Vulcan's Forge

by Josepha Sherman

  Year 2296

  Spock restrained himself from flexing his fingers diagnostically again. He had ascertained that no bones were broken and that the most superficial of the grazes on his hand from delivering what humans referred to as an "uppercut" were already healing. A human would permit himself to slump, to admit that at least one rib was probably cracked, possibly broken, and that he felt as bruised as if he had been trampled by a stampeding chuchaki. Dr. McCoy would no doubt make ironic comments Spock had no desire to hear.

  Fortunately, however, McCoy was preoccupied with Sered. Conscious once more but at least as battered as Spock, the madman had permitted his robe, trampled and soiled with blood though it was, to be thrown over his shoulders, protecting him from Loki's light but not, in his current state, from the pain of his injuries. His sides and chest were as bruised as Spock's, and his jaw had swollen to twice its size.

  We each wear the other's blood. The thought was one from which he would be glad to escape.

  Sered's eyes were glazed, the veils flickering aimlessly back and forth across them as his mind retreated almost into catatonia. He was standing, which was the best that could be said of him.

  He must be returned to Vulcan, where his madness could be treated and he could be interrogated—by someone other than Spock.

  Touching Sered's dementia would be worse than that ugly, ancient crime of rape —and not necessarily just for Sered.

  The late T'Pau had known all along, Spock realized. Any investigation would have to include what she, no doubt, had preserved in meticulous personal records. It might even be deemed important enough for someone of T'Lar's stature to commune with T'Pau's katra.

  "All Vulcan in one package," Jim had once called her. She had refused a seat on the Federation Council rather than reveal who the intruders at Mount Seleya had actually been. Had that been a betrayal?

  No, T'Pau had protected her own.

  Spock protected his own, too, even when he wanted no more than to indulge in the luxury of a Vulcan healing trance. Many of Spock's "own," the nomad warriors who had followed him so joyously into battle, now stood on the sands of Te-wisat-karak, watching his every move. Even some of the former Faithful had dared to follow him, stretching out their hands, pleading with him to remain and be their new Master.

  "You need no Master," Spock told them patiently. "You have the Law. You will have wise leaders of your own once more. This Revered Elder will aid you in choosing them. And you have the friendship of this good man." He gestured toward Captain Rabin.

  "Let's move out a ways from the rocks," Rabin said. "The chuchaki put up with the first shuttle landing, but there's a limit to what they'll tolerate. You folks don't want to hike all the way home, do you?"

  That made the nomads actually chuckle, and Rabin grinned.

  "A wise precaution," Spock said, referring to both the shuttles and Rabin's winning friends with a jest.

  Someone wasn't laughing. Spock glanced over at the Romulans, now under his protection. All but one: young Kharik, a cousin to the centurion Ruanek, whom two of the Romulans were holding under close guard. Spock admitted to himself that seeing the anger on the subcenturion's face, with its Vulcan features, was . . . disconcerting.

  Ruanek, as Spock had commanded, stood close to McCoy in case Sered's madness turned violent again.

  "Don't worry about me," Spock heard McCoy tell Ruanek. "Worry about how you're going to smuggle horses across the Romulan Neutral Zone."

  Horses?

  "Assuming, of course," McCoy continued, "that you won enough money to set yourself up as a breeder."

  A breeder? Of horses? Perhaps exposing Ruanek to McCoy's notions of humor constituted abuse of a prisoner!

  But Ruanek actually laughed, a breach of control for Vulcans but not, apparently, for Romulans. Typically, McCoy had won the young Romulan's liking.

  For all I know, that had something to do with the centurion's support of me, with the support of most of the Romulans here, during my duel.

  Although none of those who had exiled themselves from Vulcan knew the deep discipline of Gol, the Vulcan gifts lay latent in them. Spock had felt their strength, their will, reach out to support him as he fought Sered.

  My victory is yours, he thought at them, wondering if they would hear. If he could sense their will, their support, it might be possible, one day, one year, for Romulans to learn the ways not just of Surak but of Gol.

  The next time Romulans stand on Mount Seleya, let it be as pilgrims and peacemakers.

  Spock believed that McCoy would say he had his work cut out for him.

  "I give you my word," Captain Rabin said to the Elder, "on my mother's soul. I shall return with help, and if not I, then my children." He began the ritual three bows of respect, but the Elder forestalled him, drawing him into the formal embrace of equals.

  After a polite moment, the captain drew away. Gently, he disengaged the small hands of two children who had attached themselves to his legs and strode toward Spock. At the last, he turned to wave to the nomads, then snapped down his protective visor with a dramatic gesture.

  What movie hero is he imitating now? Spock wondered with the barest hint of amusement. No matter; it is effective.

  Rabin gestured. Spock turned and saw Loki's violent light flash from the incoming shuttles. The human snapped shut McCoy's communicator with a satisfied grin. Spock's hand flexed again, waiting to take the communicator from him, try again to raise his ship.

  Impatience? he asked himself. Illogical.

  The solar flare had subsided, although it was still too risky to attempt using the transporters. Uhura must have a good reason for continuing the communcations blackout. The more powerful communications equipment at Rabin's headquarters would help him find it out.

  "They evacuated our people first," Rabin said. "Ensign Prince and all. Wanted to airlift the lot of them back to Kalara, but they insisted they weren't going back until we were safe. I've got a mind to put them all on report for insubordination."

  "No doubt," Spock remarked blandly, "your sickbay will suffice as a brig."

  "Rabin chuckled, then gestured again at the landing shuttles. "Faisal's not piloting. That's probably punishment enough for him."

  "Guards swarmed out, faces hidden by protective helms and visors, their bodies stiffening at the sight of the Romulans. Spock and Rabin stepped forward just as a very bedraggled knot of familiar officers tumbled out of the shuttles behind them. One of the latter gestured passionately, critically, over his shoulder at the hatchway, pushing up his visor so there could be no mistaking his disapproval,

  "What was that supposed to be? Touchdown at twentynine point five, twenty-nine point six, twenty-nine point seven, take your pick? A sloppy landing like that makes us all lose face before our captain!"

  "Faisal!" Rabin exclaimed, pushing up his own visor. "You, all of you, you're a sight for sore eyes!"

  He blinked hastily, not just from the sun, Spock realized, but from a wave of emotion so powerful that even his human friend sought to control it. "Now, put your visor down," Rabin snapped, voice not quite steady. "You want to go blind?"

  Ensign Prince was actually quivering with the effort not to dash forward and hug his captain—and possibly Spock and everyone else, as well—but managed to stay put, more or less at attention, particularly after Rabin said something in Arabic that made him raise his head with pride. Spock watched as his friend somehow managed to greet everyone by name, pat everyone on the back, and still preserve some semblance of military bearing all at once.

  He, too, looks after his own.

  "Welcome back to civilization, Lieutenant Diver," Rabin was continuing. "I hope my people gave you every consideration."

  "They kept us alive, sir," the young lieutenant said.

  "And the lieutenant's got to finish the Tale of the Three Princes of Serendip," Ensign Prince cut in, grinning. "We were rescued just when they'd found the princess."

  At Rabin's blank stare, Lieutenant Diver ad
ded, blushing slightly, "You . . . ah . . . just had to be there, sir."

  "I see. Well. All the same, it's a pretty sorry welcome to Obsidian, Lieutenant. You'll just have to come back, perhaps when the ozone layer's had a chance to start healing. We can all stroll around, you, too, Spock, sample the local food, give you, Lieutenant, your first ride on a chuchaki."

  Lieutenant Diver studied the Taragi-shar with a geologist's longing. "With rock formations like that, sir, just try to keep me away!"

  The guards started forward to take the Romulans into custody.

  "They are under my protection," Spock said.

  "But—Romulans!" one of the guards protested. "Just the fact that they're here, in Federation space—that's an act of war!"

  Spock raised a bruised hand for silence. "If one were genetically accurate, one could say that they are, in fact, family members, distant cousins to myself. That would logically eliminate the need to think of them as Romulans."

  The guards warily backed down, not wanting to argue with a Starfleet officer—and a Vulcan. Rabin surreptitiously gave Spock the thumbs-up gesture.

  That means approval, I know. I suspect Jim would rather have approved as well.

  After all, Jim had always tried to avoid fighting with the Romulans and had never been above a certain . . . creative interpretation of the facts.

  "Well," asked Rabin, "now that that's settled, hadn't we better go mind the store?"

  Spock flinched—

  "Only me," McCoy said laconically. "Didn't mean to startle you." His tricorder whirred busily as he scanned Spock's rib and kidney areas—"not that your innards are anywhere a sane man would have them, mind you."

  Spock acquiesced. It was better to let the doctor believe he had been startled than to ask pardon for his toss of control at hearing "hadn't we better go mind the store," words his dead friend had often used, in the mouth of a friend who still lived.

  "Nothing too serious," McCoy muttered.

  Spock raised a brow. "Are you disappointed, Doctor?"

  "Naw. A cracked rib, lots of bruises—not bad for a prizefighter, amateur division."

  Spock permitted McCoy to ease him into the shuttle. It was simpler than arguing. And by now he had to admit that sitting, as the nomadic saying went, would be far better than standing.

  "You're going to rest on the flight back," McCoy warned, "or so help me, I'll sedate you."

  The doctor darted back outside before Spock could reply, returning with the nearly catatonic Sered, whom he strapped in before returning to Spock's side with a wry grin.

  "The Invalid Express is under way."

  Spock suppressed a sigh.

  David Rabin just barely kept pace with Spock as he strode past the painted letters on the outpost's walls and into CommCen. "If you please, Ensign, connect me with Intrepid II."

  Impossible to believe that the ship was no longer there, Spock thought. If not to the degree that Jim had bonded with the Enterprise, he was at least partially bonded to it; he would have sensed if it had been destroyed, as he had years ago when the original Intrepid had died.

  Behind him, the outpost's staff was clustering around their leader. "Yes, Captain Rabin," Lieutenant Albright was saying. "I took my medicine. In more ways than one. And I am—we are all very glad that you're back."

  Her voice almost managed not to falter.

  "I'm trying, Captain Spock." The ensign looked up at him with concern.

  Spock could see his own reflection in the brightly polished console. He could agree with the doctor and, apparently, with this young man—did all of David Rabin's people worry so?—that he belonged in a sickbay rather than on the bridge of a ship. Nevertheless, he raised an eyebrow, a silent order to the ensign to try again.

  "Not to worry," he could hear Rabin telling Lieutenant Albright. "When you've got a little more experience in the field, you'll have more perspective on these things. Meanwhile, if you could send a yeoman with something to eat, some water, maybe . . ."

  "Yes, sir!" The precision was back in Albright's voice.

  The signals ensign sighed with relief, and Spock came fully alert. "I've got contact, sir."

  Spock heard the familiar crackle of sublight communications. His aches receded. "Spock here, Commander Uhura," he said crisply.

  "Captain Spock!" That was definitely Uhura. "Good to hear your voice!"

  Static crackled between the base and the Intrepid. As well as if Spock already faced Uhura, he knew she reproached herself for giving way to emotion. He must make her know he reproached no one for acting in accordance with his nature. Or hers.

  Communications went live once again. "Ship's status is operational, Captain." Uhura had disciplined her voice into dispassionate briefing mode. "We pulled into Obsidian's shadow. Radiation levels were well within hull tolerances, no overdoses were reported, and hull levels are returning to baseline norms."

  "Summon a security team to the transporter room, Commander. The ground team will beam up, plus seven others."

  "Negative, Captain, negative." Uhura's voice cut across his. As she boosted the volume, Spock raised his eyebrows at the whoop/whoop/whoop of red alert. "We've got this Warbird in the vicinity. It's cloaked, so we're in no immediate danger, but I'm keeping shields up until reinforcements arrive. I've opened negotiations with the Warbird's commander, Avrak. Sister's son to Senator Pardek."

  So, now. Fascinating. "Most understandable, Commander. You seem to have prepared for any eventuality. My compliments."

  "Thank you, sir." The ring of pleasure in Uhura's voice eased some ache in Spock that he had not known he possessed.

  "Spock?" David Rabin stood at his shoulder. "Since you're not going anywhere just yet, I'd like to discuss something with you."

  "Indeed." Spock followed Rabin into a conference room where food, water, and a savory hot drink had been set out. "I see you have already planned for this event."

  "Sit down," Rabin commanded. "At the risk of sounding like a stereotype: Eat something. On the flight back, I was making plans that I want to run by you. Now that we've got the nomads working with us and no more Romulan interference. I want to set some priorities."

  "Wise."

  "The first thing is to tell the whole story. No more myths. No more secrecy. No more fear. Then, we start to rebuild the ozone layer. I know we've only got outpost status here, but with the cooperation of Obsidian's people—all of its people," he added with immense satisfaction, "we can ask for a change in planetary status so that Federation technology can be brought in."

  "The Prime Directive?" Spock asked with an eyebrow lift.

  "This is a devolved culture," Rabin reminded Spock. "I'd wager paleoarcheologists and archivists could pinpoint precisely at what cultural level they regressed."

  Spock nodded. "Proceed."

  "Ozone layer is going to be our long-term project," Rabin said. "Where we're really going to make our short-term gains is in the area of medicine. If we could borrow the services of a really first-rate oncology center . . ." He shook his head. "When I die, what I'd really like as my epitaph is that I helped see that the only thing that made kids get sick around here was the local equivalent of a cold. We can cure a lot of those cancers and stabilize the ones we can't against the next breakthrough. Are you with me, Spock?"

  "Not literally. I will be returning to Vulcan so that Sered can be treated. But I find your priorities flawlessly logical. I suspect," he added with the smallest upward crook of a corner of his mouth, "that you have heard the last of the title 'Kindly Fool.' I have one more suggestion."

  "What's that?" Rabin poured hot tea for Spock and glared at him until he drank.

  "More diplomatic missions to work with the deep-desert nomads. The Elder we met is a powerful ally. No doubt she is connected with tribes halfway across the planet."

  Rabin shook his head. "Spock, all I can say is that I wish you were going to be here to take charge of that. Seems you're a born diplomat."

  Spock set his teacup down almost to
o quickly. Rabin might even attribute any shakiness to the fact that Spock had used his damaged hand to lift it. A diplomat. Like his father. His father who had tried to force him into a pattern designed before Surak's birth.

  But I broke free to create my own pattern. Now . . . where is that pattern leading me?

  He looked past Rabin and out a floor-to-ceiling window of polarized steelsheen into a dry-planet garden, remembering the conversation he had had so many years ago with his mother in her wet-planet conservatory. The stars of Romulan space shone up there, far beyond the poison of wounded Loki. Perhaps Sered had had the right idea after all, even if his means were as desperately flawed as his mind. If more Romulans and Vulcans of goodwill could only speak together honestly and openly . . . Perhaps it must wait until a younger generation grew up without the old, illogical fears that kept the cousin races sundered. Ruanek, after all, had even wagered on him.

  Spock's hearing picked up a beep in CommCen, and he rose, his abused muscles protesting.

  "Commander Uhura from the Intrepid." said the ensign. "Commander's compliments and she'll be happy to beam Captain Spock on board now. Just the captain, she adds, sir."

  Interesting.

  Spock started toward the transporter booths. "David, kindly look after my people for a while longer, please."

  Rabin grinned and waved the transporter chief away from the controls. "Next time, don't forget to write. Shalom, Spock."

  He saluted Spock in the Vulcan fashion, which he had once told Spock had religious significance for his own people. Spock returned the gesture.

  "Live long and prosper, David Rabin. And . . ." How would someone of Rabin's people word it? Ah, yes. "Do not be a stranger!"

  Transporter effect took him before Rabin could retort.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Intrepid II

  Year 2296

  Spock had an instant to wish, illogically, that he could have materialized on his ship minus his injuries before a young officer greeted him.

  "Lieutenant Duchamps, sir. Commander sent me to brief you en route to the bridge."