"You think you can find Sered's hideout again? What if there's a lava pool or something lying across our path?"
"There are no open lava pools on the Forge," Spock told him patiently. "And even if we must detour around obstacles, we are hardly likely to go astray. Surely you remember that there are some notable rock formations near the hideout."
"None of which we can see from here. What do we do till we can?"
"We navigate by the stars."
"Right! Clear desert nights, no light pollution, and all that. I should have remembered that." David packed up his scanty gear. "Okay, Spock, this devil's advocate is all out of objections. Ready when you are."
Devil's advocate? Spock made a mental note to ask his mother for a definition of David's latest exotic terminology.
They started back the way they had come, up some hills crumpled up from Vulcan's crust, and out onto the slick, wrinkled black surface of an ancient lava flow. Here and there, earthquakes had shattered the surface, allowing scrawny plants with vicious-looking thorns to gain rootholds.
"Walk warily," Spock warned. "The lava looks thick, but there may be gas bubbles hiding just beneath the surface. If you break through the crust, you risk a broken or badly lacerated ankle."
David was actually silent as they picked their way across the glossy, treacherous plain.
"Watch out for the plants as well," Spock continued.
"Boots ought to be all right," David grunted. He raised his protective visor and studied the horizon, squinting against the brightness.
"It is not your boots that concern me," Spock replied. "It is the plant life. Merely brushing against some of these shrubs will dislodge toxic spines."
"Meat-eaters?" David asked, eyeing them. " Fascinating—no, that's your line, isn't it? What about these lichen-looking things?"
Spock followed David's gaze. "Those? They are, indeed, true lichen. You cannot get a rash from touching them, but if ingested, they are a powerful hallucinogen, even for Vulcans."
"And what do Vulcans hallucinate? Talking theorems?" David laughed for the first time that morning.
Spock blinked. Was this odd placing of laughter a human defense against stress? Curious, he said, "I fail to see how humans can display such illogical levity in a crisis."
David lowered his visor with the finality of a Terran knight going into battle. "One more time: It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it."
He strode boldly forward, Spock at his side.
Amazing. I know that I am keeping David going —but I think that David is keeping me going, too!
He had never sensed in another such a fierce desire not just to survive but to keep observing as well, even when false logic might dictate giving up. It was highly commendable in a Vulcan. In a human, it was . . . highly commendable as well.
"Hey, snake!" David yelped suddenly, twisting aside. His feet slipped out from under him and he went down with a thud and another yell, this time adding what Spock suspected were highly improper expressions in the invective mode of several human languages.
"David! Are you badly hurt?"
"Nothing's broken but that damn bush I landed on. You weren't kidding about those thorns. Look at this! They shredded my sleeve. Ow, and me."
Both boys stared down in dismay at the long black thorn embedded in his forearm.
"At least I'm right-handed," David observed weakly.
"No! Don't try to pull it out. Such thorns are barbed."
"Great," David said. "Just great. I'll be the only onehanded first-year student in the Academy." He reached for his knife, but Spock forestalled him.
"We have been using our knives to pry up rocks and slash vegetation. Not only would they be difficult to sterilize properly, by now, neither has a fine enough point or edge for this type of work."
"Yeah, right, kids don't get the good stuff, do they? It's a shame none of those lasers in the shuttle were functional, huh, Spock? Otherwise we could use one of them on low power to vaporize the thorn."
"And possibly your arm as well. Neither of us are trained in laser surgery." Spock rummaged through the medical supplies they had taken from the shuttle . . . yes. He took out a small, thin scalpel and a tiny vial of a sterilizing solution.
David grimaced. "You sure you can use that? Too bad you can't just use an obsidian blade, all the shards lying around here."
"I could not achieve a sharp enough point."
"Right, right, and the stuff's brittle as glass—it is glass. Volcanic glass. They used to use obsidian for trephining, Aztecs or someone, performed brain surgery with it four thousand years ago. No, wait, it was the Egyptians who did the surgeries. The Aztecs used obsidian to cut out people's hearts. And I'm babbling, right?"
"You are on the edge of shock." While he spoke, Spock carefully cleaned the scalpel. Trying to keep the human from sliding further into shock, he asked, "Were these Egyptians of Terra noted surgeons?"
"For their time, they were. And the Aztecs were pretty clever, too. Bloodthirsty lot, though. Thought their gods would die if they weren't fed human blood. Heh, hope Sered isn't that far gone!"
Spock froze. "I trust not."
David, struggling one-handed, managed to tear a strip of cloth from his tunic. "Bandage. Reasonably clean. You think we need to worry about infection out here in the desert?"
"The desert is clean," Spock assured him. "But that thorn has to come out. Even the slightest piece left in your arm could create a highly unpleasant condition."
David grimaced. "Good thing I've had my shots." Then he grit his teeth and gestured for Spock to proceed. Spock clamped his hand down upon David's wrist with Vulcan strength, immobilizing it and, he hoped, numbing it as well. He made a careful incision. David flinched, then held still with quite commendable control. The small wound bled more than Spock had expected, not dangerously so, but the red of it staining his fingers and the scent of it, clear to his keen Vulcan senses, were almost shocking. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to thrust memories of the ruined bodies in the downed shuttle from his thoughts.
A shadow crossed David's arm and both boys glanced up. High overhead, a shavokh circled, drawn by the sight of a prone body. The human glared up at the bird. "You can just wait till hell freezes over."
"At least," Spock tried to distract David as he worked, "it fills its ecological niche by seeking carrion . . ."
"Thanks a lot, Spock—hey, any deeper and you'll need a search warrant!"
". . . rather than souls. On Vulcan, we have a tale of the Eater of Souls . . . a night creature which stalks and destroys the spiritual essence of its sapient prey. My mother says that belief in such a creature is common to all sentient beings. Have you ever encountered such stories?"
David continued to glare up at the circling shavokh. "I can't believe we're having—ouch! —this conversation right now. Aren't you finished yet?"
"One more spine . . . there. I believe we did include an antiseptic with the other medical supplies . . . ah."
He sprayed the antiseptic over the wound, then bandaged it. David sagged back against the rock in relief, his eyes closed, arm cradled against his body and face greenish beneath its tan.
"Do you wish to rest?" Spock asked.
"How long until midday?"
"Approximately one point five three of your hours." David forced himself to his feet. "Stop this early? We don't dare. You're the one with the built-in range finder, Spock. Lead on."
"This is, I believe, an example of what humans call "macho behavior.' And it is not logical. David, one point five three of your hours is hardly a long time, and you will do neither us nor the hostages much good if you collapse."
"I'm not going to . . ." David sat down suddenly. "Well, I guess we can spare one point five three hours," he said with a shaky grin, and closed his eyes.
David, relatively recovered after the heat of the day, had not objected when Spock had pushed their pace, but by the time they stopped for the night, the human youth dropped to the gro
und. He was spent and breathing hard, but he still managed to exclaim over the beauty of the sunset. The light bathed the desert floor like a flood of molten bronze. Even the ancient lava flows seemed to ripple, liquid once again.
"My son, you indulge in metaphorical thinking." Spock could almost hear Sarek saying that, and he retorted silently, If you saw the Womb of Fire at sunset, you too would use metaphor. My description is exceedingly logical.
Since the human boy was still favoring his left arm, Spock took on himself the task of digging shallow sleeping trenches in the loose ground for the night.
"Don't you think it's still too early to stop, Spock?" David asked, looking wistfully at the sky. "You did say we'd have to steer by the stars. We could get in a couple of hours of travel before the hunters came out."
"I observed that you have been somewhat unsteady on your feet for the past three point two kilometers. We will both be more effective after a meal and a night's rest."
However effective the two of them could be against armed Romulans and Sered. . . .
David had set out provisions: two ration bars, one driedout root. Now, he sat twisting straps of some supple fiber about his good hand. "You know, Spock, you wouldn't believe how much I hate being taken care of. You really wouldn't believe it. Back home, I'm considered pretty competent. Had to be, or I wouldn't have gotten into Starfleet Academy." He reached down for a small chunk of lava, then whispered, "Freeze!"
Another metaphor? Fascinating. Spock's sensitive ears picked out the sound of some small creature, perhaps a hayalit too far from its burrow. David's eyes were very bright. Fever? No, that was the alertness of a hunter.
The hayalit stopped for an instant against a rock, its carapace taking on the rock's color. David quickly slipped the lava chunk into his makeshift sling, whirled it over his head, then sent the chunk flying. The hayalit had time for one desperate leap, then crumpled.
"I will retrieve it." Somehow that came out in a casual voice. Spock, determinedly hiding his reaction, needed the brief walk to give him time to compose himself. Were all Terrans such efficient predators? Only that morning, he had shed David Rabin's blood, felt the other youth flinch under an improvised obsidian blade, mortally vulnerable. Now, the victim had turned into a hunter.
"You said we needed a decent meal," David called after him. "I've had my immunizations, remember, or those grubs you fed me would have killed me already. I need the protein. And, if you'll excuse my saying it, you do too."
"I can obtain sufficient protein from the desert legumes. I have no need or desire to eat meat. But you are human."
"Heh. You sound almost like Sered." David skinned, cleaned, and disjointed the creature with rapid efficiency. "I . . . don't suppose there's anything around here that will burn?"
The thought of David devouring his kill raw was more unpleasant than the risk of their fire being seen. Spock reluctantly gathered bits of dead vegetation, which David set alight with a spark from his firestarter. At least, Spock told himself, the hayalit was low enough on the scale of evolutionary being to barely qualify as animal,
"Tastes just like chicken," the human observed between bites, clearly intending it as a jest.
Looking for a safe subject, Spock said, "You build a commendable sling."
David grinned. "It kind of comes with the name. King David was a hero of my people. As a boy, he had to face a giant, Goliath. Everyone expected the kid to be pulverized, but David wouldn't listen to the odds. He slew the giant with nothing more than a stone from his slingshot. I guess he's a good role model about right now, don't you, Spock?"
"Indeed."
The small fire quickly burned out. The two boys raked the ashes aside, lying side by side on the warmed ground, looking up into the vast dome of the night sky. By unspoken consent, they said nothing of the trials ahead.
"If you seek Captain Rabin's ship," Spock observed, "its disk is so small that parallax is insufficient for observation. However, you can observe one hundred and sixty-eight first-magnitude stars and—"
"As my mother would say, at ease! We're not in class right now."
Silence fell. Spock let himself slowly relax, muscle by muscle, and was almost asleep when David asked suddenly, "Do you ever think of . . . well . . . girls?"
Spock frowned in confusion. "In what context?"
"Well, as girls. Different from us, but . . . attractive. As, uh, mates. One of these days. When we're grown, of course."
Spock felt one eyebrow shoot up. David could not know how gravely his question violated Vulcan codes of privacy. "For me, the topic is academic. I am already bonded."
"You're married?" David's voice shot up an octave. "But you're just a kid!"
"It is our custom. I was bonded to T'Pring when we were both seven."
"T'Pring . . . wasn't she at the ceremony? Tall, slim, wearing silver? Very alert?"
"Yes," Spock said, bemused that David should have seen and remembered her.
"Hey, she's really something! Really . . . beautiful." From the hesitation in David's usual flow of talk, Spock inferred that the Terran had meant to add something, then decided against it. "But, Spock, the two of you didn't even talk to each other."
"Talk about what? She will meet me at the appointed time. There will be time enough for speech thereafter." He could feel his face heating. Control, he told himself. It was a perfectly normal psychological and physiological process. And he had years before he must confront it.
"I thought you people were advanced," David protested. "Look at your parents . . . I mean . . ."
Yes, and look at me. Half-caste, so that the first madman to disgrace Vulcan in hundreds of years can denounce me before the Adepts of Gol.
No. Control. "My father's parents left him unbonded," Spock replied. "My father and mother chose otherwise for me."
David snorted. "I'd say they did." He fell silent for a long time. "Spock," he asked, "are you scared?"
Spock, too, paused. "The unknown," he conceded, "is always disturbing." Then, because David seemed to expect more, he added, "So is the thought of facing something overwhelming."
"Overwhelming" was the word for it. For two boys to go up against Romulans and an adult Vulcan in full training went beyond illogical all the way to what a human might well call "preposterous."
But then, a human might, like his friend David's namesake, try to beat the odds. Try and succeed. David had taught him a word from David's people's history: " chutzpah." Yes. The chutzpah of that was almost reassuring.
"David," Spock began tentatively. "May I ask you a personal question?"
"Go right ahead."
"Why did you choose Starfleet Academy? I see no logic in enthusiasm for a military career."
"It's not military, not entirely. It's . . . well, at the Academy, you can study anything you want, ask any question you need to ask—in fact, you're supposed to. You get to go anywhere in the galaxy and maybe even somewhere no one has ever, ever gone—can you imagine anything more exciting than discovering a new intelligent race? And while you're traveling and studying, you sometimes get to help people, too."
Spock bit back a totally human sigh. Starfleet sounded like precisely the sort of institution to hold the answers to his inner questions. ''But the weapons," he insisted. "Your ships are armed."
"My mother says that only a fool goes into a situation with lasers firing. Our people—not the Federation, but the people of the very small nation I call home on Terra—have been scientists and artists and teachers—"
"And warriors."
"Yes, sometimes warriors too, when we had to be . . . for more than six thousand years. We are very old, almost as old as Vulcan civilization, perhaps. There were times when, like Vulcans, we turned away from the path of the warrior. But when we left ourselves unprotected, evil men tried to wipe us out so that we said 'never again.' My mother says that 'never again' is optimistic. But she also says that 'not this time' as a motto is something you can build your life around. They won't kill the w
eak. Not this time. They won't destroy the city. Not this time. They won't launch a sneak attack on a weaker civilization. Not this time. Not while Starfleet's there.
"Not while I'm there," David added, and he was clearly speaking a vow. "Not here, either."
"It seems," Spock had to force the words past his lips, and his hands had turned very cold, "extremely logical."
"It is for me," said David. "I know it is. I only hope I can measure up. Maybe, if I get through this all right, if we get back . . . Spock . . ." He drew breath for what Spock knew was going to be an explosion of enthusiastic tactlessness. "Why don't you apply to Starfleet too? There'd be no question of you getting in; they've been hoping to get some Vulcans, and it sounds like—"
"My parents have other plans for me," Spock told him in exactly the same tone that Sarek used in reprimanding him. The Bonding. Kahs-wan. The Science Academy. A distinguished, peaceful career for the next two hundred years. His path was set.
"That's such a waste." David sighed, but the sigh turned into a yawn.
"If we are to be strong enough to face the desert tomorrow," Spock said, "we had both better sleep."
"Right," muttered David. "G'night, Spock."
Spock could hear the human's breathing slow and deepen as he slid into sleep. It was a long time, however, before his meditations could bring him to a point where he could even think of rest. He pictured Sered's proud, elegant, countenance. Thought of his treachery. David and his mother were right, Spock decided. Not this time. Not. This. Time.
David claimed that the Academy set him a standard he must strive to match. Spock must now try to match a human's dedication. Perhaps he and David could discuss the entire issue at some later time.
Assuming, of course, that they survived.
TWELVE
Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 2, first Week, Month of the Shining Chara,
Vulcan's Forge Page 12
