Vulcan's Forge
Page 19
"No!" Spock shouted, and threw a rock at the warrior with all his strength. The warrior easily dodged—and then he actually giggled, hurled his weapon away from him, and flung himself down, beating his head against the stone until he lay limp.
David raced for the altar and the communicators. Spock ran toward the hostages, fighting his dizzy senses, trying to make himself clear. "Back . . . niches, shadows . . . hide!" Many were too weak to move quickly. Some could barely move at all.
Suddenly Captain Rabin was there, rushing toward the altar and her son. Spock saw David's teeth flash in a grin. The captain's face was grimy, weary, but in that moment it shone more brightly than Vulcan's sun.
I shall bring my mother spoils worthy of a High King, Spock found himself thinking, confused at himself, spoils so even T'Pau will envy her . . . "Spider silk and gems as green as heart's blood shall I heap at her feet . . .
No, those weren't his thoughts, that was a quote from . . . from some ancient play, he could not remember which.
Where is your control? No, that wasn't right . . . Where is your humanity? Yes, that was better. Humanity. His human mother did not want green gems. But if I offered her a Terran evergreen, perhaps then she would smile at me as Captain Rabin smiles at David,
No, no, and no again, this was as David had said, a "weird trip." It was said that humans deliberately took hallucinogens, that they enjoyed this madness. It must be madness. There was no other explanation for his seeing, for a moment, the captain wave not a weapon but a harp. And was that really David, wearing not the battered desert gear but a plain hide tunic, brandishing his sling?
Illusion. Atavism. Memories of things David has said of his people's past.
Spock blinked, rubbed his eyes. Reality returned. David had dashed from the altar, clutching a communicator. Captain Rabin had a laser pistol.
"Get moving, people!" she shouted. "Follow Spock!"
Me? Where can I lead them? Ah, there, there, the entrance!
Sered screamed in rage and charged.
Illogical, Spock thought with the distorted clarity of his still-drugged mind. If he had attacked silently, he might have had a chance. But discretion was never the te-Vikram way.
Captain Rabin whirled and kicked in one smooth motion, sending Sered's blade flying into the seething lava.
"No!" Sered shrieked in white-hot fury. "The holy knife! No!"
He lunged at the captain, hands outstretched: the proper positioning for tal-shaya. Maddened, Sered was, but he could still snap a human's neck. Captain Rabin dropped, rolled, started to rise—but a glancing blow, struck faster than human reflexes, grazed her head. She fell back to her knees, losing her grip on the pistol, which Sered snatched up with a sharp laugh.
"Mother!" David yelped, and blindly raced to defend her—only to be straight-armed by Sered with a force that sent him staggering toward the lava. Captain Rabin screamed in sudden despair, "David!"
But the boy, twisting frantically about, somehow managed to land on solid rock, hastily rolling away from the heat, struggling to free his sling at the same time.
Slingshot . . . Spock thought vaguely, five smooth stones . . . courage against all odds . . . yes.
He stepped into Sered's path, suddenly seeing only this one foe, the rest of the chaotic scene fading from his awareness. As Sered stopped short just before trampling him, Spock challenged somberly in Old High Vulcan, "Is it only humans that you dare to fight?" The archaic language held no word for "traitor." Or "madman." "Lunikkh ta-Vik!" he added. "Thou Poisoner of Wells!"
Sered stared, straightened, seemed to . . . . . . rear up five times his size, his outstretched hands turned to talons, his mouth open to suck the life and soulfrom Spock.
The Eater of Souls! It has Taken him —
Impossible. Illogical. David would say . . . would say . . . what? Something boldly mocking. Maybe, "Would you look at that thing?" Yes, and then he would joke about . . . about "dancing theorems." Illusion, that's all this was. Sered was no more than mortal.
No less dangerous! "Half-breed," Sered jeered, raising the pistol.
"I can tell truth from illusion," Spock countered. "Can you?"
"Bah, child. "Sered's hands shot up: the position of deadly tal-shaya. "Your spine will snap as easily as a human's neck."
I cannot take a grown, trained foe, not hand-to-hand. A weapon—
Yes! A shard of rock like a basalt lirpa! He snatched it up, heedless of its weight—
And the battle engulfed him. Suddenly Sered was gone in the crush and a mad-eyed warrior, screaming something about "My life for yours, my chief!" was charging Spock, knife aimed at him in the quick, deadly underhand thrust that was all but impossible to stop. The will to live took over, and Spock blindly swung his improvised lirpa with all his might. It cracked into the maddened warrior's head, and hot green blood splattered Spock's weapon, hands, face. The warrior crumpled, twitched once, then lay still, skull crushed.
The shielding haze of hallucination vanished. Standing over the body, Spock could think only, I never knew how easy it is to kill. He had refused to slay a le-matya. Now, in an instant, he had brought death to an intelligent being.
Suddenly his legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees, retching dryly, wishing himself a thousand miles away, not caring that the very concept of wishing was illogical. Why had it been so easy? He had brought death without thought. And it had been easy.
Energy whined right by his ear, one bolt, followed by others. Spock scrambled to one side, suddenly reminded that he was still in the middle of a battle. Sered! Where was Sered?
But with the speed of madness, Sered hurled one of his warriors directly into the line of fire, and fled, glancing wildly about as though hunting a hostage. Somewhere in the struggle, Captain Rabin had regained her laser pistol. Steadying the weapon with both hands, she fired over his head.
"Surrender, Sered! You're outmatched!"
True or not, Sered seemed to believe it. Instead of turning to fight, he raced off into the folds of stone. Spock started after him. He had killed once; why not again, this time in full knowledge of what he did. Sered was a madman; Sered was a criminal; Sered had cost him . . .
"Spock, get back here!" the captain commanded sharply. Involuntarily, Spock obeyed.
"Rabin to Shikahr, come in, come in!" David was babbling into the communicator. "No, I don't know the coordinates. We're on the Forge, the Womb of Fire, Spock says you call it. Can you lock on to my position? Yes? Then hurry!"
"I'll take over now, son," said Captain Rabin, only to be hit by a sudden attack of coughing that nearly toppled her to her knees. Pulling away from David's panicky grip with a quick, reassuring grin, she spoke into the communicator, "Rabin to Farragut. Yes, I'm alive, never mind that. Lock on to my bioreading. We've got the hostages. We have injured. Beam down medical and security. And as my son said, hurry! There's a bunch of very confused hostiles who aren't going to stay confused much longer!"
Within only a few moments, the air shimmered, stirred wildly as Federation Security beamed in. But there was only the briefest of struggles. The hallucinogenic fumes were all but gone now, leaving some very dazed warriors who would hardly have been an even match for the children, let alone the furious adult hostages who were quite willing to kill all of their former captors. The Federation troops quickly overwhelmed those warriors who maintained enough strength to struggle, doing their best to pacify the former hostages at the same time. Spock overheard bits of "Whoa, enough," and "Yes, I know you want revenge, but hey, we're civilized!"
More quickly than he would have thought possible—or maybe, Spock mused, his time sense was still distorted—the newcomers had removed the madmen and the dead. Shouts echoed down the tunnels and pipes as men and women with the intent gaze of hunters searched for Sered.
"No one," someone said in disgust. "Not even a footprint or heat trace."
"He's gone to ground," Spock heard Captain Rabin say. "Do the best you can. But I think we're going to hav
e to turn the problem, with our recommendations, over to the Vulcans. They've lost a lot of face; you can bet they won't let up."
T'Pau, Spock thought, never forgot and never forgave. There was some bleak reassurance in that.
Within the cavern, the Federation personnel were busy stringing up lights, measuring distances, taking reports in the intervals when outraged physicians and, within a short while, cool Vulcan healers were not driving them away. From time to time, a party beamed in with supplies or out with injured who had been stabilized and could now be transported back to better medical facilities on board Captain Rabin's ship. The communicators beeped and crackled with news bulletins from Shikahr, from the Farragut, and the shuttles on their way from the city.
And all the while, Spock did what he could to help, watching his hands deliver medications or assist a healer, yet throughout felt . . . nothing.
David was handling the emotional aftershock in exactly the opposite fashion. "We got here in time, didn't we?" he asked over and over, his voice rising. "Spock said those lichen released hallucinogenic vapor, so we gathered a bunch and dumped them into the lava. He knew what to say to stampede people, and now look at him! I'm ready to pass out, and he's off helping people. He saved my life, Mother. I told him about Starfleet, and how the Academy's looking for Vulcan cadets. I think he's interested, he has to be, he'd be so great—"
"Take it easy, David. We'll talk about this later, I promise."
She paused, catching Spock's gaze. Looking T'Pau—or his father—in the eye might have been easier right then, but he could hardly be rude enough to turn away.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked gently, on her face the look that he'd seen on his mother's face when he had fallen ill or injured himself as a child.
After a moment, Spock shook his head. "I am quite unharmed, Captain Rabin."
"That's not what I asked, Spock."
"There . . . are children still needing help," he said evasively, and hurried off to where a healer trying to inject a terrified little boy with tri-ox gladly let him help hold the child still. The way the boy's color returned almost instantly and his breath steadied eased the ache in Spock's heart to some degree.
He knew the rest would never heal. Not wholly.
EIGHTEEN
Intrepid II, Obsidian Orbit
Year 2296
The amber lights signaling yellow alert had been sweeping the bridge—on and off, on and off—for hours, with the warning alarm, that cursedly calm computerized voice, a constant, monotonous wail in the background. Uhura straightened ever so slightly in the command chair, trying to get more comfortable, refusing to squirm.
A beep from the chair's console nearly made her start. No, nothing alarming. Merely Medical's update. She acknowledged this most recent quarter-hourly report—hull radiation about what could be expected; interior radiation nominal.
"Lieutenant Duchamps," Uhura asked, just as she had every quarter of an hour, "any luck raising the captain?"
The stiffness of Duchamps' shoulders was answer enough, but he reported, "We've still got major static from the flare, Commander"
'Tighten your beam."
"I've been trying . . ."
"Trying is not good enough, mister. Do it!"
Uhura—none better—knew all of the techniques a comm officer might employ to separate static from signal. She itched to leap from the central chair she had taken such pride in occupying, shove poor Duchamps from my duty station, and pull a communications rabbit out of the hat just as she'd always done for Jim Kirk.
Spock, I'm failing you.
Worse yet, she was failing the ship.
No. She mustn't think like that; believe you were defeated, and you were halfway there. Uhura made herself sit rigidly still, almost at attention, pretending to review the Intrepid's weapons specs, which she had called up hours ago, when it had finally sunk in that she, Uhura of the United States of Africa, a communications officer, not a fighting captain at all, might actually have to fight. Well, the weapons officer would actually do the firing, but she had to know more about ship-to-ship action than "lock on phasers," "shields up," and "release photon torpedoes." Yes, and (God, she didn't want to hear this one) "Damage control, report!"
Dammit, Intrepid II was a science vessel—good legs, she'd heard a captain of her acquaintance once describe the class, but with no real "guns" to speak of. Her captain had been a connoisseur of both elegant ships and armaments. When Jim Kirk had sat in the center chair and had taken his ship into combat, Uhura had watched him out of the corner of her eye, knowing she was seeing a true professional at work. And, as she had told him once when she thought they were both going to die, she'd never been really afraid, because he was in command.
She was afraid now.
Well, at least I've got Duchamps to hound. Right, and medical officers to dodge.
By now, McCoy would have stalked onto the bridge with a tray of sandwiches, insistences that watch relieve watch Including the commanding officer, thank you, ma'am, and, likely as not, some joke that would have put everyone more at ease, or an observation that would have helped the captain make up his mind. Her mind. Damn.
Yellow alert continued to flash over the bridge. The warning continued to sound. Uhura stared at the viewscreen, its filters partially occluding her view of Obsidian's disk and Loki's deadly light. She listened to the undercurrent of whispers from helm to weapons, weapons to science, science to weapons, where Lieutenant Richards, bless him for trying to defuse things, added a calm briefing on how to divert impulse power into the phasers, boosting their pathetic armament. Too many murmurings. The crew, especially the new ones, untried in battle, were edgy, and everyone was getting pretty tired of "hurry up and wait."
The truth was, it had been far too long without word from Spock or the rest of his people. Too long having to cower on Obsidian's far side, keeping it between themselves and the damnedly unstable Loki.
Too long, too, without a clear fix on the double-damned Romulan ship she knew was out there.
Damn, this chair is uncomfortable. In every sense. Ironic to recall how she had beamed when she'd first sat down in it and heard Spock tell her he had every confidence in her. Ah well, that good old quote: You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.
"Mr. Richards!"
"Commander?"
"Romulan Warbirds register on our sensors the instant they drop cloaking. Any sign?"
"I've checked the normal spectrographic bands, ma'am."
"Then check some abnormal ones!"
"Aye-aye, ma'am."
You don't have to snap. Uhura warned herself, and added more gently, "I have every confidence in you, Lieutenant."
If not in the safety of the planetary team. But there's nothing I can do about that, so, as Spock would put it, "It is illogical to worry about what cannot be changed."
And maybe sehlats or whatever they had instead of pigs on Vulcan could fly.
Wonder if Vulcans worry, deep down under that unemotional front. Maybe they've all got ulcers. Bet they do. Sure they do. Wonder if Spock is worrying right now —stop that!
"Helm," she ordered suddenly. "Shift course. Twozerofive mark three. On my order."
"Course laid in, Commander."
"Proceed."
Maybe altering orbit just a trifle would lure the Romulans into thinking Intrepid was retreating. Prod those boys into doing something, too. Of course, if the Warbird emerged, they would probably have to fight it, but at least the crew did seem to brighten at the thought of any action at all.
Except that there wasn't any. Nothing happened, save that the whispering started up again. Just what I wanted, Uhura thought, a morale problem.
All right, go on the offensive. Stop the murmurings before they undermined her authority. Undermined it any worse.
"Lieutenant Duchamps!"
Uhura's voice was as sharp as the crack of a whip, and Duchamps almost shot straight up out of his chair. " Commander. Ma'am. I, uh, I—"
What had worked for Ms. Yemada worked for Uhura too. Reddening like a boy (quite a weird effect under the sallow lighting of yellow alert, Uhura noted absently), Duchamps muttered, "Begging the commander's pardon. It's just . . . well . . . we're getting a bit edgy waiting and not doing anything. Captain Spock . . ."
"Would tell you your worry is illogical. He can take care of himself, mister."
"Uh, no one's saying he can't, ma'am. It's just—"
"Lieutenant." Uhura stressed the man's title. "What, exactly, would you have me do? Move the Intrepid into danger? Would you like to find out what solar flares like that could do to this ship and, more to the point, to its crew?"
"No, ma'am."
"Excellent. Now, try to raise that base again. This time, why not switch circuit couplings AF and DX, then . . ." The jargon that tumbled from her mouth turned Duchamps wide-eyed, as she intended.
"As for the rest of you," she raised her voice again, "you hate this delay, and I can't blame you. But I can keep you busy. While the lieutenant here tries to raise Captain Spock or Captain Rabin, the rest of you are going to stop staring at me and start hunting for that Romulan ship. And I won't take 'nothing out there, ma'am' for an answer!"
A ragged chorus of "aye-aye"s trailed off as the bridge crew bent over their consoles. A beep erupted from her own console, and Uhura just managed not to jump.
"Commander," came Lieutenant Commander Atherton's crisp voice, "I must protest."
Wouldn't you just? "Did we throw off your training program again, Commander?" Uhura asked sweetly. "You should have had time by now to do a hundred dilithium remounts."
"It's not the remounts, Commander," Atherton fretted. "It's the radiation."
"Medical says that radiation levels in-ship are nominal."