Vulcan's Forge

by Josepha Sherman

  "If I can just get down to it . . ." the lieutenant continued.

  "Ozmani," Faisal cut in, "you're a rock climber in your free time, right?"

  "I am, yes."

  "All right, then you're elected to help her. Be careful! Having you two fall off the cliff would be a hell of a way to save on rations."

  There was a ragged laugh at that, and Faisal gave them all his most encouraging grin. Want me to be a leader, Captain Rabin? All right, I'm leading. "You think this is rough?" he asked. "No way! This is a joke! Remember all those doubletime exercise drills back in Starfleet Academy. Remember all those thrice-cursed drill sergeants breathing down your necks! Yes, and remember the cardboard masquerading as food they served us after the drill sergeants had finished with us? Nothing this desert can throw at us could be worse than those bouncing gray meatballs!"

  That earned him a genuine laugh, and Faisal's grin widened. Morale booster was never going to replace flying in his list of favorite occupations, but: Well what do you know? Look at me: I am a leader.

  For now, a dour part of his mind answered him. For now. Till the water runs out, or the food, or whatever got McCoy gets us, too.

  Oh, shut up, he snapped.

  The nomads, Spock realized, were similar to other desert peoples in that they must, before deciding anything short of dealing with a immediate emergency, debate each and every aspect of a situation. There was no way to hasten such a process, so he merely sat and waited, sipping every so often (one did not waste a chance to drink in the desert, whether one thirsted or not) from the water cup he had been given.

  Rabin, much to Spock's surprise, seemed to be showing almost as much patience. Catching Spock's speculative expression, he grinned and shrugged. "Reminds me of the folks back home." But then the human leaned forward to whisper in Spock's ear, "The only thing that's bothering me is: What's happening to McCoy while we're waiting?"

  "One does not harm a valuable hostage. And he is, after all, a Starfleet officer."

  "Meaning that he'll be doing his best to escape." Rabin stopped short. "Sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it?"

  "It does. However, the doctor would not need the distraction of a tremor. Dr. McCoy is very much a distraction in himself."

  The nomads' murmurings were growing louder, more fervent. All at once their voices joined in outright cheering.

  "I believe," Spock said mildly, "that they have come to a decision."

  There was the softest of chuckles from the Elder, who had been in the midst of the debate. "We have," she said. "We have decided that the men who look like our honored visitor, Spock, son of Sarek, but are not his people are enemies and must be driven from our lands."

  That, of course, sparked another series of excited shouts. Rabin raised his cup in salute to Spock. Under cover of the crowd's noise, he whispered, "Lawrence of Arabia!"

  Catching the reference precisely, Spock retorted, "It is wrong to kill a tribe for the wrongs of one man."

  "Hen. Good quote."

  "It seemed only logical. Come, my friend. I suspect that we have quite an interesting job ahead."

  Ruanek, centurion of the Romulan Empire, member of

  House Minor Strevon, stood hidden behind a boulder, unsure and full of doubts for one of the few times in his young life. When first he had been given this assignment, he'd been proud of the chance to serve his race and at the same time possibly win glory for himself and his House. It had seemed so simple then: Pretend to obey the Vulcan traitor—who was, after ail, merely Vulcan—and all the while obey your own commander. Ignore the slights, the insanities.

  Ignore the wrongs done to the savages.

  I am a warrior, not some fool of a sage. I should have no doubts.

  And yet, and yet, it was not easy to see even savage children suffer, savage children die.

  It was different in war. There, death was clean and quick. Honest. Here . . .

  Ruanek spat. This ridiculous self-doubt was Makkhoi's doing. Sly, ah sly, that one! Easy to believe the tales about him, with his clever wit: Ruanek had to admit he'd actually come to enjoy their word duels—which was probably all part of Makkhoi's scheme.

  It was time for his report. Ruanek opened his communicator with a brusque snap, impatiently adjusting the gain to deal with the cursed, ever-present static. . . .

  Ah. The line was finally open. Ruanek whispered the latest series of code words, implanted as had been the first code, which had already faded from his mind (as would this in turn). He waited, refusing to show the anxiety he felt. What if, this time, there was no response? That would mean Avrak somehow knew of his self-doubts, and that would mean the end of his career and probably his life.

  But then: "Report."

  Fighting to keep his relief from his voice, Ruanek said, "We continue to hold the hostage, Makkhoi. The traitor Vulcan continues to preen and pose and suspect nothing."

  "Excellent."

  "Sir . . . one question, if it is permitted."

  A long, unnerving pause: What was Avrak thinking? Would he praise or condemn curiosity?

  Why do I do this? Why risk everything?

  "One question," flatly.

  "Sir, if Makkhoi is so redoubtable a warrior, why was he snared so easily? He did seem confused by the storm, as we, protected by the proper gear, were not. But . . . could he have wished to be captured? Sir, I do not presume to great wisdom, but: Can this all be part of some devious Federation plot?"

  Another unnervingly long pause. Then: "You are not here to deal with the Federation, Centurion. Obey orders. No more than that."

  With that, the link was broken and the communicator went dead. Ruanek stood swearing silently. Why had he been such a fool? How could he have dared question his own patron?

  It could have been worse. I could have been stupid enough to mention the dying children.

  He had been standing here far too long. Someone was certain to stumble on him and ask awkward questions—someone such as ambitious Kharik, Ruanek's age and distant cousin yet half Ruanek's rank. Oh, Kharik would love to find him dithering here like one of the Federation dogooders. And if Kharik should manage to worm his way into Avrak's good graces . . .

  Ruanek marched on, pretending to be going somewhere. As, he was beginning to suspect, he was not.

  It was just about time, McCoy thought, for his latest interview with the Leader of the Faithful. Sure enough, here came his armed escort.

  "So nice to see you folks again. Lead on."

  He gave them his full-force Southern Gentleman smile, smooth and charming as they came, and grinned to himself to see their eyes narrow warily. That magnolia-dripping smile always seemed to take the Romulans aback, clearly making them wonder what he knew that they didn't.

  Wonder away, boys, wonder away. Wish I did have a scheme.

  At least he knew Spock was alive and well and on his trail. That counted for a lot. Nothing like a Vulcan—a sane Vulcan—for good old logical tenacity. Better than a bloodhound.

  Ah look. There was the Mahdi Wannabe himself, in those ridiculously theatrical white robes.

  And those cold, cold eyes. McCoy dropped every wisecrack he'd been considering, recognizing hair-trigger psychosis when he saw it. The Master was definitely not having a good day.

  Don't want to do anything to set off someone on the edge of violence. Particularly not someone with Vulcan strength. I like my neck unbroken, thank you!

  The Master fixed him with that alien stare, flat as the gaze of a lizard. "I have waited with patience," he said with cold, unemotional menace. "I have granted you mercy, time in which to consider the folly of silence. But the time of waiting is over. Now I must insist that you talk."

  Oh joy. "I certainly will," McCoy said in as businesslike a manner as he could manage. "Let's see now, where to begin. Ah, I know: with a bargain. Tell you what. You let me treat the ill, no restrictions, and I'll say anything you want to hear."

  "No bargain." The Vulcan said the word as though he found it distasteful. "
I do not bargain, certainly not with inferiors. You will talk. Now."

  Thought we'd get around to the ultimatum sooner or later. Well, I'm ready for you, son. Don't say you didn't bring this on yourself. But then, I bet you've never even heard of a good old-fashioned Southern filibuster. And . . . we're off and running.

  Off and running. That prompted McCoy to begin, "First, let me say something about the grand old Southern state of Kentucky, the home of fine bourbon, pretty women, and fast horses. Yes, fast as the wind, those horses."

  Now that he was warmed up, McCoy spoke as quickly and smoothly as possible, trying not to interrupt the flow of words with anything as unimportant as breath. "I've seen those horses run, and man, you would not believe the sight. The beauty, the speed, the sheer stunning power of them all. Folks hold something called the Kentucky Derby to honor those horses, and it's now . . . what . . . in maybe the Four Hundred and Someteenth running. Then there's the Preakness, the Belmont—horse that wins all three, why he's claimed the Triple Crown for himself! The names of those mighty horses of power have gone down in our history: father of them all, Eclipse, so great they said of him 'Eclipse first, the rest nowhere.'"

  The Romulans, to his surprise, were gathering round as though intrigued, Ruanek in their midst. "Are these war beasts of which you speak?" the centurion asked, almost respectfully.

  "Why, you could call them that, son. Yes, you could, indeed. In fact, one of the greatest of the Thoroughbreds, those wondrous beasts, was even named Man o' War, only beaten once in all his life, and his son was War Admiral, winner of the Triple Crown he was. Yes, and there were other grand war steeds . . ."

  Thank whoever watched over Kentucky horseflesh for giving him the inspiration. McCoy couldn't exactly remember every equine pedigree, but that hardly mattered since no one here was going to be able to contradict him. He could make it up as he pleased. And the Romulans, bless their vicious little hearts, were hanging on every word.

  Hell, they already think I'm a mighty warrior. Probably believe all this malarkey is some sacred military epic. Give 'em power in battle.

  The Master was another matter. McCoy, keeping a wary eye on him, saw the Vulcan's cold eyes begin to smolder.

  Oh, wonderful. What do I do if he erupts?

  Nothing to do but keep going with his running monologue of horses. "Then there was Seabiscuit, named for the stuif sailors eat—sea warriors, those are. And he was a true warrior horse, ran like the—"

  "What nonsense is this?" the Master roared.

  But to McCoy's relief, Ruanek, a warrior not impressed by noise, said, "Your pardon, Master, but this is the Captive's Right of Statement. Of honor, he may complete it. Of honor, we cannot interrupt him."

  For a heart-stopping moment, McCoy was sure that the Master was going to tear a rifle from someone's hands and shoot him. But the Vulcan wasn't so far gone into madness that he couldn't see the need for his Romulan allies. He subsided, fuming, and McCoy continued, heart racing, "And then there was Citation, like a citation for war heroics, and a heroic horse he was . . ."

  And I'll place a bet in his honor on whatever it is they bet on here, if only I get out of this alive and in one piece. Spock, I don't know where you are, but hurry, you green-blooded bloodhound, hurry!

  The nomads shouted and shrieked, working themselves up into a joyous, fierce frenzy.

  "We will charge the invaders!" they yelled.

  "We will hurl them from our lands!"

  "They will be destroyed!" This was not, Spock thought, exactly what he had intended. Perhaps I was too convincing a speaker? Or perhaps they merely welcomed any excuse for a fight.

  Trapped in the middle of this wild extravagance, his keen hearing assaulted by noise that was rapidly reaching the threshold of pain, he only just managed to keep his face impassive. Fortunate that he was already familiar with explosive human emotions. Otherwise, the experience would be totally overwhelming.

  But hysterical crowds too easily turned into mobs. Spock held up a deliberately dramatic hand for silence. Curious, the nomads subsided.

  "While your enthusiasm is quite . . . thorough," he told them, picking his words with care, "you must understand that we cannot simply march against the Romulans as though they were no more than another clan. They are . . ." He quickly censored the perilous words better armed, since it would hardly be desirable for these nomads to suddenly gain weaponry superior to anything held by their neighbors. "They do not follow any rules with which you are familiar."

  That sounded implausibly vague to him, but it served to confuse the nomads for a few precious moments, long enough for Spock to catch Rabin's attention, then ask the Elder, "May we three talk together in private?"

  "I think it wise, yes."

  They strolled away from the camp in seeming calm, one small, slight, powerful woman between two outlanders. As soon as they were safely out of earshot of the others, the Elder eyed Spock and Rabin slyly and said, "There is more to this than the desire to aid us. I must ask myself what it is you seek, you personally."

  Rabin let out his breath in a gusty sigh. "Elder, we won't lie to you. The Romulans are holding a hostage, a physician named McCoy, a colleague of ours. And," he added with a glance at Spock, "a friend."

  The faintest of frowns creased the woman's brow. "And yet I know you do not act from selfishness alone. You do genuinely wish to aid us. No, Kindly Fool," she added with the smallest of smiles, "I am not being either foolish or mystical. Your deeds, successful or not, have always been well meant. And they speak in your behalf."

  "Elder," Spock said, "I did not intend to rouse an army. Please know that there will be danger for your people. Many may well die."

  Her shoulders rose and fell in a slight, almost humanly fatalistic shrug. "So it is, so it will be. At least our land will be freed."

  "Yes, but—"

  "No. We are not children; we have chosen as named adults what we shall do. Do you know where the enemy has their lair?"

  "Dr. McCoy was unable to give us exact coordinates. He did, however, indicate that he is being held in a cavern blocked by two large metal doors."

  The Elder stiffened. "A cavern from which runs a network of black tunnels formed from the hardened blood of the world? Aie-ah, is it so? This can only be one place."

  "Which is that?"

  "I know the location well," the Elder said evasively. "It is not more than a day's riding from this camp."

  "Why will you not name it?" Spock asked. "Is this, perhaps, a sacred site?" When she would not answer, he continued, "Please understand that we would not willingly go against your customs or cause insult. But first we must know of those customs."

  "There is no insult given by you or intended by me," she answered. "This is simply not the place to speak of such things."

  It was said with finality. Satisfied that she had made her point, the Elder turned away to watch her people. The nomads, with the air of people with nothing more constructive to do, were working themselves back up to a frenzy of excited shouting. Someone pulled out a drum, starting up an intricate beat. Someone else began tootling away on a bone flute with more enthusiasm than talent, and an impromptu war dance quickly sprang into being.

  "We shall all go," the Elder said. "All the warriors. Indeed," she added, eyeing her wildly dancing people wryly, "I do not think that I could stop them. We shall all go, and your friend shall be rescued. We shall all go, and the outlanders will be forever banished from our lands."

  Spock glanced at Rabin, who shrugged helplessly. " Aqaba," the human murmured in Anglic, "by land."

  Spock recognized yet another quote from Lawrence of Arabia. He thought with not quite properly unemotional calm of the nomads with their foolish bravery and hopelessly antiquated weapons. The nomads he and Rabin were leading into peril against those who were better armed, higher-tech. "Let us only hope," he countered, one eyebrow raised, "that all their guns are pointed at the sea."

  The quote raised both of Rabin's eyebrows. " Fascinat
ing," he said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Vulcan, Mount Seieya and Sarek's Estate

  Day 21, Tenth Week of Tasmeen,

  Year 2247

  It did not seem possible, Spock thought, that so short a time had passed since he had last stood here on Mount Seleya with his agemates. Less than a month . . . 15.6 days, no more than that, since David and he had struggled across the Womb of Fire, facing what had then seemed impossible odds.

  And yet, and yet, at the same time how could so little have changed? Surely the rocks, the altar itself, must show marks of the maddened battle that had taken place here! Surely there must be some sign that cousins and sundered cousins had fought and, yes, died here!

  Yet the faint mist of early morning continued to rise over Mount Seleya as it had every morning. A shavokh rode the first thermals of dawn, the rising sun briefly touching the tip of a wing with gold as the shavokh banked, just as it had done before. Of course the altar, the entire site, had been purified, Spock knew that. It was not, in the strictest sense of the word, the same as it had been.

  And he—how could he still be the same after he had come so far and done so much?

  And . . . killed?

  No. He was not the same. Captain Rabin had ruefully mentioned something about "lost innocence," but that was needlessly emotional.

  And yet . . .

  What was, Spock thought resolutely, was. It was illogical to wish to change the past. Not even his parents knew everything about . . . what had happened. Nor, he had already decided, would they ever know.

  When he had returned home . . . no, again. Spock drew a veil over the memory of his mother, control utterly shattered for the first time since he could remember, rushing from the room lest she cause an awkwardness for her husband and son by her unseemly burst of emotion. (But surely, a treasonous little voice whispered in Captain Rabin's voice, there was no shame here? Surely a human mother was allowed to react to the shock of finding her son not dead as she must have feared but alive and unharmed?)