Only Sarek was speaking now, his voice carrying on the still, thin air under the beating suns, echoing through the translators in the children's common tongue. He spoke of simple things: food for everyone, every day; a place where people didn't hurt or kill and there would be no need to fear; shelter from the heat of sun, and rooms at night where no harm came and they could sleep.
And one by one, from rubble and doorways and in between the rocks, children crept out to listen. For some this sunrise would have been their last; none looked savage now. Their shriveled bodies wasted, bellies distended from the lack of food. Their skins parched and blistered, cracked and bled from dehydrating, merciless suns. Behind vacant eyes their dying spirits waited, uncomprehending and resigned to whatever fate life's torture held in store. Their hair was the only thing that grew. Defenseless, young and terrified, they stood blinking in the burning light of day, an empire's forgotten legacy of brutality and neglect. Few even resisted when the Vulcans approached, or when kind hands lifted and carried them across the burning clay. Sarek's words meant nothing, except for the promise of food. But there was truth and goodness in the voice beckoning them, and another sound they didn't understand: they were being saved.
As the day wore on the search continued; suns passed their zenith and started down the sky. In the inferno of Hellguard's afternoon, even Vulcan skins drew taut and painful, then began to blister underneath their robes. Rocks grew searing to the touch. The ground itself scorched through their boots, and everywhere the dust surrounded them. It choked their lungs, coated their scanners and stung their eyes, while they counted the living and counted the dead. They found bones bleaching in the suns, picked clean long ago by scavengers; decaying bodies crushed by rockfalls from the mountains; a little boy trapped under a fallen building, whose life ebbed away in their hands. And they found eleven more, unresponsive and too weak to move, but alive. None of them, however, possessed a knife or curious, intelligent eyes.
Nor did any of the others. The shelter was busy and crowded when the last search party returned. Thirty-two survivors were eating, receiving medical attention, and growing sleepy in the shade. Spock walked among them, looking into every face, every pair of dull, bewildered eyes. She wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere.
Then a new sound floated on the air above the calm resonance of Sarek's voice, a sound that should have been sweet and welcome to Spock's ears: the clear, sharp trill of a ship's communicator.
The Symmetry had come at last.
"But they are all accounted for, Spock." Sarek listened impassively to his son's news. The first groups of children were being carried from the shelter to a point beyond the rocks where the beam-up would take place. Sedated or not, the sight of people disappearing before their eyes would terrify them. Spock was grateful for this foresight; it granted him some time. ". their number agrees with our scans. Your readings indicate otherwise?"
"No, Father, they do not." Precious seconds ticked away. Desperate strategies collided with inevitable logic in his mind: remain in orbit? scan the planet? risk all their lives for one? None of that would happen. "But there is another. Last night I saw a child who is not here now."
"And who is uncounted by our scanners-and by yours? How do you account for this?"
How indeed? The same way she followed him unseen across open ground, saved his life, held him at knifepoint, spoke to him in Vulcan. the facts would neither enhance his credibility nor advance his cause. "I do not account for it, Father. The child exists. She will die if she is left behind. I shall not put others at risk, but while there is time, I ask to search alone."
"You ask, Spock? Or you inform?"
"I would prefer your permission." Spock reset his tricorder.
"It is illogical. to search without assistance. An officer of Starfleet should know better. Take those who can be spared."
"Thank you, Father-" Something caught Spock's eye, tugged at the periphery of his vision: only a flicker beyond the crowd, a vanishing impression of furtiveness and stealth. Only a glimpse, but that was enough. "-it is not necessary, after all."
She stood at the far side of the shelter, watching and unnoticed, listening to the voices around her the same way she'd searched the sky-as if she were trying to remember something. She moved again. In her hand was the empty ration pack, and she inched forward, intent upon her goal: an open crate of food, just a few yards away. Under their very noses-how did she do that? Spock held his breath and began threading his way through the groups of sleepy children, past the Vulcans moving them from the shelter and carrying the ones too weak to walk. He wasn't in time to stop what happened.
Backs were turned as she reached into the crate and began stuffing food into her newly acquired pack. Sensing a presence and movement behind him, S'tvan turned around to look. That startled her, and the pack slipped from her hands. She shrieked with rage and scrambled off into the sunlight, out of reach.
Then she pulled her knife.
It flashed in her hand, threatening them all, while she eyed her cache of food and schemed to get it back. Her raw, blistered feet bled onto the fiery clay, but her eyes were cunning, and the knife was sharp, steady in her hand. Behind her lay open ground, a clear route of escape to the huts and rubble of the colony. She had planned it well.
"You may have food." S'tvan kept his distance and spoke into the translator. "Give me that knife, and I will give you food."
His translator rendered back an oath.
"S'tvan," Spock moved beside him, "perhaps I can-"
"That one is vicious, Spock. She must give us the knife before she is fed. There is no time to waste."
Spock pushed back the hood of his robe. Her eyes flickered in recognition. Then she scowled, defiant, furious with everyone.
"My knife!" she screamed, gripping it tighter in both hands. The stakes had just gone up: it was now a matter of pride. Behind them the evacuation went on. The shelter was emptying quickly.
"S'tvan, I believe that I-"
"By all means, Spock." S'tvan managed to imply that Spock was better equipped to converse with someone as illogical as himself. "She must give up the knife," he insisted, "or be left behind."
"She understands, S'tvan. You do understand, do you not?" he asked quietly. She glared venomously at the groups of children being led beyond the rocks, then turned on Spock seething with fury, her thin, sharp face a study in betrayal.
"Spock, you must-"
"Be silent, S'tvan," Salok's calm voice interrupted. "Spock will know what to do."
The trouble was that he didn't. He estimated his chances of catching her if she ran-and didn't like them. "If he fails," another voice muttered, "we will lose her. There is no time."
Fail? There was no room for failure here. Spock sensed a crowd gathering behind him and fervently wished they would all go away. He did not require an audience-
". there is some difficulty here?"-or his father.
"Yes, Sarek. Spock attends to it. Do not interfere."
They all fell silent, waiting for him to utter some pearl of wisdom, some piece of logic to convince her. He picked up the ration pack, held it out, and took a step closer.
"The food," he said, "is yours. Eat." He tossed it to her on the ground. She grabbed it up and reached inside. Then eyes narrowed in her crafty face. She looked again at the dazed, sleepy children-and at the waiting Vulcans. Slyly, she hugged the pack and scowled at them under a tangle of hair. "The knife," Spock said, "is also yours."
This pleased her. She drew herself up proudly and tossed her head, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
"No, Spock! She may not bring the-"
"Be silent. Sarek."
"There is a way," Spock lowered his voice, moved another step closer. So no one else could see, he opened the pocket of his robe. "We can hide it-here. They will not know," he said, as her glance shifted to the Vulcans, "because we will not tell them."
Eyes lit, then narrowed shrewdly. Secrecy appealed to her; so did her knife. She fi
ngered its cracked hilt with affection.
"My knife!" she whispered desperately. Tears gathered in her eyes. Her mouth began to tremble, and she clamped it into a small, tight line. Spock nodded, knowing what he asked. All this child had in life was her weapon and her pride; in front of everyone, she was losing both. She was also hungry, tired of hiding, and mortally afraid. But he would win now, he knew that too, and all at once it mattered how.
"I will keep it safe for you," he said. On impulse, he held out the tricorder in his hand, touched a key, and let it dangle by the strap. Her eyes widened. "Remember this?"
"Notknife."
"Better," said Spock. "It can tell you things." It swung back and forth, glinting in the light, looking more attractive now. Its dials and keys glittered like rows of jewels; lines of data streamed mysteriously across the small display on a field of royal blue, and setting suns in the reddening sky struck its gleaming metal, turning it the color of burnished gold. It filled her eyes, filled her mind. She had to see it, touch it, have it-
The knife wavered. She took a step. Another-to within reach.
"This," Spock said, "is mine. You may keep it safe for me."
Slowly, suspiciously, she held out her knife. For agonizing seconds it hovered inches from his palm. At last she let go and watched his fingers close around it. Shielding their transaction from prying eyes, Spock slipped it into the pocket of his robe. Then in full view of everyone he placed the tricorder in her grasping hands. She snatched it away and glared at the others in triumph.
"My!" she crowed importantly, bony arms full of prizes, and set about twisting and poking at the tricorder's keys. Spock gave a passing thought to his stored data. That unit was field-issue, said to be impact-proof and tamper-resistant. She would be the definitive test of its durability-and his own, he felt certain.
The Vulcans observed these proceedings in stony silence. As they departed with meaningful looks and gravely shaking heads, Salok's voice drifted back to him. ". and compose yourself, Sarek. so difficult for fathers when sons are like themselves."
"Come along now," said Spock firmly, starting after them.
Out of sheer perversity the child hung back, scowling, refusing to move. Spock sighed. It seemed to him that this had been a very long day and that Vulcan justice had a very long arm indeed. His arm, unfortunately, was too short to render her unconscious. A phaser on stun would solve the problem, but he had none. And there was nothing left to bargain with. or was there?
"You told me something else is yours," he reminded her. She understood at once and searched the daytime sky.
"My stars go!" she sneered, scornful of such tricks.
"Your stars are there," he said with absolute authority. "But now the sky is too bright for you to see them." She looked up again, frowning. "Of course," he shrugged casually, "I know about stars, and you do not. But the others will know. The others are going to see your stars. Must I tell them that you were too afraid-"
"Notnotnot!" she screeched and started shaking her fist, hopping up and down, and cursing him proficiently to prove it. "Sonabastard yougo dies in sonabastard dust! Sonabastard thingsgo eats you sonabastard eyes!." and so forth. After a lengthy malediction, she finally ran out of words.
"So," said Spock, "you are not afraid. Then come with me, and you shall have your stars." He turned and walked away. Nothing happened. He forced himself to keep on walking.
"My knife! My stars! You sonabastard!." She began to follow.
The suns sank behind the mountains, and shadows stretched over the world. Dust and wind began to wear away the footprints left behind. By morning they would all be gone. As the planet turned toward the dark, stars came out to spatter the sky, shining down on emptiness.
And deep inside, Hellguard rumbled in its sleep.
Chapter Two
SOMEONE WAS SCREAMING.
That was always the same. And she was trapped in the place with the walls of eyes, lights that moved like dust in the suns, with colors that only came in dreams. They grew and changed and fell back inside themselves forever like the sky. They knew all about the screaming and how she hurt inside. They hated her. She hated them. She didn't want to die. Run, run, run.
Blood rose and bubbled in her throat. Fear ripped apart her mind. A trap, a trap with no way out, nowhere left to hide. No place dark enough, no running fast enough, no sky forever anymore. It would live, and she would die-but she wanted something first. Revenge. She hated It, hated harder, harder.
And then she wasn't running anymore.
A chance, one last chance to save herself: she would kill It-before It killed her. The screaming grew and fed her rage. Her grip tightened on the knife-its hard, sharp steel would let her live. Too dark now to aim and throw, but she knew another way: she would stab Its heart out! Her spirit soared. She tasted blood-and triumph. Make It hurt! Make It die! Kill It now!
She turned-and there It was, coming at her out of darkness, forming, taking shape. She knew that shape. She'd always known. It. It.
Exploding, impossible horror blotted out the image in her mind, and every nerve, every muscle, every cell in her body shrieked a last command: Kill It! Kill It NOW! Her arm swept up to strike the blow-but never fell.
Her hand was empty. There was no knife. No. NO! That was wrong! That couldn't be! Where was it? Where?
Existence plunged and swirled away in freezing black despair-and the screaming, endless screaming, followed her down. She could smell her own death. Cold, sick dread was choking her, cheating her, killing her. In a dying frenzy of terror and pain, she clutched at her waist, where her knife used to be. But it was too late now. And there was nothing there. Nothing, except-except.
. cloth. Red cloth. A uniform.
Saavik jolted awake, and reality burst into life around her: her uniform, her desk, her equation on her screen. Her room.
Starfleet Academy.
Damn that dream! Hot, angry tears stung her eyes. Her fingers were raw, aching from digging into the armrests of her chair. Beads of cold sweat still trickled down her forehead. Deep inside her chest, her heart was still hammering. And somewhere in another time and place, somewhere beneath an abandoned world of dust, where broken mountains cut like scars into a cruel, burning sky. somewhere, someone was still screaming. Damn that dream! Damn that hateful, horrible, filthy world! Damn the Romulan Empire! And damn all Romulans-for making me one of them!
She pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked around her room, gratefully drinking in its soft light, its clean, white surfaces, its compact, functional design. She ran her hand along her desk, lingering over the comm console and the keypad of her built-in computer terminal. The equation she'd been working on stared back at her from the screen, still incomplete-and still wrong. That was real. Nothing had changed.
I am here. I am really, truly here.
She smoothed the fabric of her uniform, wanting to erase the unsightly creases made by a dreaming, twisting hand. Magically the wrinkles fell away, disappeared as though they'd never been there at all. So easy. So. civilized. I am no more a Vulcan when I'm asleep than when I'm awake, she thought bitterly. Humans only think so because they know no better, an honor I do not deserve. Real Vulcans never dream such dreams. Real Vulcans never hate or fear or feel such shame. Real Vulcans never want to kill.
But Saavik was not a real Vulcan. In spite of all her progress and acquired veneer of civilization, underneath the proud red uniform of Starfleet Academy she would always be half Romulan. And no amount of progress could ever make up for that.
It is not logical to dream of the past, she told herself firmly, as she straightened up and tugged her jacket neatly into place. The past was over. She had much to contend with in the present, and it was shameful of her to want to kill anything.
But she did. She wanted to kill that dream.
I just won't think about it, she decided, and left her desk to open the window. I won't ever dream that dream again! Damp cool air rushed in, defeating her room's env
ironment controls. The campus slept. A soft spring rain was falling, and lights along the tree-lined walks made the drops on her window shine like stars scattered on the night of space. The hour was late-or more precisely, very early. It would be daylight soon. The only sound she heard was the strange gentle patter and trickling of the rain. Water. So plentiful here that it fell from the sky.
What is it like to belong on this world, to swim in oceans of water? Never to die of thirst or rot burning in the dust? No! I won't think about that. she turned to contemplate her living quarters. Its shelves were bare, storage compartments empty. The hard mat she'd asked for rested on the platform of her bed. A row of standard-issue cadet uniforms hung in the closet along with a few simple outfits of her own. Personal items occupied one drawer. Her study tapes were in her desk.
The polite young man who showed her to this room when she arrived had looked awkwardly at her two small cases, which she refused to let him carry, then remarked that when the rest of her stuff got here, he was sure this would seem just like home.
Star Trek - Pandora Principle Page 3
