Vulcan's Soul Book II

by Josepha Sherman

  “Does that divert you? Can you still know fear? Can you still grasp the thrill of pitting your wits against a wild beast?”

  Again, he thrust the grenade at them. If they had materialized him here, they could send him out into the chill of space before he freed his children. The thought made his hand tremble. He made it look as if he was brandishing his weapon.

  “Shall I blow you to the Womb of Fire?” he asked. “You may be powerful, but do you want to risk an end to all your wonderful diversions? Wouldn’t even boredom be preferable?”

  He edged in even closer.

  Agitated cascades of lights lit the room.

  “Name your terms,” the Providers said.

  “I want all of them freed,” Rovalat declared.

  “They cannot all be your children.”

  The orange brain seemed to throb with what sounded like indignation. He had heard children whine like that. Many had not survived their kahs-wan. They had not been fit.

  “They are someone’s children, even if they are not mine.” Again, he feinted with the grenade.

  “And will you claim our Master Thrall as well?” Rovalat could not have imagined the satisfaction in the brains’ mental voices.

  The creature that materialized in the chamber was a biped, but that was where the resemblance between Vulcan and Master Thrall ceased. It was distinctly saurian, with what looked like bone plates on its crest and its spine. The harness and torque were all it wore because it was armored in bronze-green scales. Although its forearms were disproportionately short, they ended in three-digit hands that bore very powerful claws at least twice as long as the fangs that projected beyond its snout.

  Rovalat raised his sidearm and fired. The Master Thrall advanced. He fired again and again until the creature fell. The stench of burned tissue and chemicals nearly brought Rovalat to his knees, but he mastered his nausea. He had seen, he told himself, worse. He had seen his children die.

  “Have you been sufficiently entertained?” he demanded. “Will you release my children now?”

  It was the green brain’s turn to light up and to speak. “They can go. You will remain. That is our best offer.”

  “Done,” said Rovalat. Deliberately, he ignored Karatek’s appalled protest. The man would have to meditate for at least a year to work off those emotions.

  The lights pulsed all at once. For a moment, the chamber went dark. When it lit again, he could see the brains lying on their platforms as if whatever effort they had expended had exhausted them.

  “I’m getting a signal. They’re taking off!” Karatek’s voice, reduced to a whisper audible only to sharp Vulcan ears, came over the ’caster. “Getting signal…They can make it!”

  Don’t let them hear you sound that excited, Rovalat wished at the faraway scientist wryly, or you’ll never get done meditating.

  “Get out!” Karatek ordered. “Get out now! It’s still not too late.”

  Rovalat laughed, briefly and mirthlessly. “Yes, it is,” he told Karatek, no longer bothering to whisper. “Even if I hadn’t used up most of my fuel, I traded myself for these creatures, and I’ve never broken my word. You have all that I was. Remember me.”

  The lights came back on. Was it Rovalat’s imagination, or did they have a fevered tinge, as if even these superior, disembodied intelligences could know fear and rage?

  Figures formed in the chamber once again. They stepped over the body of the Master Thrall. He should have known that not all of the prisoners would be released. Still, they had released his children. That was all he had ever wanted.

  “This ceases,” he told them. “Right now!”

  Only the le-matya killed wantonly. He backed into the part of the room farthest away from these new enemies.

  “Retreat, and you won’t be harmed,” he told the advancing thralls. “Remember, you gave your word!” he reproached the Providers. Expecting them to keep it was about as useful as trying to persuade a le-matya not to kill. Well, he had at least tried.

  The thralls advanced a step further, then, to Rovalat’s surprise, disappeared.

  “We have kept our word,” the green Provider told him. “Now, what diversion will you show us?”

  “This,” Rovalat said, and let the fusion grenade fall from his hand.

  The screen turned a violent white that drove the nictitating veil down across Karatek’s eyelids. He staggered and fell, aftereffects of the final separation between Rovalat and his katra.

  When Karatek regained consciousness, he grabbed for the image caster, ignoring the people, the voices, the hands that attempted to make him lie back, rest, tell them what was happening, and obey all their instructions at once.

  His eyes still blurred, but he made himself focus. The chamber was empty of all but three platforms, three energy domes, and three glowing brains.

  Karatek suppressed what wanted to be a shout of rage that all Rovalat’s courage, all his self-sacrifice, should receive no better reward than a violent death. The veils flicked over his eyes, preserving their moisture as he blinked out at the brilliant stars. Rovalat’s sacrifice could hardly be considered a failure: it had bought time for the other Vulcans to escape. The ship’s children were coming home.

  Twelve

  Now

  U.S.S. ALLIANCE

  STARDATE 54105.5

  The bridge crew of the Alliance stared in silence at the dull gray, cloud-shrouded world appearing on the viewscreen.

  “That,” Scotty announced in deliberate understatement, “is not exactly the most promising sight I’ve seen.”

  He’d summed it up for all of them, Spock thought.

  Of course they were still at quite a distance from the planet, not yet quite within Watraii space. As a result, the image they were receiving was not at optimum clarity.

  Even so, it was clear enough for Scotty to be able to say with some certainty, “Storms, storms, and more storms, and what look like almost nonstop lightning strikes—” He shook his head wryly. “That must make life a wee bit difficult for the Watraii.”

  “Indeed it must,” Data agreed. “Weather conditions on the Watraii homeworld appear severe enough to make the Galorndon Core’s electrical storms seem mild by comparison.”

  “Lieutenant Suhur,” Saavik said, “I understand that accurate scans are difficult at this range, and with the atmospheric distortion they are unlikely to give us too much information, but give us as much data as possible, please.”

  After a few moments of intense silence, save for the faint beeping of the lieutenant’s console, Suhur looked up from the screen. “Scans are as complete as possible, Captain Saavik. I shall put them on-screen.” As the images formed, he explained, “The Watraii homeworld appears to be a relatively young world, geologically speaking, perhaps only a billion or possibly even fewer standard years. Much of the terrain is mountainous, with approximately 42.5 percent containing ground water, but with no true seas. The planet’s gravity is slightly lighter than standard, approximately 98.01 percent of that of Earth, and it has an atmosphere only 2 percent thinner than standard.”

  That made the atmosphere only slightly lighter than that of Earth or Vulcan, Spock mused, or, for that matter, of Romulus. Excellent. They would not need any special breathing equipment. And Chekov would at least be able to breathe comfortably. The slightly lighter gravity would be making him a little more comfortable, too.

  Whether or not he might be in any condition to appreciate it was speculation unworthy of a Vulcan.

  “Life-forms?” Saavik asked.

  After a short analysis, Suhur reported, “It is impossible to tell, Captain. As we suspected, the storms are distorting the scans.”

  “Understood.” Saavik glanced at Spock. “So much for our being able to locate either Chekov or the artifact from out here.”

  “However,” Spock countered, “we do have a useful clue, at least as far as the artifact is concerned. We have the evidence of prior analysis of downed Watraii vessels.”

  “Cont
inue, Spock.”

  “They were composed primarily of amalgams of light metals. We can logically extrapolate, therefore, that the Watraii homeworld is poor in heavier metals—although it is also undeniably rich in electrical energy.”

  Saavik raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

  Spock nodded. Charvanek had claimed to know very little about the Romulan artifact, but she had at least known that it was made of a very dense heavy metal, one that would not occur naturally on the Watraii homeworld, and their scans of Watraii ships showed that they had no alloys remotely similar. “The artifact should certainly show up on scans.”

  “True enough, Spock. But the proof will have to wait—always assuming, of course, that someone can get close enough to it for something so small to actually register.”

  Scotty straightened. “We can take a shuttlecraft. Now, granted, it’s a challenge to outfit something that small with effective cloaking technology, but I could do it. And ’twould be no work at all to modify its fields so it could survive all that electricity.”

  A corner of Saavik’s mouth almost hinted at a smile. “And that is precisely why it is on board,” she said. “And, of course, Scotty, why you are, as well.”

  Spock was there in Saavik’s ready room for a quick consultation. Saavik sat on one side of him, Scotty on the other, and Ruanek and Data were seated across the table from them, the Klingon captains on the com screen. A strange conference, Spock thought, human, Vulcan, Romulan, and android.

  “You must understand,” Saavik began, glancing about at the others, “that the allowable time for this mission is extremely limited. We have precisely two shipboard days before we must leave or be trapped between the Watraii and the oncoming Federation fleet. Our primary mission is to rescue Admiral Chekov. Should it be possible to rescue the artifact as well, excellent. But Chekov has priority.”

  “We understand,” Spock assured her.

  “So we are not to make a direct attack,” Tor’Ka said with a Klingon’s lack of dissembling. He sounded rather disappointed.

  “We cannot do so,” Saavik replied as reasonably as though that truly had been an option. “I trust that you understand our reason.”

  “We do see the reason why,” JuB-Chal admitted reluctantly. “And of course, rescuing a comrade is an honorable action. However—”

  “Don’t worry,” Ruanek said sharply. “There still may be blood enough for you.”

  “There may, indeed,” Spock cut in before either Ruanek or the Klingons could continue. Even after all his years on Vulcan and Earth, Ruanek’s ingrained Romulan mistrust of Klingons still surfaced at odd moments. “But first we wish to rescue our comrade.” And the artifact.

  “Understood,” Tor’Ka said curtly. “So it shall be. You and we shall do almost nothing, as though we are no more than a group of clumsy khaQpu’.”

  “Privateers must surely be familiar with the need for evasive tactics,” Data commented. “This ship and yours will act as decoys, hopefully drawing Watraii attention aside so that our smaller craft may slip undetected through Watraii defenses.”

  “And if they attack us,” Tor’Ka shot back, “then there is an end to this decoy nonsense, and we shall fight!”

  “We shall fight!” Jub-Chal echoed.

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Abrams interrupted over the com link, “we are now at coordinates 29.456 by 646.4 by 254.5, as you commanded, on the, ah, edge of Watraii space.”

  “If space had edges,” Saavik said, getting to her feet. “Captains, we shall do our part, and I know you shall do yours. As for us, gentlebeings, we have work to do.”

  The shuttle berthed in the Alliance’s hangar bay was as trim and clean as everything else on board, but:

  “‘Small’ is definitely the right description for it,” Ruanek commented. He absently rubbed a hand over his shoulder where he, like the other three on this mission, had just been fitted with a subcutaneous transponder, then shouldered his pack. “It holds…what? Three? Four?”

  “Six,” Saavik corrected.

  “Six,” Ruanek echoed flatly.

  “Albeit not in comfort,” Spock added. “Should such a nonessential fact as comfort actually be an issue.”

  Ruanek gave the slightest of shrugs. “Believe me, Spock, I’ve ridden in worse.” He glanced sideways at Spock. “And at least this time I know that I can trust the maintenance.”

  “Don’t you have the slightest qualm about trusting the maintenance,” Scotty cut in cheerfully. “I went over it myself, top to bottom, and believe me, this bairn is now as up-to-date as I could make it, with the latest equipment and full cloaking capability. As much cloaking capacity as you can have with a craft this size, of course.”

  “Well done, Scotty,” Saavik told him.

  He beamed at her. “Thank you. Now all the brave bairn needs is a name, something more official than Shuttle Three. Will you do the honor?”

  “If you feel the need to do so.” After a moment’s thought, Saavik put a hand on the ship’s side and exclaimed, “I hereby dub you Alexander Nevsky. That,” she added to the others, who were staring at her, “is the name of an ancient human hero who triumphed over great odds.”

  How she had come to know that bit of old Earth history…Spock reminded himself with a touch of wry humor that he had learned years ago never to underestimate his wife.

  “May it prove a propitious name,” Data said simply.

  Thirteen

  Memory

  “Surak’s disciples in the fleet maintain that the most recent part of our long, long journey illustrates his statement in his Third Analects: ‘Disciplines that can be abandoned in times of hardship when disciplines are most needed are no disciplines at all.’

  “It would be illogical to deny that these are times of hardship. It is equally illogical to refuse to listen to all voices. Some of us maintain Surak’s teachings; some opposed them, but found themselves in exile nonetheless; while others, having abandoned the disciplines, argue that this proves they were of no validity in the first place.

  “The dispute would be fascinating were we back at the Vulcan Space Institute or the Vulcan Science Academy.

  “An example: Surak ate no meat and urged his students to wage peace, not war. We have found that this principle is simpler to live up to when one lives on a planet or sees no planet on which one might live, than when ships’ scanners find a Minshara-class world that could well allow us to establish a home, if only it were not already inhabited by intelligent beings.

  “Yes, we could wage peace with those whose neighbors some of us earnestly wish to become. But we had neighbors back on Vulcan, and the battles we fought with them endangered the Mother World’s survival. It is illogical to assume we would behave any better as guests on another species’ world.

  “Thus, we have had to set aside ambitions to land on two worlds thus far. Right now, Shavokh has more immediate concerns: we have had difficulty in adjusting our ramscoops, and we have had to decelerate near a binary system. The worlds circling one star are covered either in molten rock or liquid methane. The second star, however, is orbited by six planets. And one of them is not just Minshara -class, but a world that matches Vulcan in climate almost exactly, although it is richer in metals and has never been despoiled by war. It is, in fact, pristine. Although the evidence appears incontrovertible, after so many years it is difficult to believe that our journey may end here.

  “Two ships have already achieved parking orbits around the planet. They have sent shuttles down to collect plant and mineral samples and perform studies of the planet’s climate and composition. In this circumstance, hope appears highly logical.”

  Karatek lifted the coronet from his head. A message informed him that repairs to Shavokh’s engines were complete. It was time to go to the command center; he wanted to record the exact moment when the two ships exploring the world below them formally notified the rest that they had found a new home.

  Peacefully, he left his quarters, drawing his fingers
along the cold clear tiles of the mosaic that now occupied one entire long bulkhead all the way to the lifts. Red and gold tiles gave way to the indigo and black tesserae representing the Eridani-Trianguli spaces, lit only by the colors of the stars, the planets circling them, with delicate traceries of bloodmetal and gold for the nebulae they had seen. Once they had established a settlement, this mosaic, along with every other example of the art created during the long journey, should be preserved in…

  What would they call it? The New Vulcan Science Academy? Perhaps Karatek would be permitted to name it.

  “T’Kehr Karatek, report, please!” came the ship commander’s voice from the speakers set into the ceiling. Interesting: the man’s voice was almost shaking.

  Three men and two women pushed past Karatek, barely stopping to recognize him with a nod of the head.

  Karatek raised an eyebrow. What had happened to the fleet’s hopes? When he had begun his meditations, morale was high. Now, however…

  In this context, “Now what?” was not a rhetorical question.

  He quickened his pace, entering the command center to find navigators and a gathering of ship’s scientists clustered before the main viewing screens.

  They had moved in closer to the world. How beautiful it was, glowing there in the darkness. He would encourage the artists who created the mosaic to finish it by adding this world and, indeed, the binary system with all of its worlds. And, perhaps, small jewels could be set into the tiles to mark the last orbits that the great ships would make.

  “T’Kehr, what do you make of this?” Commander S’lovan demanded. “I’m getting a transmission from Sunheart ordering us to withdraw. Ordering us! I cannot believe they want the entire planet for themselves.”

  “One ship alone cannot colonize a world,” said Karatek. “Please turn up the volume.”

  “Stay clear!” came the tiny recorded voice from Sunheart. “Reverse course, break off approach! Everyone evacuate this system now!”