strangers to execute a mission that, it was hoped, would see the townspeople and nomads of this civilization one step closer to a better life and a higher planetary survival rate. He was to look into the trade links they had made in the four years he had been away, to judge their progress. If it was healthy, as he hoped it would be, he had orders to leave it alone, and he would do so happily. If it had declined, his orders were still to leave it alone, but he would regret the waste and the loss of a civilization struggling to rebuild its world.

  He was already wearing the close-fitting pants and shirt made of spun ucha hair. He sat down to pull on the high boots with tops that adhered tightly to his calves. The burnooselike outer robe would go over all, and, carrying a nomad’s possessions bag and a water container, he would be ready to go.

  As he rose, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused to stare wryly at his image. He saw what Janeese had probably seen in him at first—an undeniably handsome and youthful man with an athlete’s build and, when he was in uniform, a star-ship captain’s stripes on his sleeves. Chris Pike wasn’t an arrogant man. His looks had been striking from the time he was a toddler. He had discovered early on that a handsome face would not protect him from the hard knocks and disappointments in the world, nor would they help him in the fierce competition of Starfleet where he had cast his career. He had learned to rely on his mind and his instincts and the natural qualities of leadership he possessed and to dismiss the face nature had given him. Still, there had been women—one in [108] particular who had meant much to him, but who had regretfully bowed out of his life because she was unwilling to be part of Starfleet and couldn’t bear the idea of the long separations required by his missions. The other relationships had been impermanent, not taken seriously by either Pike or the women. Not that he had taken them lightly, either, but both parties recognized their impermanence and had let go without regret.

  Janeese had been different. She had been introduced to him by mutual friends two and a half years ago when he had gone to visit his parents in Mojave. She was interested in becoming a Starfleet officer and became more interested in the career after they met. They approached eac
h other warily, but they became lovers by the time his leave was over. While Pike had taken the Enterprise out on her next mission, Janeese had been accepted and started training at the Academy. He received frequent messages from her, filled with affection for him and enthusiasm for the Academy and Starfleet. Two years had gone by swiftly, and his leave this time had coincided with cadet vacation so they could meet again in Mojave.

  Pike had not risen to the rank of captain without possessing an ability to read people. The minute he saw Janeese, he knew something was wrong. When he took her in his arms, he understood what it had to be. She was trying too hard to be warm and affectionate, and her body was stiff rather than pliable in his embrace. He had forced himself to keep his voice light and his smile gentle as he asked, “When did you meet him? Do I know him, or is he a classmate of yours?” The man who had captured Janeese’s heart in Pike’s [109] absence was a Starfleet instructor, a desk man, not a spacer like him. Irony was something for which Pike had a philosophic appreciation. He allowed his appreciation of it to save him from bitterness and disappointment in Janeese. He was a caring and giving man by nature, and he had no desire to spend his life alone, with only the love of space and a starship in his heart. But he wondered often, and he wondered now, where was the woman who would gladly share that life with him?

  Pike sighed, turned away from the sad-eyed captain in the mirror, and slipped on the outer robe. It fell loosely about him, and he belted it, arranging the folds in the overlapping style of the tribesmen. Already hooked on the belt was a sheath holding one of the sharp-bladed dree knives. A dree was a nomad tribesman’s (or woman’s) most valuable piece of equipment—weapon, utensil, and tool all in one. The possessions bag was rectangular and made of the tanned hide of the ucha, the gazellelike creature the nomads herded. Inside were personal items that might be found in any tribesman’s bag. Pike’s communicator rested in one of the deep pockets of his outer robe. The folds of the fabric would prevent it from being noticed, and the nomads’ respect of person and possessions would keep anyone from accidentally discovering it. He had opted not to carry a phaser with him. The bulky water container in the shape of a pliable half-cylinder actually carried one of Pike’s most important tools. A universal translator was sealed in a waterproof receptacle in one end of the container. It picked up the spoken word and translated it into Starfleet standard via a small bead microphone Boyce [110] had implanted in Pike’s ear. The captain had sleep-studied the Aretian language in the nomads’ dialect before going on his first mission and reapplied himself to it before this one, and his command of it was reasonably fluent. The translator was a backup. It not only confirmed or corrected what he understood he heard, but it also offered suitable answers in Aretian if he needed to fall back on the prompting. Pike hung the water container by its short straps from hooks on his belt and slung the possessions bag on its long strap over his shoulder. Then he headed for the transporter room.