"The Taragi-shar. They are the nearest igneous range."
"Maybe. I haven't exactly had a chance to do any sightseeing."
There was a sudden long silence. McCoy, Spock thought, must be hiding his transmission from some passerby, probably a guard, and waited patiently for the doctor to continue.
At last McCoy said, very softly, "Can't talk much longer. Too many eavesdroppers. And the damn communicator's almost dead. Listen, Spock, I'm stuck in the middle of some fanatical group that calls itself the Faithful. They're locals. But the big boys, the guys with the guns, are definitely Romulans."
"Romulans," Spock echoed thoughtfully. There had been the mystery of the spy calling him the Fiery One . . . yes. Romulan Intelligence would certainly have placed him on the planet.
"Yeah, I know," McCoy continued, "not good. But there's worse. Their leader . . . well, brace yourself, Spock. The leader is a Vulcan."
"A Vulcan!" That was Rabin, listening over Spock's shoulder. "You're sure?"
"That has got to be Captain Rabin's voice." Sarcasm dripped from McCoy's own. "Think I can't recognize a Vulcan after all these years of serving with one, Captain? Mind you, this guy, whoever he is, isn't young, but he's straight-backed and haughty as they come. Crazy as they come, too, in flowing white robes like something out of ancient Vulcan history. Coldest eyes I've ever seen on anyone, Vulcan or human. Calls himself only the Master."
"Spock," Rabin said in alarm, "do you know who that sounds like? Our old friend Sered!"
Spock glanced over his shoulder at the human, not quite frowning. "The odds are greatly against that. In fact, I would estimate them at—"
"I haven't got time for a lecture on statistics!" McCoy snapped. "Listen, I can't prove it, I never saw the man before, but I'd take a good guess that he—damn! Company's coming. Have to sign off. Ignore any other word from me; never know if they might force me to talk. If they can get this cursed thing to work."
"Be careful, Bones," Spock heard himself say, rather to his suprise, in Kirk's tone of voice.
"Now he tells me!" McCoy retorted, and broke off communications.
Rabin straightened, then scrambled to his feet. "Uh-oh. Here comes a committee. Looks like I'm wanted out there. The Master or whoever he is will have to wait."
Spock followed, still mulling over the question of the mysterious Vulcan. But as Rabin said, that matter would have to wait. He watched, curious, as the human, surrounded by the nomads, debated with them.
Or at least Spock assumed this was merely a debate. If so, it was one that sounded only a shade less excited than an argument and that seemed to require a great deal of gesturing on all sides and exchanges so rapid that Spock's translator could barely keep pace.
David told me once that when his people grow excited while debating, their words and gestures accelerate. It would seem true of the nomads as well.
One of the nomads was drawing back, deliberately breaking off the rapid-fire debate, and saying with casual contempt, "You would compare us to them? The people of the city, the Tamed Ones trapped behind their own walls? Tchah, they lack the sense to come in out of the sun!"
"Worse," another nomad added, "they have isolated themselves from the true desert, the desert which brings wisdom."
"As my people have not," Rabin retorted, and suddenly his mobile face was quite serious, "On both our worlds we have kept the desert; on both our worlds we know that it brings revelations."
That struck home. The nomads drew back in what could only be surprised respect, and Spock heard one murmur, "Perhaps he is not a Kindly Fool, not a Fool, at that."
Rabin glanced at Spock, saying clearly without words: Help me out here; I'm out of my league. Spock moved quietly to the human's side, adding, "On my world, as well, we keep the desert. And we, too, respect it and know of similar revelations. But it would seem," he continued with Vulcan calm, "that there are some within your land who have chosen to follow a most unusual path to enlightenment."
"The Faithful!" someone muttered, and the others stirred uneasily.
"The Faithful," Spock agreed. "So we have heard them named. It is of those people we would speak."
But suddenly the nomads were murmuring among themselves, all out of proportion to what he'd said. They stepped reverentially aside to let a small, slender, hooded figure pass.
So-o. I was wondering when we would meet their leader. The figure's robes were solid tan, totally without adornment, but Spock heard the faintest jingling of ornaments. Judging from the obvious respect the others were showing, these were probably amulets or religious objects.
The nomad stopped before Spock and Rabin, and an aged hand pushed back its hood slightly. Spock felt a sharp, irrational pang stab through him at the face revealed, and a quick, equally irrational thought of T'Pau.
No. Illogical. Control. Of course this wasn't the longdeceased Vulcan elder. But the sudden shock of memory was understandable, since this small woman bore a good deal of the same quiet pride, the same calm authority and dignity. Wisdom and a hint of cynical wit shone in her ancient face and dark eyes.
A leader, indeed. But T'Pau had turned down a seat on the Federation Council after the massacre on Mount Seleya: "We keep ourselves to ourselves," as McCoy had voiced it. Will this leader, too, turn from the Federation—but take her people with her?
Spock bowed in respect and felt the woman's hand, light as a leaf, touch his head in brief blessing. He straightened, aware of Rabin glancing sharply from him to her and back again. The human, no fool, bowed and was blessed in turn. Then the woman said, her voice not old at all, "I am the Elder of the White Stone Clan of the Benak Haran. You," her gesture took in Rabin, "are the outlander known to us as the Kindly Fool."
"So I've learned," he said wryly. "My . . . uh . . . clan name is Rabin, Elder, and my . . . uh . . . use name is David."
"So. And you, O outlander who is quite clearly from far distant realms?"
Spock straightened. "I am Spock of Vulcan, son of Sarek and Amanda, and now Captain Spock of Federation Starfleet. I regret that I have no clan name to offer you; such subdivisions are no longer my people's custom."
How much of that was translated correctly, with the proper nuances, was uncertain. The Elder's lined face revealed nothing, but her eyes widened ever so slightly. "Yet you know the proper ways of respect."
"Wisdom is always to be respected."
"So," the Elder said again. "This is a good thing." She turned in a swirl of robes. "Come, you of no clan and you of Clan Rabin. We must, I think, talk together."
She led them straight into the center of the encampment, a cleared circle ringed by tents. At her wordless gesture, nomads hurried to erect a chuckaki- hair canopy, unroll a carpet under it, place cushions upon the carpet. The Elder sat with careful dignity, robes gracefully arranged about her, then gestured for Spock and Rabin to sit as well. Beyond, squatting with casual ease, was a ring of nomads.
A nervous girl brought water. Once more, the intricate water ritual was carried out. No one spoke until the girl had scurried off into one of the tents. And then the Elder said calmly, "Why are you here?"
It was directed at Rabin. He hesitated a thoughtful moment, then told her, "Why we have come into the deep desert is a matter resting on the backs of other matters. Why we have come to the desert at all . . ."
"Why?" she insisted, face as tranquil as that of a Vulcan.
"Elder, we have come to help. My people, the Federation, that is, we are a union of many peoples. As you can guess, that has not been an easy achievement."
"Impossible," a man muttered, then fell silent at the Elder's autocratic wave.
"Not impossible," Rabin countered. "Yes, we've had our problems, yes, we always will. All sentient beings do. But one thing we learned over the years is that there's no reason to hate someone else just because that someone else doesn't look like you or follow your customs. When that someone is in trouble, the only right thing to do is help."
"Yes," the Elder said
. "I know that you have been doing all you can." The faintest hint of amusement tinged the calm voice, as though she were speaking to a child trying to be an adult. "But you," she added, glancing at Spock, "why are you here? You, too, are of this same 'Federation,' yes?"
"Indeed, Elder. Elder, I shall not speak of what has already been attempted. I suspect you know perfectly well of those attempts and failures that have befallen the Federation mission this far."
"The affairs of the Tamed Ones behind their city walls do not concern us. The Kindly Fool means well, but his efforts have not been enough. My people have been speaking with . . . other friends."
"Indeed? Might I ask which?"
"They look like you!" someone blurted.
Both Vulcan and human eyebrows shot up. These "friends" could hardly be Vulcans; other than the rare exceptions such as Sered and this unknown Master, Vulcans did not behave in such illogical, militaristic fashion.
"Romulans," Rabin whispered. "Has to be. McCoy was right."
And what of the Master? Spock seized upon the scanty data, quickly analyzed it.
Fact: McCoy was experienced enough to tell the two races apart. And his description had been quite distinct.
Fact, therefore: The Master could only be a Vulcan. His identity could not yet be proven: insufficient data.
Fact: The Romulans would not have all disavowed loyalty to their homeworld to follow a Vulcan leader. They were here, therefore, on orders. And from that followed, logically, that the Master, whether he realized it or not, could only be one thing: a Romulan puppet.
They would seem to have decided they want this world.
But Spock could not hope to explain that off world peril to nomads who knew only the desert and referred to anyone else as either Tamed Ones or outlanders. Instead, with a warning glance at Rabin, he asked calmly, "What promises have your friends made to you?"
His totally unemotional approach seemed to impress the nomads more than any hyperbole. The Elder sat back on her cushions, face impassive, signaling them to speak freely, watching as they answered the expected:
"Sweet water."
"Strong children."
"Abundant food."
"I find this fascinating," Spock noted, and meant it. "Have you not already received such things from the Federation? Have you not learned to create them for yourselves?"
There were some stirrings, some uneasy mutterings, and Spock continued, relentlessly calm, "Have the men and women of the Federation not shown you how to build better shelters?" He quickly altered the next logical step, that of planting sturdier crops; nomads who frowned on cities as traps would hardly be interested in agriculture. "How to grow sturdier chuchaki and find better pasture for them? Have they not shown you the ways of healing your children from the sun's evil?"
"They've begun . . ." a woman said hesitantly.
It was what Spock had been waiting to hear. With the air of a true scientist, he countered, "Then is it wise to tamper with something so well begun?"
"Clever," the Elder murmured, but said no more.
"When the Romulans make promises," Spock asked the by-now-sizable crowd, "how do they make you feel? Are you hopeful or afraid? Do you feel they can be truly trusted?"
Now the mutterings were definitely doubtful. Excellent, Spock thought, and pressed the advantage. "Is there honesty behind their bargaining? Or is there, perhaps, a threat?" The mutterings grew to a roar. Spock held up both hands, the smooth, elegant movement after his calm stillness deliberately calculated. The crowd fell silent, and he continued into the sudden quiet, a scientist merely stating facts: "The Romulans, The Federation. Promises. Threats. Which? I invite you to investigate the possibilities."
Enough. He sat back to let the nomads decide, watching them arguing with each other, very well aware that his words had sparked the storm.
So this was the sense of mastery that his father felt in negotiations. Fascinating. Decidedly fascinating.
But "fascinating," Spock reminded himself, was not the same as "successful," while pride was a most insidious, most perilous emotion, one that even humans listed as a "deadly sin." And at any rate, there was still the Elder and her decision to be considered.
I have done what I can, Spock told himself. Now all there is to do is: simply wait.
SEVENTEEN
"Vulcan, The Womb of Fire
Day 6, Eighth Week of Tasmeen,
Year 2247
Spock drew the last breaths he feared he might ever draw as a rational entity.
Fear, Spock? Where is your control?
Quiet, Father.
He had longed to say that all his life. The fumes released by the burning lichen rasped down his throat and seeped into his lungs. He imagined he could see fire roiling in the fumes. They were fire. His eyes were fire. If he opened his mouth to shout, his words would be fire.
Control. Spock. He choked off his memory of his father's usual rebuke, reminding himself as best he could, You are Amanda's son, not just Sarek's. Trust your human heritage.
Sudden wild coughing and shouts erupted from below; the fumes were working!
"'Everybody down! Cover your noses and mouths!"
That was—David's mother's—Captain Rabin's hoarse shout. Spock could not see her or Sered or anything but the roiling fumes from the hallucinogenic lichen. The humans should survive this. Perhaps the most severely affected would black out; unconscious, one's oxygen consumption decreased, did it not? He could not quite seem to remember . . ..
"Come on, Spock!" David rasped, eyes fierce above his improvised filter of cloth doused in some of their precious water. "Come on!"
Yes . . . David would have to be his guide, the control in this . . . this experiment in applied pharmacology. That very logical thought almost made him giggle.
Giggle?
Odd. As the fumes thickened, he found himself actually afraid, not just of the action, but of the hallucinogenic fumes. Fear and laughter were human things. Maybe his human side really would protect his reason.
"To me, my brothers!" That was surely Sered's voice, screaming in Old High Vulcan. (A Vulcan, screaming? The lichen really must be working.) "We will seize their wells and hold them against all the nations!"
"To the fires!" his followers roared. "The sword, the forge!"
This savage response brought a hoarse, approving shout from Sered, which in turn brought more shouts from the warriors.
"Sounds like their goose is cooked," David muttered. "When do we eat?"
Spock blinked, blinked again, trying to clear his vision. "We cannot simply rush down there into that war party and grab a communicator."
He fought a growing urge to shout with the warriors, to cry out battle cries of his own—no! Control! But the fumes were eating into his lungs. Their poisons were leaching into his blood, into his brain. They would eat his reason.
They would eat his soul.
"Eat my soul! Yes!"
David stared at him. "Boy, you really are on a weird trip."
"No, no, you do not understand! The Eater of Souls—remember? It is an archetype so powerful it makes even my people flinch!" Fighting the fumes, forcing his thoughts to order, Spock continued, "What would its effects be on Sered?"
"Who is already nuts," David added. "Yes, as well as on those vicious "cousins' of his!"
"One can only see what happens—"
"Especially if that's all the plan one has!"
"Can you make an eerie noise?" Spock asked. "No, not now; when I signal."
"Heh. Trust me."
The two boys edged down into the cavern. Spock gestured David to follow him down into the cavern—into chaos! The warriors were chanting, dancing, a wild, primal group. Some of them were fighting each other, hand to hand. A knife flashed; someone staggered and fell, nearly landing in the seething lava. The human hostages huddled against the walls, some of them alarmingly limp. At least, Spock thought, they were out of the line of danger.
"Now!" he whispered to David. "Wail.
And keep wailing!" David set both hands over his throat as if he planned to choke himself, and produced a high-pitched, barbaric shriek that wavered between two notes and echoed most satisfactorily throughout the cavern. Sered cried out in alarm, waving wildly at this eerie wail that seemed to be coming from all sides. The warriors whirled, whirled again. Spock drew a deep breath, ignoring his burning lungs, burning eyes, ignoring the madness eating out his brain, seeking out the choicest morsel. His essence. His soul.
I know this is not true. They do not.
"The Eater of Souls!" he screamed with all the will within him, leaping down to the cavern floor. 'The Eater of Souls is here!"
His shout rose above the turmoil, silencing everything for an instant. Then, as David's weird ululations started up again, the warriors erupted anew into wild panic, shooting at each other, screaming war cries, fighting enemies only they could see.
And Sered—Sered stood before the altar, arms outspread, shouting, "Come to me, Eater of Souls, come if you dare! I embrace you, demon, I welcome your strength! Come to me!"
The raw emotion thrilled through Spock (no, no, emotion, control!), its power horrifying him (no, another emotion). Am I, too, going mad? The terrifying power was building, building . . . in another instant, he too would scream—
"To me, my brothers!" Sered's voice rang out in new fury. "I have the strength of the Eater of Souls within me! This is the dawn of our victory or our death!" Drawing his ritual knife, the patterned blade blazing red, he charged blindly forward. "May they die, screaming in plak-tow! May their issue wither!"
But the hostages weren't totally helpless. Spock heard a tangle of voices, mostly human, shouting:
"The children! Protect the children!"
"Get him! That murdering—"
"They've gone mad! Now's our chance!"
The hostages fought with whatever came to hand: rocks, even pebbles and handfuls of cinders. But Sered's allies were too maddened to know who attacked. One warrior fired wildly at a man in a torn red Starfleet tunic, who disappeared in a blaze of red. The warrior turned with a savage laugh to where an Andorian woman shielded three human children with her body.
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