Vulcan's Forge

by Josepha Sherman

  "Nor do I," Leshon returned flatly. "But I—"

  "Captain!" That was Albright, her eyes wide with alarm. "There are reports of sabotage coming in from Supply Dumps Four and Five."

  "Those, too?" Rabin groaned.

  No hope for it. He was understaffed and overpressured, and now, with the harsh desert summer almost here with its promise of death for the unprepared, one more loss would mean the end of the mission.

  All those poor, sick kids!

  They couldn't wait for that Federation science vessel to make its scheduled visit. No choice, Rabin thought reluctantly, but to call for emergency Federation assistance. He ducked into the outpost's command center, absently returning greetings from the personnel, amazingly reassured after the low-tech, dusty, maddening world outside to be suddenly surrounded again by all the gleaming, ultramodern equipment and clean, cool, if somewhat antiseptic, air.

  "Ensign Liverakos."

  The young man, slender, dark, and competent, glanced up from his console. "Sir."

  "I want an encrypted message sent right away to that science ship, the . . ." Blast, what was its name?

  Ensign Liverakos had already turned back to his console, his long-fingered, graceful hands flying over the controls. "The Intrepid II, sir."

  "Ah, of course. Named after that first Intrepid lost in action years back. And the captain is . . . ?"

  "One moment, sir . . . here it is. Captain Spock, sir, homework! Vulcan."

  Rabin stared. "You're joking."

  "Uh, no, sir. It is Captain Spock, formerly—"

  "Of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Yes, Ensign, I know. Believe me, I know." Rabin felt himself all at once grinning like a kid. Like the kids he and Spock had both been. "Don't worry, Ensign. The strain hasn't gotten to me. It's just that suddenly there's hope. For the first time since all this trouble began, there is hope."

  TWO

  Intrepid II, Deep Space

  Year 2296

  The science vessel Intrepid II moved silently through space. Spock, once science officer on a very different vessel, now captain of this new ship, sat as still as a Vulcan statue in the command chair, very well aware of every passing moment.

  There, now: It was the exact instant when he was scheduled to go off watch. One must be precise at the beginning of a mission, especially with a new crew, if they were to settle into the right routine. Getting to his feet, he told the helmsman, "You have the bridge, Mr. Duchamps."

  Lieutenant Duchamps had the round, cheerful type of face that seemed always about to break into a smile. But he replied with rigid formality, "I relieve you, sir," far too stiffly for a normal human response.

  Not unusual, Spock mused. For the first few weeks of any mission over the past three decades of his service in Starfleet, crew members who had never served with Spock or other Vulcans tended to be just as rigidly uncomfortable in his presence.

  Company manners, Leonard McCoy called it. Spock suspected the stiff-necked, wary behavior was more a matter of those bizarre tales no one quite believed about Vulcans: that their complete self-control meant they had no emotions.

  Fact: the newcomers—no, that was not precisely accurate—the portion of the crew with whom Spock had never served were still on their best behavior with him. With, for that matter, the former Enterprise crew members who had transferred with Spock onto the Intrepid II on what humans called a "shakedown" cruise.

  Odd phrase. I can observe nothing even approximating shakiness in the performance of any of the systems functioning on board. Indeed, more and more of them are becoming fully operational by the hour.

  A flash of memory brought Montgomery Scott's message to him: "Och, be good to her, lad." Scotty's accent had been set for maximum density, his voice pleading as if Spock might actually neglect his duties. "She's only a wee lassie. Let her have some life, not like the other one, that poor lost first Intrepid."

  Trust Scotty to see familiar relationships in the inanimate. The situations, Spock thought, were not at all similar, nor were the vessels. The Intrepid II, designed for exploration and research, was a modified Oberth-class ship, a smaller, lighter craft than the Enterprise but still carrying enough weapons to hold her own in ship-to-ship action. She was, indeed, a far cry from Scotty's "wee lassie."

  On the day I truly understand Scotty's anthropomorphisms, Spock thought with the smallest hint of wry humor, I will also truly understand every gene of my own halfhumanity.

  But the crew were hardly machines. Dr. McCoy had been making psychological generalizations about mourning, periods of adjustments, and stress since the Intrepid II had left its docking bay. It had, after all, been just over one Earth standard year since the loss of Captain Kirk, and while a Vulcan might be able to portion away grief, one year was hardly sufficient time for humans to adapt.

  Doors too new to have acquired scratches from use whispered quietly, efficiently shut behind Spock ( satisfactory), and the turbolift began to take him down to quarters without the smallest hesitation. ( Satisfactory, again.)

  He expected nothing less. Lieutenant Commander Atherton's work and reports were consistently superb. According to the crew rumor that Spock's keen hearing had overheard, Atherton diverted any human passions he might have into his engines—"and he hasn't even got the excuse of being Vulcan!"

  Spock permitted himself the slightest upward tilt of an eyebrow at that. Atherton did have his odd habits. Of Earth British descent, he spoke with a crisp if archaic English accent. While it admittedly conveyed information clearly and concisely, it did seem to bother some of the crew.

  Why? Because it is an archaic accent?

  No. There must be more. Uhura, here on the Intrepid II with Spock and a full commander in her own right, had once told him regretfully that she missed Scotty's familiar warm burr. That the burr had been just as carefully cultivated as Atherton's crisp accent was a matter neither Spock nor Uhura had mentioned.

  Humans, Spock thought, did harbor a tendency for what they called "nostalgia." But it was illogical to regret or yearn for the past. The sooner the new crew members recovered from their "company manners" and integrated into the whole, the sooner the ship would run at peak efficiency. Morale would then be higher: a desirable goal and a stimulus to even greater success.

  Sarek, Spock realized with a start. " A stimulus to greater success" —that is one of my father's favorite phrases. Fascinating that I should use it now.

  And not quite welcome.

  As for the others, those who had transferred from the original Enterprise, those who still mourned . . . Spock hesitated, admitting to himself with total honesty that Captain Kirk would have known what to do to comfort the mourners and reassure crew members still awed by the Enterprise veterans. But Jim was gone.

  That Spock himself might feel more comfortable with a perfectly integrated crew was not a variable in the equation. The calculus of captaincy, he mused, deriving an austere satisfaction from the phrase.

  But austerity could become sterility. Perhaps after he meditated, he would balance the cold equation with music. In his quarters was the lytherette that had been Ambassador Sarek's gift to him.

  Spock straightened ever so slightly. Ridiculous after so many years to still react this . . . irrationally. Yet it seemed that these days he and his father could not even agree on music: Sarek considered Spock's transcriptions of Earth compositions frivolous. Surely the act of transcribing music from one instrument to another, with all the care necessary to maintain the composer's intent, was a legitimate exercise in logic.

  Still, there was undeniable emotion in all human music. Was a shakedown cruise with a crew half in awe, half in mourning, a time for even a suggestion of frivolity?

  That was too emotional a question in itself. Spock brushed his fingers across the control panel, overriding the elevator's programmed speed, testing. It would be interesting to see how the mechanism functioned when the elevator stopped.

  The stop was smooth. Quite satisfactory. A panel flashed green, sig
naling acceptable life-support levels in the corridor beyond—another refinement introduced by Chief Engineer Atherton. Spock stepped out into a corridor partially dimmed to hint at ship's "night," striding past a few crew members also going off-watch. Starfleet Medical had long ago decreed, quite reasonably, that every ship must have a period of "night" to reflect transspecies biological imperatives. Spock knew that his own metabolism, even after so long away from his native world, was still driven by the brilliant, hot days and deep nights of Vulcan. He might need considerably less sleep than a human, but he nonetheless required the rhythm of day and night.

  Alone in the corridor now, Spock let his hand rest on a bulkhead, testing once more. The ship's vibrations were both so subtle and so all-pervasive that only a Vulcan—or perhaps an engineer who bonded with his ship almost as a symbiote—could perceive them. Machinery, Spock had been given to understand, had a "feel," though he could sense no more than how expertly the chief engineer managed the deadly raving of matter-antimatter flow into the great engines, how meticulously he had calibrated the ship's life-support. For a chief engineering officer to operate at peak efficiency, however, he must manage his staff as expertly as his engines.

  That, Spock reminded himself, was equally true for starship captains. The integration of the crew might have been a simpler task if more of the Enterprise officers remained. Sulu had long since left to take command of the Excelsior. Chekov had joined him as first officer, and Scotty had retired to the Norphin Colony. Of the bridge crew, only McCoy and Uhura remained of his comrades on . . . Spock's eyes narrowed fractionally, but he mastered his expression almost immediately . . . Jim Kirk's bridge.

  Is this human "nostalgia"? Illogical.

  A light suddenly flashed on his belt. Lieutenant Richards, the new science officer, had presented Spock almost hesitantly with this, his latest refinement on paging technology: It kept the entire crew from hearing their captain being hailed. Messages awaited Spock in his quarters, one carrying the red light indicating urgency.

  Quickly entering his quarters, Spock just as quickly turned down the light until it was a more comfortable reddish glow, turned up climate control—adjusted to a frugal Earth-normal in his absence—to something approaching Vulcan-normal, then sat before his personal viewscreen and signaled for communications.

  Interesting, he thought, scrolling through the encrypted data, translating it as he read. No, fascinating.

  Spock's long fingers flew over the keypad, quickly calling up a visual. A stocky, sturdy figure appeared. A bearded face with wry dark eyes seemed to stare at him, and Spock felt the smallest thrill of recognition. The years had changed the human, of course, but Spock mentally removed the beard and visualized the face as far younger: Yes. David Rabin—now, it would seem, Captain David Rabin. Spock played the audio, unscrambled:

  "Spock, or at least I hope it's you: Yes, it's your old desert pal, assigned to planetary duty on Obsidian. What am I doing here? Making the desert bloom, my pointy-eared friend. Or at least trying."

  Quickly, all humor gone from his voice, Rabin cataloged the list of problems, ending with, "I like these people, Spock. They deserve better. We really need your help, my friend. Rabin out."

  "Obsidian," Spock repeated thoughtfully, staring at the now-empty screen for an instant. His fingers flew over the keypad once more, bringing up first the planet's position—on the edge of the Romulan/Federation Neutral Zone—then an executive summary of planetological, biological, and anthropological data, and finally his old friend's official biography.

  Excellent fitness reports, of course; Rabin was not the sort to be idle. A good many successful desert excursions on a good many worlds: his friend had become as much a nomad as Rabin's ancestors.

  He has also cross-trained in hydrostatics, I see. Only logical, under the circumstances.

  Successful missions, yes, although comments about Captain Rabin's "initiative" had been duly entered. Such comments, Spock knew, were ironic: there had been several such in James Kirk's records. And none at all in his.

  What was Rabin doing on an outpost this small?

  I'm making the desert bloom, my pointy-eared friend.

  One corner of Spock's mouth quirked up in what would have been wild mirth for a human. Rapidly processing the data, he saw that Medical had red-flagged Obsidian; glancing at its star's spectrographic assay, he saw the cause. Loki could be called a main-sequence G-type star, but its recent level of solar flares and sunspot activity made the worlds orbiting it less than healthy places to live, complicated by the fact that Obsidian had almost no ozone layer.

  High infant mortality, high death rate of adults as well, mostly due to melanomas, carcinomas . . . Spock downloaded the medical data, preempting his science officer's task for the sake of efficiency; after all these years, he knew far better than Lieutenant Richards what Dr. McCoy would need, and the science officer would never reproach him.

  A new flash of light: an upgraded message from Rabin.

  "We've got trouble, Spock. The grain supplies are contaminated. The level of raiding against the cities by the wild nomads has stepped up. Someone is poisoning the wells!"

  Both of Spock's eyebrows shot up. "They're poisoning the wells!" was Rabin's personal metaphor, meaning damage. Prejudice. Danger. A long finger stabbed at a control button, opening a direct line to Lieutenant Duchamps.

  "Captain?"

  When will he stop sounding astonished? And when will the title stop sounding incongruous to me?

  Illogical.

  "Lieutenant, divert course to Obsidian, with all deliberate speed. I should suggest maximum scan and yellow alert as we parallel the Neutral Zone."

  "Aye-aye, sir." Curiosity tinged Duchamps' voice, but "aye-aye" was the only acceptable answer.

  Meditation was out of the question. One did not need to be a Vulcan to know that diverting course was likely to bring questions, if not outright debate. Spock took down his lytherette from where it hung near his copy of Chagall's Expulsion and began to tune it. Perhaps he could at least—

  Of course, the first interruption struck right then. "Yes, Mr. Atherton?"

  "Captain, I have just calibrated my engines and was counting on testing them at lower speeds when your order came." Atherton's clipped British accept almost trembled with protective outrage, just barely skirting insubordination. "I would hate to put undue pressure on the dilithium crystal mounts just because this David Rabin you mentioned has overreacted."

  Me bairns, me puir wee bairns.

  That echo of Scotty's frequent wails kept Spock from giving the human a precise, perfectly logical dressing-down. Instead, he took a deep breath, knowing how many people had no doubt patched into ship's communication or would have this message relayed to them, and said only, "The rest of the ship is in such exemplary order, Mr. Atherton, that I think you might countenance the speed." He kept his voice coolly patient, more for the memory of Scotty's concern than Atherton's present worries. "I knew Captain Rabin when we were boys together on Vulcan. I have traveled with him. He would not send out a distress call without great need."

  The viewscreen showed how thoroughly Atherton's pale face reddened. "Aye-aye, sir," the chief engineer said crisply, and Spock's screen went blank. It was illogical, Spock told himself, to be grateful to a formula that had been old even in the days when Jane's Fighting Ships meant naval vessels, not faster-than-light craft.

  There were no further messages of import. Spock returned to tuning the ancient lytherette, his fingers caressing pegs and the luminous varnish of its sound box, then glanced at the chronometer and made a private estimate before striking the opening notes of a slow, meditative piece by that most logical of human composers, Johann Sebastian Bach.

  Quite within the time frame Spock had projected, the doors to his quarters parted, his privacy coding overridden as only a privileged character might do.

  The privileged character glowered at him from the doorway. "Spock," McCoy blurted, "you never told me you had a human bud
dy on Vulcan when you were a kid!"

  Ah yes, the news must have spread through the Intrepid at better than warp factor ten. Gossip always could outpace even a starship. Rather than replying immediately, Spock allowed himself the luxury of a few more notes of Bach's "Air on the G String," then lifted his fingers from the instrument and let the vibrations dissipate.

  "Since you have already intruded, Doctor, please sit down."

  McCoy ambled into the red-lit cabin, mimed ostentatious discomfort at the heat, and sank into the chair opposite Spock, setting a square crystal bottle down on the desk with a thump that made the cobalt blue liquid inside slosh from side to side. It boiled up, threatening to overflow, and McCoy glared at it.

  "If you were a drinking man. Spock, I'd say you could use a drink. Where do you keep your beer glasses?"

  "I see no logic to the ingestion of ethanol," Spock retorted. "Especially not before what might be a ship's action."

  A quick foray by McCoy to one of Spock's meticulously neat shelves produced, if not beer glasses, a substitute the human considered at least adequate: a pair of translucent stone goblets. He poured the frothing ale.

  "Now, if this were Saurian brandy or Tennessee bourbon, I wouldn't waste it on you. But Romulan ale . . . if your Romuian cousins can drink it, you certainly can."

  "Romulans do many things no sane Vulcan would do," Spock observed, studying the liquid. The ale was the exact color of antique computer screens.

  "Sane Vulcan?" There went McCoy's eyebrow, raised in his usual jesting mockery. "Isn't that somewhat of a redundancy?"

  "Believe me, Doctor," Spock admitted reluctantly, "I have known of cases . . ."

  No. McCoy had often harassed Jim Kirk with these nocturnal visits. Ship's doctor's responsible for the captain's health, he'd insisted. " 'You're a bartender, not a doctor,' " Spock quoted Kirk without warning, almost making McCoy choke on his drink.