Almost absently, Spock solved the simple equation, then estimated how long it would take the Terran boy to produce a reasonably correct solution. The answer came within the parameters he had set: a sign of quick intelligence in the human.
"That's better," said the Starfleet captain. "Believe me, David, if you don't settle down, I've got more snap quizzes where that one came from. I know you're excited about seeing Vulcan—"
"Aren't you?" the boy countered. "I mean, look at that desert! It makes Sinai National Preserve look like a sandbox!"
Fascinating. Even Spock's mother did not speak of the deserts that occupied much of her adopted world with such admiration.
"David, I swear, someone spiked your tri-ox with adrenaline."
The tri-ox compound did, Spock mused, sometimes have such an effect on some already excitable humans. But he was too intrigued by this show of blatant emotion to comment.
"Calm down!" the woman was ordering. "Before we return to Earth, I may be able to arrange a field trip. But not if you create an interstellar incident."
That sparked a wry grin from the boy but no repentance, and his mother sighed and continued, "Once you actually start at the Academy, you'll learn how important diplomacy is for a Starfleet officer—even one who plans to be an explorer."
"Yes, ma'am." The boy subsided, tugging at his closefitting formal tunic, so much less suitable for Vulcan's heat than Spock's loose, dark robe with its embossed metallic heir's sigils.
Lecturing offspring seemed to be a constant among all sentient beings, Spock observed.
Then he had to force himself not to start. Not fifty meters away stood Sered, in a more formal version of the austere brown robe he had worn for his visit to Sarek's house. The robe bore the bronze symbols that denoted Head of House, but he had chosen the most archaic forms of the complex glyphs. Intriguing.
"We shall pause here, my wife," murmured Sarek to
Amanda. He added, "Captain Rabin." The ambassador had not raised his impeccably modulated voice, but the captain turned and came to . . . military attention, Spock knew from his studies, although he had never actually seen the posture before.
"Ambassador Sarek."
"Do you find your stay on Vulcan instructive?"
The Starfleet officer's face was impassive. "My highest function is to strengthen the figurative bridge—like the literal one we just crossed—between your world and mine. My assignment honors me."
Remarkable. Her son had achieved stillness, if not her military bearing.
"You do your service justice, Captain. My wife, may I present Starfleet Captain Nechama Rabin, from the planet of your birth? Captain, this is the Lady Amanda, my wife."
Amanda, who had courteously raised her light veil, somehow managed to seem taller and more stately than the woman who snipped roses in a wet-planet conservatory and admitted to worrying about the son whom she lectured. "Shalom, Captain," she said, hand raised in the Vulcan greeting.
"Live long and prosper, Lady Amanda." The two human women studied each other for an instant, then smiled.
"Peace and prosperity," said Lady Amanda. "Could we have better greetings between compatriots on such a fine morning?"
"Let us hope," Sarek took up her words, "that such greetings extend as well to . . . friends."
With a raised eyebrow, he acknowledged the captain's son. Sered, Spock noted, stood all this while as if paralyzed by le-matya venom, watching. My father delivers an object lesson, Spock realized.
"May I present my son, David?" asked the captain. "He enters Starfleet Academy next year."
"Another generation of service?" Sarek said. "Highly commendable."
Spock knew that Sarek, like most Vulcans, held the military in low esteem. Did diplomacy require the speaking of lies? No, Sarek had said that "service" was laudable; he had said nothing of its type. And his approval drove home his "lesson" to Sered: Sarek favored both today's ceremony and the invitation of Federation representatives.
The boy stepped forward fearlessly ( Of course, Spock thought), looking up into Sarek's keen eyes, then raised his hand in the proper salute. "I am honored, sir." His Old High Vulcan formal greeting was hesitant, but correctly phrased; he had even mastered the glottal stop. "I also thank you for the opportunity to witness this ceremony."
Sarek managed without the slightest change in expression or posture to register his approval. "It has its parallels in the customs of your own people, does it not?"
His father was being positively expansive to this stranger! Jealousy, Spock reminded himself, is an emotion. A perilous one. Why should he not be polite to a visitor?
Spock wasn't the only one who had noticed. He saw Sered's expression alter in a way that would have been imperceptible to a human, but to a Vulcan looked as blatant as a grimace of revulsion. Contempt is an emotion as well, Spock thought. Then the tall, austere Vulcan vanished into the crowd.
"Yes, sir," David was continuing. "Boys undergo a ritual that confirms them as adults. But not just boys. What about . . ."
Captain Rabin's hand came down firmly upon her son's shoulder, cutting off what Spock was certain would have been a most revealing question. "My son has completed advanced desert survival training, Ambassador Sarek. All morning, he has told me how magnificent he finds the view. He is hoping for an opportunity to visit the Forge."
It seemed that humans knew the art of using words as a diversion as well.
Sarek dipped his head a polite fraction. "A most feasible ambition, David. Captain Rabin, with your permission, I shall have one of my aides arrange an excursion."
No mention was made of including Spock. Again he warned himself against emotion. Against jealousy. And almost succeeded.
David visibly glowed. He glanced over at Spock, who kept his face impassive.
"We have presumed upon your time, sir," said Captain Rabin. "I know you must be eager to see . . . your son?" She raised an eyebrow inquiringly at the ambassador.
". . . welcomed into the ranks of adult Vulcan males."
"Spock," Sarek introduced him briefly. Spock bowed in silence.
Was Captain Rabin disconcerted by the brusqueness? "Lady Amanda, my congratulations," she said carefully.
"We are very proud of Spock," Amanda replied, just as carefully.
With a noncommittal smile, the captain withdrew, towing a reluctant David as though he were a much younger child. He, giving up the struggle for dignity, left trailing questions. "Do you think they'd let him go with me? I'd love to talk with a Vulcan my age. Who else would come? You know, everyone's talking about Vulcan boys. What about girls?"
Lady Amanda's shoulders shook almost imperceptibly. Captain Rabin stopped in her tracks. "I tell you what, David. Ask that question, which probably breaks every privacy code the Vulcans have—and they've got plenty— create your interplanetary scandal, and you can forget seeing the Forge. In fact, it would be a wonder if we weren't kicked off Vulcan."
"But what about girls?" he whispered, clearly forgetting about keen Vulcan hearing. "It's not as though they were secondary citizens. I mean, what about T'Pau? She's important enough, isn't she? Yes, and what about T'Lar of—of Gol?"
The captain's expression changed to what Spock's mother called her "give me strength" face, used when her patience was severely tried. "Will you please stop thinking about Vulcan girls? They probably all have dates for Saturday night anyway."
David flushed. "Mother, please. You know I wasn't talking about that. And you mean you approve—"
"Look, son," said Nechama Rabin. "As you just lectured me, T'Lar of Gol and T'Pau will be honoring these boys. Is it logical to assume that they, as women, would slight girls—who one day may grow up to be Elders themselves?"
"But we don't know—"
"And aren't likely to. Before you ask, I am not about to try to find out. And neither are you. Now, quiet or you go back to Base. This is not, incidentally, your mother speaking.
This is the captain. Understood, mister?"
> "Aye-aye," said the boy. Spock suspected he would behave appropriately now—until his next attack of "why." But surely there was nothing improper about an inquiring mind! It would be interesting to speak with this Terran who shared a trait with him that—
But Sarek would probably not allow his son to risk exposure to human emotionalism by learning more about this boy or any of the others.
A deferential three paces behind his parents and two to the side of Sarek, Spock strode past a series of deeply incised pits—the result of laser cannon fire two millennia back—and up to the entrance of the amphitheater. Two masked guards bearing ceremonial lirpa presented arms before his father, then saluted Spock for the first time as an adult. For all his attempts at total control, he felt a little shiver race through him as he returned the salutes as an adult for the first time. The clublike weights that formed the lirpa bases shone, a luster of dark metal. The dawn light flashed red on the blades that the guards carried over their shoulders. At the guards' hips, they wore stone-hilted daggers, but no energy weapons—phasers— such as a Starfleet officer might wear on duty. Of course, no such weapons might be brought here.
Lady Amanda removed her fingers from her husband's and smiled faintly. "I shall join the other ladies of our House now, my husband, while you bring our son before the Elders. Spock, I shall be watching for you. And I am indeed very proud."
As, her gaze told him, is your father.
She glided away, a grace note among the taller Vulcans.
Spock fell into step with his father, head high, as if his blood bore no human admixture. As it was in the beginning . . . Silently, he reviewed the beginning of the Chant of Generations as he glided down the stairs.
Long ago, some cataclysm or some unspeakable weapon had peeled half the face of the mountain away, leaving only a ridge above the crater that had been shaped into a natural amphitheater. Beneath this roof was a platform from which two pillars reared up. Centered between the pillars stood an altar of dark stone on which rested the greatest treasures of each Great House on Vulcan: ceremonial swords, of which Spock and his agemates would receive replicas.
We are trained to abhor violence. Yet we are taught combat and, to honor us, we are awarded archaic weapons. This is not logical.
None of the other boys accompanying their fathers seemed to have such reservations. The Federation guests simply watched, the adults clearly impressed, the youngsters honestly openmouthed. Sered, Spock thought, would no doubt think that awe was a highly appropriate reaction.
Behind the pillars glistened a pool, ruddy with 40 Eridani A's dawn. To either side of the pillars, dark-robed students of the disciplines of Gol stepped forward to shake frameworks of belt. Another, whose robes bore the sigil of a thirddegree adept, swung a great mallet at a hexagonal gong so ancient that its precious iron central boss had turned deep red. Again, the bells rang, dying into a whisper and a rustle.
Everyone in the amphitheater rose. T'Lar, adept and First Student, walked onto the platform. Then, two guards, their lirpa set aside for the purpose, entered with a curtained carrying chair. From it, robed in black, but with all the crimsons of the dawn in her brocaded overrobe, stepped T'Pau. She leaned on an intricately carved stick.
Spock's father stepped forward as if to help her.
"Thee is kind, Sarek," said the Elder of their House, "but thee is premature. When I can no longer preside unassisted over this rite, it will be time to release my katra."
Sarek bowed. "I ask pardon for my presumption."
"Courtesy," T'Pau held up a thin, imperious hand, "is never presumptuous." Her long eyes moved over the people in the amphitheater as if delivering some lesson of her own—but to whom? Carefully, she approached the altar and bowed to T'Lar. "Eldest of All, I beg leave to assist thee."
"You honor me," replied T'Lar.
"I live to serve," said T'Pau, an observation that would have left Spock gasping had he not been getting sufficient oxygen.
Both women bowed, this time to the youths who stood waiting their presentation.
Again, the adept struck the gong.
T'Lar raised both arms, the white and silver of her sleeves falling like great wings. " As it was in the beginning, so shall it always be. These sons of our House have shown their worthiness . . ."
"I protest!" came a shout from the amphitheater.
Even the Vulcans murmured what would have been astonishment in any other people as Sered, his heavy robes swinging about him, strode down the center aisle to stand before the altar.
"I protest," he declared, "the profanation of these rites. I protest the way they have been stripped of their meaning, contaminated as one might pollute a well in the desert. I protest the way our deepest mysteries have been revealed to outsiders."
T'Pau's eyebrows rose at that last word, which was in the seldom-used invective mode.
"Has thee finished?" asked T'Lar. Adept of Kolinahr, she would remain serene if Mount Seleya split along its many fissures and this entire amphitheater crumbled into the pit below.
"No!" Sered cried, his voice sharp as the cry of a shavokh. "Above all, I protest the inclusion of an outsider in our rites—yes, as leader of the men to be honored today—when other and worthier men, our exiled cousins, go unhonored and unrecognized."
Sarek drew deep, measured breaths. He prepares for combat, Spock realized, and was astonished to feel his own body tensing, alert, aware as he had only been during his kahs-wan, when he had faced a full-grown le-matya in the deep desert and knew, logically, he could not survive such an encounter. Fight or flight, his mother had once called it. That too was a constant across species. But not here. There must not be combat here.
"Thee speaks of those who exiled themselves, Sered." Not the slightest trace of emotion tinged T'Pau's voice. "Return lies in their power, not in ours."
"So it does!" Sered shouted. "And so they do!"
He tore off his austere robe. Gasps of astonishment and hisses of outrage sounded as he stood forth in the garb of a Captain of the Hosts from the ancient days. Sunlight picked out the metal of his harness in violent red and exploded into rainbow fire where it touched the gem forming the grip of the ancient energy weapon Sered held—a weapon he had brought, against all law, into Mount Seleya's amphitheater.
"Welcome our lost kindred!" he commanded and gestured as if leading a charge.
A rainbow shimmer rose about the stage. Transporter effect, Spock thought even as it died, leaving behind six tall figures in black and silver, At first glance they were as much like Sered as brothers in their mother's womb. But where Sered wore his rage like a cloak of ceremony, these seemed accustomed to emotion and casual violence.
For an instant no one moved, the Vulcans too stunned by this glaring breach of custom, the Federation guests not sure what they were permitted to do. Then, as the intruders raised their weapons, the amphitheater erupted into shouts and motion. From all sides, the guards advanced, holding their lirpa at a deadly angle. But lirpa were futile against laser rifles.
As the ceremonial guard was cut down, Sarek whispered quick, urgent words to other Vulcans. They nodded. Spock sensed power summoned and joined:
"Now!" whispered the ambassador.
In a phalanx, the Vulcans rushed the dais. They swept across it, bearing T'Pau and T'Lar with them. They, at least, were safe. Only one remained behind. Green blood puddled from his ruined skull, seeping into the dark stone where no blood had flowed for countless generations.
"You dare rise up against me?" Sered shrilled. "One sacrifice is not enough to show the lesser worlds!" He waved his weapon at the boys, at the gorgeously dressed Federation guests. "Take them! We shall make these folk of lesser spirit crawl."
Spock darted forward, not sure what he could do, knowing only that it was not logical to wait meekly for death. And these intruders were not mindless le-matyas! They were kindred, of Vulcan stock; surely they could be reasoned with—
As Sered could not. Spock faltered at the sight of the draw
n features, the too-bright eyes staring beyond this chaos to a vision only Sered could see. Few Vulcans ever went insane, but here was true madness. Surely his followers, though, clearly Vulcan's long-lost cousins, would not ally themselves with such insanity!
Desperately calm, Spock raised his hand in formal greeting. Surak had been slain trying to bring peace: if Spock fell thus, at least his father would have final proof that he was worthy to be the ambassador's son.
They suddenly seemed to be in a tense little circle of calm. One of the "cousins" pointed at him, while a second nodded, then gestured out into the chaos around them. The language had greatly changed in the sundered years, but Spock understood:
"This one."
"Him."
It may work. They may listen to me. They—
"Get back, son!" a Starfleet officer shouted, racing forward, phaser in outstretched hand, straight at Sered. "Drop that weapon!"
Sered threw back his head. He actually laughed. Then, firing at point-blank range, reflexes swifter than human, he shot the man. The human flared up into flame so fierce that the heat scorched Spock's face and the veils slipped across his eyes, blurring his sight. He blinked, blinked again to clear it, and saw the conflagration that had been a man flash out of existence.
Dead. He's dead. A moment ago alive, and now— Spock stared at Sered across the small space that had held a man, his mind refusing to process what he'd just seen. " Halfblood," muttered Sered. "Weakling shoot of Surak's house. But you will serve—"
"Got him!" came a shout. David Rabin hurled himself into Sered, bringing them both down. The weapon flew from Sered's hand, and Captain Rabin and Sered both scrambled for it. The woman touched it, Sered knocked her hand aside—
And the weapon slid right to Spock. He snatched it up, heart racing faster than a proper Vulcan should permit, and pointed it at Sered.
"Can you kill a brother Vulcan?" Sered hissed, unafraid, from where he lay. "Can you?"
Could he? For an endless moment, Spock froze, seeing Sered's fearless stare, feeling the weapon in his hand. Dimly he was aware of the struggle all around him as the invaders grabbed hostages, but all he could think was that all he need do was one tiny move, only the smallest tightening of a finger—
Vulcan's Forge Page 6
