Vulcan's Forge

by Josepha Sherman

  McCoy!

  "I hate to break up what's obviously a touching reunion," the doctor drawled, "but can't we just sit down and talk this over like reasonable folks?"

  Spock, never taking his attention from Sered, said coolly, his voice deliberately pitched so all could hear him, "These are not 'reasonable folks.' These are those who would break Sunstorm Truce."

  The assembled Faithful growled at that, stirring uneasily. But before they could decide on any drastic move, the great metal doors flew open with a thundering crash. Into the hall burst the nomad warriors, shouting gleeful war cries as they rushed into shelter and battle.

  The Romulans whirled to this sudden new threat like one well-oiled machine, weapons raised—but the disillusioned Faithful took advantage of the moment for a renewed charge. The Romulans were suddenly caught between two waves of low-tech but highly determined people, the desert nomads and the Faithful for once acting as one. Spock saw the quick bright flash of phasers here, there, and some attackers fell, but there were always more to take their places, too many to be stopped. The Romulans, Spock thought sharply, might have the better weapons, but the tribespeople had something stronger on their side: pure righteous fury.

  And better numbers.

  It was no contest. The Romulans were swarmed, overwhelmed, weapons torn from their hands.

  And in the next moment, the Faithful will become a mob, as only those so suddenly stripped of belief can become, mindless, violent, deadly.

  Spock quickly extrapolated the possible results: slain Romulans equaled Romulan retaliation, resulting in potential genocide and certain Federation-Romulan warfare. And he shouted with all his might, "Do not kill them! Do not harm the outlanders! Do not kill them!"

  Somewhere behind him, Spock heard McCoy's dry whisper to Rabin, "Was he this nonviolent as a boy?"

  Rabin retorted, "No. He killed. He must never have forgotten."

  Nor have I. But what I recall or do not recall is hardly the issue.

  No time to say as much to McCoy. And Sered—ah, Sered was clearly seeing his holy mission failing yet again, and—oh, most infuriating fact—due to the same blasphemer as before. Eyes blazing with madness, he snapped out, "Enough! Heed me, fools! Enough!"

  It was a shriek savage enough to cut through any mere mortal noise. At that dramatic sound, the fighting broke sharply off, nomads, Faithful, and Romulans all startled into immobility. Sered strode quickly forward into the sudden silence, spotless robes swirling theatrically, and came to a dead stop directly in front of Spock.

  "I thee challenge." The language Sered employed was such an archaic form of Old High Vulcan that Spock could barely decipher it: the true language of the priest-kings of the te-Vikram caves.

  "What challenge," he began haltingly in the same dialect, but Sered cut him off.

  "Let this be a battle of Righteousness. I thee issue the Holy Challenge of Combat, one to one, hand-to-hand in proper ritual. There shall be no weapon save our strength, no quarter, no mercy."

  I am not going to match wits with him in a dialect that handicaps me. "Such archaic terms are not logical," Spock countered coolly in current Vulcan. "There no longer exists such a thing as the Holy Challenge."

  "Logic!" Sered spat out the word in disgust. "What has your petty, useless logic to do with this? This is a matter of Light, not logic! Too long have we been walking separate ways. Too long has our enmity gone unresolved. And Evil has flourished! No longer! At last we are together—at last one of us shall die!"

  Not merely madness but melodrama as well. "There is no need—"

  "There is!" His eyes fierce as Lola's flames, his whole stance rigid with religious fervor, Sered proclaimed to all the world, "Here it is! Here is the final battle! Here is the final judgment of Good against Evil!"

  Rabin could hardly have understood the words, but he could hardly have missed the gist of them. He hissed at Spock, "You're not really going to—"

  Spock nodded curtly. "I see no other logical way to end this. He must be stopped before more harm is done, but a phaser blast will spark a deadly riot."

  Sered was tearing off his spotless finery, till he stood in nothing more than his white breeches, his chest lean and sleek with unexpected muscle. He might be Sarek's age, Spock thought, but Sered had kept himself as wiry-strong as a young warrior from the ancient days.

  Still, he cannot have matching stamina. At least I trust that such is the truth.

  No other way than this, as he had told Rabin. Spock, too, stripped off his desert robes; he had not fought hand-tohand in earnest for . . . exactly 6.45 Federation-standard years, and he wanted no encumbrances.

  What was that sudden murmuring? Romulan . . . yes. The Romulans—were wagering, Spock realized, boldly wagering on the outcome of the duel.

  I wonder who they prefer. Illogical to even consider it, though judging from the fiercely approving glance of that young Romulan—a centurion, by his garb—he was the favorite.

  Shutting this irreverent trivia from his attention, Spock bowed to Sered in the ancient, elaborate Vulcan manner. Sered returned the bow with the same archaic courtesy—

  Then they closed with each other.

  And the final battle began.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Obsidian, Deep Desert

  Day 5, First Week, Month of the Shining Chara,

  Year 2296

  Spock and Sered circled each other warily, slowly stalking, each seeking an opening, a weakness in the other, each finding none.

  His breathing is regular, Spock analyzed coolly, no fear or hesitation shown. His movements are smooth and agile: no hidden injuries. His eyes . . . are the eyes of madness, which may give him strength or weaken him with anger. A possibility, not a fact. Useless to speculate on what had yet to be proven. I must first see the shape of his attack before shaping my own. Quick extrapolation: His attack will not be anything as swift-ending or merciful as tal-shaya. And it will surely be something far older even than tal-shaya. Dating from the time of the priest-kings. Whatever system he uses, I must not kill. For all the evil he has done, his is an illness of the mind, not a rational working of harm. I must not kill.

  There was no emotion to Spock's thoughts; there was no place here for the human side of his nature.

  Without the slightest warning of tensing muscles, Sered burst into motion, lunging forward, stiffened hand thrusting like the blade of a sword. Spock quickly parried with a forearm block, ignoring the shock of impact, and Sered just as swiftly sprang back, revealing nothing at all of his thoughts. But the style of his movements, the precise angles of arms and body and legs in this smooth, swift dance, told Spock what he needed to know:

  This is ke-tarya.

  Logical. It was a style of fighting ancient enough to please Sered though still current—fortunately—as an exercise regime among modern Vulcans; Spock had studied it as a boy, and occasionally still practiced it as an adult.

  He feigned a kick that should make Sered dodge to the left—yes. Spock struck, hand aiming at a pressure point intended to send Sered slumping into unconsciousness and end this fight quickly. But Sered moved just as swiftly, blocking with bent arm, unfolding it with enough force to send Spock staggering back a step.

  Was this ke-tarya?

  Sered lunged, hand curved in a claw tearing viciously for the throat. Spock moved smoothly aside, twisting to throw Sered forward with the momentum of the attack—but Sered moved with him, lunging yet again, so quickly that Spock had to block him once more, despite his control aware of the slash of pain as Sered's nails tore his skin.

  Skin only. That move was meant to tear out my throat. What is he using? Ke-tarya has no moves like this!

  Yes, his mind quickly reminded him, it did. This was the most ancient form of ke-tarya, ke-tar-yatar, never studied by modern Vulcans save historians; ke-tar-yatar was no mere exercise but a style designed for one purpose only: death.

  And Spock knew no way to counter it.

  God, McCoy thought, look at t
hose two move, almost faster than the human eye can follow. Of course he'd always known that Vulcan reflexes were swift, but this—

  Too bad it's not just some exhibition match. That would be downright fun to watch, two evenly matched opponents like this, all that speed and grace and no harm meant.

  But no, it would have to be to the death. And in the middle of all these enemies, too, just waiting for a spark to set them off. Like playing with old-fashioned whaddayacallems . . . matches in the middle of dry tinder.

  Never taking his glance from the Vulcans involved in their quick, deadly dance, McCoy muttered hoarsely to Rabin, "Helluva time for a duel."

  "When," Rabin shot back, "is a good time?"

  "Good point." McCoy swallowed dryly, trying in vain to soothe his aching throat. Damn, what he'd give for a cold drink! For any drink. "At least Spock's kept himself in good shape. Desert doesn't seem to have weakened him."

  A snort from Rabin. "It hasn't."

  "Unfortunately," McCoy added with a physician's appraisal, "it looks like the madman's kept himself in pretty good shape, too. Never mind that he's more than twice Spock's age, and Spock's no kid—age doesn't matter to Vulcans the way it does to us mere humans. Like Faerie Folk, you know? Pointed ears and all."

  That earned him a quick, startled glance from Rabin. Never mind, McCoy told him silently. I haven't gone round the bend. Just tired, that's all. And worried.

  God, yes. And not just because they were in such peril.

  I already watched you die once, Spock, and once was more than enough. Dammit, Spock, don't do this to me! We've already lost Jim, I don't want to lose you, too.

  Ruanek watched with face impassive and heart racing. Captain Spock moved with the ease and power of a true warrior—but he seemed to lack the true warrior's drive to kill. There! He could have crushed Sered's throat with that blow—yet he turned aside from its full force. And there! There! If he'd continued that lunge, he could have broken ribs, stopped Sered's lungs. Yet he was pulling back!

  What is he doing? This is no place to show mercy!

  And Sered—akhh, who would have expected the madman to have such strength? And such stamina? The power of the mad, indeed! Not for him to show caution or pity or whatever misguided logic it was that was handicapping Captain Spock. Ruanek let his breath out in a slow hiss of frustration. Sered must not win, and yet honor forbade any interference.

  And I still have some honor left.

  "A new wager!" he cried out defiantly, glaring at cousin Kharik. "I raise the stakes! Double the score on Captain Spock!"

  Had Spock heard? Understood?

  It is the only encouragement I can offer you,

  Ruanek told him. Let it be enough. That it was also open defiance of his patron, of Avrak and his commands—akhh, well, Avrak's plans were already in disarray and sometimes one must risk all upon a single throw of the sticks.

  A massed hiss from the Romulans brought Ruanek's attention sharply back to the fight. Spock was staggering back, nearly falling, clearly stunned.

  "You," Kharik said with great relish, "are about to lose your wager."

  The emphasis on the last word told Ruanek that his cousin meant far more than a monetary trifle. "We speak of one who nearly held our Empire at bay," Ruanek snapped back. "He is not as weak as you think!"

  Let it be true. For both our sakes.

  Sered's last blow had come very close to breaking bones. Spock dodged, dodged again, aware despite his stern selfcontrol that his reaction time was 2.55 instants slower than it had been, aware that his body was 6.26 percent weaker than it had been. There was pain, bruising, torn muscles, possibly even a cracked rib, though he would not allow such things to hinder him. But he could do nothing about lungs that were laboring for air. Still, no serious damage had yet been done, and Spock refused to hear the small, human voice whispering at the edge of his mind that there will be, that you must kill or be killed—no. Humanity had no place here.

  Did it not? The hint of an idea slid into his thoughts.

  Possible.

  Sered? His sleek chest was slick with sweat, and blossoming bruises here and there told of blows that had gotten past his defenses.

  I must look very much the same. Hardly the Starfleet officer. Wry honesty forced him to add, The somewhat winded Starfleet officer.

  Yet Sered seemed not at all distressed, not at all out of breath, and the wild madness in his eyes burned as brightly as ever.

  The strength of madness, indeed. He will go on and on until he dies. Or kills me.

  Only one chance: not Vulcan but human logic, Jim Kirk's reasoning, insisting feed that madness. There was no logic of any kind left to Sered, no self-control, nothing but raw, primal emotion.

  As though he'd read Spock's thoughts, Sered lunged again, hand a claw. Spock countered with a forearm block, and this time all the will in him could not quite shut out the ache in overstrained muscles. He stepped deliberately back, saying as steadily as heaving lungs would allow:

  "Do you really think that you can win?"

  "Of course!" It was a harsh roar.

  "A shame to see such a fallacy."

  "What—"

  "A shame to see such a once-brilliant mind so overturned."

  "What do you—"

  "Look at yourself, Sered. Look. Where is your splendor, Sered? See the truth. No splendor here, no great messiah. Logic, Sered." Human logic, so that nothing I say does more than shade the Vulcan truth. "You are nothing but one aging outcast. Nothing but a madman lost in his own delusions. No, more than that:

  "Sered, you are nothing but what the humans you despise call 'a crazy old useless fool.'"

  With a wordless shriek, Sered charged him.

  Wait . . . wait . . . now.

  Spock, timing his action precisely, met that maddened charge with a neat, professional, and quite logical punch to Sered's solar plexus, followed by an equally neat uppercut.

  Sered collapsed as though strings holding him upright had just been cut. There was a whoop, quickly suppressed, from the young Romulan centurion, then stunned, total silence.

  Silence which Spock, standing over his unconscious foe, green blood on his knuckles, broke by saying simply:

  "Let us assume that Good has won the day."

  That started a sudden storm of shouting, Faithful, nomads, Romulans all trying to be heard. And so I have not brought peace but sparked a new riot—no! I did not go this far to see more deaths in this place!

  "Silence!"

  Ahh, he certainly did have a cracked rib or at least severe bruising: his body did not want him shouting like that. And it would be quite pleasant to sit somewhere and regain his breath. There were, though others might deny it, limits to Vulcan strength.

  Control, he told himself sternly. Control. There is no time for weakness yet.

  McCoy, being McCoy, hurried to Spock's side, heedless of danger, all set to examine him. At Spock's fraction of a "not now, Doctor" frown, the human contented himself with draping the discarded desert robes back about Spock, "so you don't get a chill on top of everything else," and knelt at the fallen Sered's side, diagnostic tools in hand, his face a study in conflicting emotions.

  Rabin, being Rabin, had just as quickly moved to guard Spock's back, whispering something about "Turned a kungfu movie into a John Wayne movie, didn't you?"

  It was the only logical move. Or movie.

  But he kept that rather feeble pun to himself. "You," Spock said sternly to the Romulan centurion. "Here."

  The Romulan wisely obeyed without an instant's hesitation, signaling to his uneasy warriors to follow. The centurion was shorter than Spock by a small margin (1.2 centimeters, Spock's brain told him), and young enough to actually allow himself a quick grin of relief before fixing his face in more properly solemn lines. He gave Spock a crisp military salute.

  "I am Ruanek, Centurion of the Empire. Of House Minor Strevon. I formally request honorable protection for my warriors and myself."

  Good. The you
ngster was quick-witted. But then, he never would have risen to the rank of centurion at such an early age if he had been anything but clever.

  "Granted," Spock said. He added with more force for all the others to hear, ignoring the strain it put on aching muscles, "I have placed these people under my protection. They were but tools of the foe, not the foe himself. They are not to be harmed."

  Were the murmuring Faithful accepting that? Probably not; those deprived of their illusions usually wished to destroy the illusion-maker and, failing that, the illusion-maker's allies.

  But the Elder stepped smoothly forward, her easy grace yet again belying her age. "There will be no war," she said, and it was not a request.

  At her calm gesture, the nomads moved to encircle Spock, Sered, McCoy, Rabin, and even the startled Romulans. At a stern glare from the Elder, the nomads lowered their weapons and merely . . . stood, a solid, implacable ring.

  "There will be no war," the Elder repeated, and nodded solemnly to Spock.

  "Peace," he agreed with an equally solemn bow.

  "Peace," the centurion repeated, again proving his quickwittedness, adding in a wry whisper to Spock, "Besides, you've just made me a nice bit of money."

  Before Spock could find a suitably logical retort to that, there was a great roar from outside, a familiar rush of noise—shuttles setting down? Federation equipment? Yes, surely that. McCoy and Rabin said simultaneously, "Here comes the cavalry over the hill!"

  They paused, stared at each other in astonishment, then burst into laughter, gasping something about "You, too?" "Old Westerns?" "Love 'em!"

  Which makes as much sense, Spock thought, trying not to rub muscles that were nagging him about their soreness even through his control, as anything else that has happened this day.

  The cavalry, as it were, had indeed arrived.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Obsidian, Deep Desert and Federation Outpost

  Day 5, First Week, Month of the Shining Chara,