Sarek . . . had said little to him, other than a brief remark that he was pleased to see his son returned unharmed and with renewed proof of his ability to survive ordeals.
Survive ordeals. Is that all he considers Sered's madness and what followed? An ordeal? A—test of my worthiness?
No and no again. This was not the time or place for unseemly behavior. Or dangerously emotional concepts.
At least, Spock thought, allowing himself the smallest touch of satisfaction, though he kept his face properly impassive, one thing had changed: His agemates no longer watched him as though waiting—hoping?—to see him fail. Instead, there was almost a wariness to them, especially to Stonn, as though they knew he had already passed beyond boyhood without having needed any ceremony to confirm his status. Or rather, that this ceremony merely reinforced what he had already gained.
There will never he friendship between us now, Spock thought. But then again, he added honestly, there never has been.
Movement caught his eye, and with it a little jolt of realization: He did have a friend, yes. David was there, standing with Captain Rabin and the other Federation guests. Not unusual that they had all returned here; to do otherwise would have been a subtle snub to their Vulcan hosts, a subtle loss of status for both sides.
Captain Rabin stood with the dignity of a true Starfleet officer, her uniform's insignia gleaming, although Spock thought that he sensed the faintest edge of uneasiness to her, as though she missed the security of a laser pistol at her side; the same not-quite nervousness was shared by many of the guests.
Sered will not attack again, he assured them silently. Even if we do not yet know where he is. Some postulated that, alone and insane, Sered must have already perished in the desert. Even if Sered lives, he is powerless. He has lost his allies, our—our cousins. And even he is not insane enough to try a lone attack.
I . . . trust he is not that insane.
No. Concentrate on something else.
David? Yes. David was once more dressed as befitted a Starfleet Academy cadet, his uniform spotless. He still showed signs of his desert ordeal, his face a touch too thin, his eyes a touch weary even now. But, being David, he wasn't going to let anything stop him from giving Spock a quick, mischievous, strangely reassuring wink.
The Academy . . . Spock thought, glancing almost guiltily at his father. I still do not know what . . .
But then the sound of shaken bells brought him sharply back to the present.
The ceremony had begun. Anew.
"And so it is," T'Pau's calm voice continued, filling the reverent silence, "that we come together once more for the cyclical ceremony, the same as ever—yet with one change."
T'Lar continued, "Change is a logical progression and not to be abhored. There would be no life without change. Yet ceremony is essential and always will be; it serves the same function in all times and places, here and beyond this world. Ceremony is a force to bind a culture and those within that culture together.
"And so it is only just that we use ceremony to honor those lost to us through change. Through madness. Through," she said the word unflinchingly, "violence."
There was the faintest stirring of murmuring, barely audible from the Vulcans, more evident from the Federation guests, but no one was so ill-mannered as to interrupt.
"There were other than Vulcans among the fallen," the Eldest continued, "and we make no claim to following their families' ways, but understand that we honor them all."
She began a quiet prayer, carefully worded and diplomatically neutral, wishing peace or afterlife or rebirth as was each culture's belief. When she had finished, there was a long silence, broken only by a human voice's murmured "Amen."
"Now," T'Lar continued, and for all her totally unshaken calm Spock could have sworn she was relieved, "we may proceed to the celebration of more predictable and welcome change. As the seasons turn, so youth grows to maturity. We bring forth ancient ritual to honor those who represent the ever-changing, never-changed continuance from past to present, from present to future."
She fell silent, and T'Pau picked up her words. "We honor those so newly come to adult status."
She and T'Lar bowed formally to the young Vulcans. The smallest shock almost of alarm shot through Spock as he remembered that as Eldest of his agemates, he would be the one to lead them to the platform and these two formidable figures. He would be the first to accept formal adulthood and the ritual sword. Numbly he watched and listened as T'Lar, elegant white and silver sleeves flowing like wings (as they did the first time) began her formal chant:
"As it was in the beginning, so shall it always be . . ."
This time let her complete it, Spock thought, this time let there be no interruption, no madman, no violence.
There was none. Like one in a dream, Spock led his agemates forward. He heard his name spoken: "Spock, son of Sarek and Amanda," saw himself step to the edge of the platform, heard himself proclaimed this day an adult capable of adult reasoning and logic, felt the weight of the ceremonial sword in his arms. Still dazed, he bowed, began to turn away to make room for the next of his agemates—
"Spock." T'Pau's voice was quiet but firm. As he turned back to her, puzzled and fighting down an illogical spark of alarm, she asked, "Why hast thee been gifted with a sword?"
Spock hesitated. There was surely a ritual response, but if there was, he could not remember it. "In memory of our past?" he hazarded.
"That is but part of the whole." Her wise old eyes were cool as a sheltered pool, studying him as though aware of his every thought without needing even a finger's touch to his head. "It is to remind thee not to deny the past, yes. But it is also to remind thee how narrow and sharp is the edge between chaos and civilization. And it is to remind thee, Spock, son of two worlds, that it is only a small, small step back to the days when the sword's edge was the only law. Thee must choose a path with care."
Spock bowed again, struggling with himself for proper composure. "I will not forget."
It was a whisper.
The custom on Vulcan, Spock knew, was for each family to celebrate their newly fledged adult's status privately—but he also realized that there could be no true privacy for the family of Sarek, who was, after all, Ambassador to the Federation. Even so, Spock thought, the list of guests was reassuringly small; he had never believed that a mere ceremony could have been so wearing.
Almost as wearing as being out in the desert again!
By nightfall, he could gladly have curled up and slept like a child. Instead, Spock managed to slip away to the relative quiet of the terrace of his father's estate, wrapping his arms about himself against the chill, craning his head back to stare at the star-crowded sky. Why had T'Pau singled him out? His mixed blood? Or had she seen something in him? What?
A tactful cough made him realize he wasn't alone out here after all. "Captain Rabin. Lady. Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude."
"You aren't intruding." The captain looked very different in her simple blue gown and shawl, but she was still very much David's mother, judging from the amused way she was looking at Spock. " 'Today I am a man,' " she murmured.
"I . . . beg your pardon?"
"That's what the boys of my people say when they complete their manhood ritual. 'I am a man,' meaning, 'I accept that I'm responsible for my own actions.' "
"I see. Similar, indeed, to the Vulcan way. But . . . I am not yet responsible for my own life."
"Aren't you?" Her smile was rueful. "Nobody ever said that being an adult was easy. Just when you think you've got it all figured out, life has a way of dumping you on your head."
"David?" he asked in a sudden burst of intuition.
"And Starfleet. I never intended to be a single parent, but . . . well . . . life happens. Don't misunderstand: I love my son. But if it wasn't for Starfleet Academy, I don't know what I would have done with him. A starship is hardly the place to raise a child—yet I'm not ready to be tied down to a planetside job, either."
"But David is going into the Academy, and of his own free will" The faint glow of starlight reflected in eyes that were suddenly suspiciously bright. In a soft voice, blinking fiercely, Captain Rabin added, "I'll miss him fiercely, but at least I know he'll be happy. And that sets my mind at least a little bit at ease."
"I am glad." If that statement held emotion, so be it.
"And what of you?" she added suddenly.
"I . . ." Spock stopped, not sure what he was going to say.
"I would like . . . I believe that I would like . . . to . . . apply to Starfleet Academy."
"Ah." Was there the faintest note of triumph in her voice?
"As I told you before, I will gladly sponsor you for an appointment in the Academy. But . . ."
"My father."
"Exactly. He is a rather important Federation ally, you know; the Federation can hardly up and steal his son away."
"Then you won't—"
"Then I will. I'll be happy to sponsor you—but first you must tell your parents what you're doing. Where you will be going."
"I will." Spock bowed, trying to hide his sudden trembling. "I will."
It would be difficult. He knew that. But Spock thought back to all the hardships he and David had faced—and survived.
If the Womb of Fire could not destroy me, he decided, I can certainly withstand my father's will!
I will prevail. One way or another, I will prevail.
TWENTY-TWO
Obsidian, Federation Outpost and Deep Desert
Day 5, First Week, Month of the Shining Chara,
Year 2296
Lieutenant Shara Albright nibbled worriedly at her lower lip, caught herself at it, stopped, then absently started up again.
Where were they? That the shuttlecraft had gone down somewhere out there . . . that was a given. But where? All that empty, terrible wilderness . . . she fought down a shudder, thinking about the nice, orderly, and above all green parks of New Hampton, her homeworld. No deserts were permitted on New Hampton, no barren waste, and the sun was a pleasant golden thing, not this horrible, horrible monster of a Loki; there, nature knew its proper place.
Yes, and so did the people. Albright had been brought up by nice, proper parents to be a nice, proper lady, and where she had ever found the odd spark to enter Starfleet Academy, yes, and to graduate with honors, even if her parents still hadn't quite forgiven her—
No. That wasn't important, not now. There had been nothing in all her training to cover something like this, nothing in the textbooks to deal with the aching sense that she was far too young for her rank, far too inexperienced—
Stop that! she scolded herself. You are Starfleet! You are an officer! Act like one!
"Ensign Chase," she snapped. "Anything?"
The young man, bent over the console, staring at the unchanging equations, shook his head without looking up. "Nothing, Lieutenant." His voice shook slightly with weariness. "I almost caught something that might have been a transmission, but that was over three hours ago, and it didn't last long enough for me to get a fix on it. Since then . . . not even a squawk."
"Keep on it. They're out there somewhere, and I want you to find them."
Now he did turn slightly in his chair to look up at her. "Uh, Lieutenant, it has been over a planetary day now, and we've had no sign—"
"That was an order, mister!"
"Aye-aye, ma'am."
Had there been a touch of pity in his voice? Almost as though he was adding silently to himself, Doesn't she realize the truth? Doesn't she realize that they're all dead?
Nonsense. She would not believe that. Captain Rabin, with all his irreverent humor and cheerful disregard for proper Starileet behavior—no. Someone that—that utterly infuriating, that full of life, could not be dead. She would not, could not, believe that. He would stay alive out of—out of sheer perversity!
All at once, mortified, Albright realized she was on the verge of tears.
Belay that! she scolded herself. Regulation 256. 15: Officers shall show professional behavior at all times.
But for once, the orderly world of the regulations handbook could give no comfort.
A chuchaki, Spock noted, sitting his mount with as much grace as he could manage, was a natural pacer, which meant each stride involved moving first both left legs then both right legs. As a result, the animal had a most distressingly rough gait, rocking its rider briskly from side to side.
The chuchaki also smelled very much like . . . he analyzed the aroma, compared it to the memory of an unfortunate encounter on Terra . . . an ancient, unwashed dog. (There, the dog had decided it was his dearest friend and had shed fur all over him; here, the chuchaki all seemed delighted to sniff at his fascinatingly different scent and try to nuzzle him. Equally odorous either way.)
However, he could not deny that the chuchaki, the entire herd of them, crossed the desert with incredible speed and efficiency.
Rabin, predictably, was having a wonderful time even with danger ahead of them, leaning forward in the saddle, robes flying, looking like something out of one of his beloved adventure movies. Lawrence of Arabia, indeed.
The land was changing as they rode, no longer as level, rising in slow degrees as the Taragi-shar Range loomed up on the horizon. Fingers of ancient black rock, the weathered remains of old eruptions, reached out over the gravel, and the chuchaki slowed their bone-jarring pace, picking their way with care, their cleft hoofs clicking against stone but handling the rougher terrain with ease.
Beside Spock rode the Elder on her own gleaming white chuchaki, sitting her saddle with the ease of years of experience and showing no sign at all of stress or weariness. At Spock's glance, she nodded.
"We are almost there. Just beyond the ridge that lies before us."
Behind them, the group of nomad warriors (they were hardly disciplined enough to be called a troop), who had been joking and singing as they rode, fell sharply silent, save for the occasional command to or curse at a chuchaki.
The chuchaki, beasts of the desert plain that they were, were not as silent. They grumbled and complained to themselves at being made to climb, but after some prodding from their riders, they scrambled up and up the broken lava rocks without too much difficulty, their hoofs mastering the steep slope almost as easily as though it were flat.
With a final surge, they crested the ridge and paused.
"There," the Elder said.
Her sweep of an arm took in a barren plain, absolutely flat, absolutely without vegetation. Beneath Loki's hostile glare, it burned a dull, sullen gold. Beyond loomed the mountains, a jagged black wail, like so many great stone knives towering to the sky.
"What is that?" Rabin breathed.
"The Taragi-shar Range," Spock replied.
"I know that, but what is that—that great golden basin down there?"
The Elder said nothing, only prodded her chuchaki forward. With much groaning and grunting, the other animals followed. None of the other nomads said a word, either, as they rode out across the flat golden plain: sand, against which the chuchaki's hoofs made no sound. Nor was there any other sound, not even the faintest stirring of wind. The air was very hot, very heavy.
"Eerie," Rabin said, his voice a wary whisper.
To agree would be a needless concession to emotionalism. But Spock could not be unaware of the silence, which did seem more than normal. The air prickled uncomfortably along his skin, and he wondered if there was to be a sudden storm. He twisted about in the saddle, seeing the dark mass of the Taragi-shar before them, the equally dark ridge behind them. On either side, arms of old lava, black basalt with glints of obsidian, fanned out from the mountains to the ridge, forming, as Rabin had said, a great bowl. Not a good place to be caught by natural forces or, for that matter, Romulans.
Rabin glanced at Spock with the air of someone who cannot stand another moment of suspense. "Where are we?" the human whispered.
"This," the Elder said softly, "is the Te-wisat-k
arak, the Golden Hell."
"Oh, good name!"
It was nearly a shout in all that silence. The Elder glanced at him in mild disapproval. "It is an ancient site of sacrifice to one whose attention you do not wish to attract: Khar Hakai, the Eater of Souls."
Spock started in spite of himself, feeling an atavistic little chill prickle its way up his spine. Control he told himself firmly. He had learned enough over the years to prove to himself that similar mythoi, similar archetypes, turned up among even unrelated peoples. It was not extraordinary to find that this culture, too, had a demonic being who devoured sentient essences.
Yet something deep within him, some primitive instinct from the days of Vulcan's ancient past, whispered, Omen.
"Omens," Spock murmured, "are pure superstition."
Rabin overheard. "Superstitions or no," he whispered, "let's hope that these omens you don't believe in are as good for us as they were the first time around!"
"One does not," the Elder said in stern disapproval, "make light of the powers of Khar Hakai."
No sooner had she mentioned the Eater of Souls than Loki erupted into a spectacular solar flare, a bright, blinding aurora and sudden sharp ionization of air that made nomads and chuchaki alike cry out their alarm as the desert sands crackled and sang about them.
Rabin, fighting his curvetting, frightened chuchaki, gasped out, "The radiation in this place is really going to climb, and personally, I'd still like to have kids someday."
Spock, quickly checking his tricorder, corrected, "It has already risen. And I am certain you would wish those children to have the normal human genome."
"You bet I would, but let's not stay out here on this open target discussing it!"
The nomads, meanwhile, were shouting out prayers in atavistic horror. The Elder cut through their noise with a sharp, "It is time to invoke the Sunstorm Truce."
Rabin stared. "What's that?"
Her glance said plainly, Kindly Fool. With great restraint, the Elder said, "You have not been a part of our world long enough to know it, not you who have always lived behind city walls like a Tamed One."
Vulcan's Forge Page 22
