by Peter David
Knowing it was a violation of her orders, she turned and left the brig. She could not stand to be in the same room as him—not and still restrain herself from killing him.
All these years, thinking my own discipline was lacking, when in fact it was him . Romulan passion—an inheritance from my father, along with my mysterious black eyes.
Questions flooded her mind. Why did my parents not tell me of this? Why did Mother go through with the pregnancy?
Most critical of all: What do I do now?
Starfleet regulations required that its personnel report their full heritage, particularly if a member of a hostile species was in that heritage. Though the Romulans had kept their borders closed for over fifty years, they definitely fell into the category of “hostile” where the Federation was concerned.
But revealing her parentage now—assuming it was true; a call home would verify it, since she doubted her parents would deny it if she confronted them directly—would have dire consequences.
Indeed, it had consequences already. As time went on, Soleta had found her control deteriorating. She had assumed it to be the by-product of living among so many emotional beings, but what if it wasn’t that? What if it is simply my father’s birthright asserting itself?
And even if it isn’t, what happens when the wrong person gets on my bad side? What happens the next time someone asks me about Vulcans as Pak did—or challenges my logic in as aggressive a manner as Wheeler—and I cannot control my emotions?
Suddenly, Soleta felt very alone. For the first time in her career—in her life—she did not know what to do.
Tania Tobias watched as Worf took the point. They were heading up an incline that, according to the outpost’s maps, would lead to a cliff. The dirt-and-grass path they now took was lined on either side by trees, and looked like it had been used as a walkway once but allowed to grow over with disuse. It would’ve reminded Tobias of some forests she’d been to back on Earth, but for the leaves and grass being bright yellow and the tree bark being a russety red.
Worf stopped walking as they came to the end of the road. They stood before a sheer forty-meter drop into the heavily acidic ocean. Tobias could hear waves breaking on the rocks below, and she shuddered. Even being caught in the spray of those waves would burn the skin off a human.
She walked up beside Worf, brushing her blond hair out of her face as the wind changed so that it was blowing from behind her. She wished she’d had the forethought to secure her hair before they left, but it wasn’t windy back at the main base.
“Something is wrong,” Worf said while peering at his tricorder.
“What is it?” she asked.
“The wind has shifted. I can smell several avians in the trees about six meters to our right—but they are not registering on the tricorder at all.”
Tobias knew that Klingons had superior olfactory senses—Worf said it aided in hunting, though Tobias never understood why any post-industrial society would engage in such an activity—but it had never occurred to her to put it to practical use like this before. “So if the tricorder’s not picking them up, it means there’s something nearby that’s masking life-form readings.”
“Yes. We should—”
Worf’s words were cut off by the Romulan who leapt out from behind one of the red-barked, yellow-leafed trees and tackled him. “A Klingon and a human with brains. What’re the odds?” the Romulan said after punching Worf in the face following the tackle.
Tobias unholstered her phaser, but the Romulan was unbelievably fast, and knocked it out of her hands before she could fire. It clattered off one of the trees and ricocheted beyond her reach. The Romulan then grabbed her in a choke hold, which she proceeded to break easily with a move she’d learned in her first year at the Academy.
She faced off against the Romulan, who grinned. “Not bad for a slow human.”
He lunged at her, and she dodged out of the way, ever mindful of the nearby cliff. Have to maneuver him away from it.
A phaser blast on stun then struck the Romulan in the side. The Romulan stumbled—
—but did not fall down. Tobias stared wide-eyed at the Romulan for half a second—
—which was all he needed to grab her and put a disruptor muzzle to her neck.
They were now standing right at the cliff’s edge. Worf was still lying on the ground, yellow grass stains on his black-and-red uniform, holding his phaser at them.
“That’s enough, Klingon. Make one more move, and the human dies.”
“If anything happens to her, you will die, Romulan.” Worf spoke with as much venom as Tobias had ever heard from him.
“And if I let her go, you’ll still try to kill me.”
“Definitely,” Worf said. “You are a Romulan petaQ, and I will not rest until you are exterminated.”
“Now now, what did I ever do to you, Klingon?”
“Your people are the detritus of the galaxy.” Worf got to his feet, his tone growing even harsher, his phaser never wavering. “You were responsible for the massacre of my family.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” the Romulan said pensively. “I’ve killed many Klingons in my time. It’s not difficult—you lot tend to lead with your chins. In any case, you can’t hurt me. And if you don’t lower the phaser, I’ll shoot this human.”
“Go ahead.”
Tobias felt the blood drain from her face. What is he doing? Worf had to be bluffing, she thought, even as she could hear his deep voice proclaiming that Klingons never bluffed. But this man had already proven that he had no compunctions about killing them with the attack on the base, and now that he’d leapt from the trees…
Then Tobias realized why Worf said what he said, and elbowed the Romulan in the stomach.
As expected, he doubled over, his finger spasming on his disruptor’s firing button, and nothing happening. Because if his disruptor had power, he’d have shot us from under cover instead of a frontal assault. Good deduction, Worf.
Tobias ran to Worf’s side. He still held his phaser on the Romulan, who was still at the cliff’s edge, clutching his stomach. “Fine, you saw through my ruse,” he said in a strained voice, tossing his powerless disruptor off to the side. “But the same field that masks my life signs also is proof against your weapon. So what’s it to be, Klingon?”
“Your death.” Worf then shot the ground at the Romulan’s feet.
The brown dirt and yellow grass burned away from the amber beam of the phaser, causing the Romulan to stumble backward. He pinwheeled his arms in an attempt to regain a balance that had suddenly been taken from him.
Tobias ran to grab him, to try to save him, wondering what the hell Worf was thinking, even as the Romulan fell over the cliff. But she was too late.
The Romulan didn’t scream until after he hit the water.
Turning and facing her friend with a fury she had never felt before, she asked, “Worf—what the hell did you just do?”
“Cleaned up the galaxy by eliminating one more Romulan.”
With that, he turned and headed back down the pathway.
As it turned out, the Aldrin had heard T-22’s initial distress signal, and returned to Kalandra Minor at maximum warp, arriving exactly twenty-three hours and four minutes from the time Soleta had given her prediction. The ensign tried to take solace in the fact that her Vulcan training had gone that far, at least.
Shimura and Balbuena were both brought to sickbay in time to be healed, the former just barely, the latter with a somewhat longer recovery period. Upon awakening, Shimura recommended that all surviving members of the away team receive commendations and the dead ones receive posthumous honors.
Rajari—who was somewhat devastated at the news of V’Ret’s untimely death in the acid oceans of Kalandra Minor—was transferred to the Aldrin brig. After the memorial service for her six deceased crewmates, Soleta went to visit Rajari, but found herself unable to say anything. The Romulan just laughed at her, and then she left.
Then she
contacted her parents on Vulcan on a secure channel. The conversation was very calm and rational and logical, and Soleta managed not to scream as T’Pas and Volak confirmed that Soleta was indeed the result of the rape committed by Rajari. Not screaming took more willpower than Soleta knew she had, particularly when Mother asked if they would want her to testify to the rape. Soleta managed to calmly assure her that it wouldn’t be necessary to reveal this information, as Rajari’s firing on a Federation outpost and killing Starfleet personnel—not to mention assorted outstanding warrants dating back some sixty years—would be more than sufficient to keep him locked up for the rest of his natural life.
Soleta did not ask why they went ahead with having her after the rape. She thought that if she did, it would shred the tattered remains of her self-control.
Right after she signed off with her parents, she composed her request for a leave of absence from Starfleet.
The door chime rang in the middle of that. “Come,” she said automatically, not really wanting to see anyone, but unable to contrive an excuse to keep anyone out.
It was Tania. “Soleta, can I talk to you for a second?”
“About what?”
“Worf.”
Soleta raised an eyebrow. “I have told you in the past, Tania, if you wish to let him know your true feelings—”
“No, it’s not that,” Tobias said with a wave of her hand.
She then told Soleta about what happened on Kalandra Minor, and what Worf did to V’Ret.
“Worf was true to his nature,” Soleta said. “Klingons are firm believers in vengeance, and he sees Romulans as responsible for the death of his family. It’s a blood debt.”
“That’s sick.”
Tania Tobias was a good person, and someone with whom Soleta had shared many adventures, and with whom she was proud to serve. But enough was enough.
“It’s who he is,” Soleta said angrily. “If you care for him as much as you claim to, then you must accept that. If you don’t, then it’s past time you got over your tiresome infatuation and got on with your life.”
Tobias recoiled as if she’d been struck—not surprising, since Soleta was feeling an overwhelming urge to strike her. “Soleta, what’s gotten into you?”
My father. “Nothing, Tania. Nothing at all. I’m merely trying to convey that what you saw on Kalandra Minor was Worf as he truly is.” And me as I truly am.
“People can change, Soleta,” Tobias said defensively. “We don’t have to be slaves to our ‘nature.’ ” With that, she turned and left Soleta’s quarters.
If only I believed that.
She finished composing the LOA request.
SI CWAN
Turning Point
Josepha Sherman
Years before the fall of the Thallonian Empire, and his role as unofficial ambassador aiding the crew of the Excalibur and Trident in Sector 221G, Si Cwan was a member of the empire’s royal family, living a life of privilege—some might say excessive privilege. “Turning Point” takes place shortly after the birth of Cwan’s younger sister Kalinda.
Josepha Sherman
Josepha Sherman is a fantasy novelist, freelance editor, and folklorist, whose latest titles include Son of Darkness (Roc Books), the folklore title Merlin’s Kin (August House), and, together with Susan Shwartz, two Star Trek novels, Vulcan’s Forge and Vulcan’s Heart. She has also written for the educational market on everything from Bill Gates to the workings of the human ear. Forthcoming titles include Mythology for Storytellers (M.E. Sharpe) and the Star Trek: Vulcan’s Soul trilogy (also with Shwartz). Visit her at www. JosephaSherman.com.
“ ’Wan!” The tiny child, bright in her red and gold baby dress, pulled away from her nursemaid and tottered her unsteady way over to where young Prince Si Cwan knelt in the palace nursery. “ ’Wan!”
My sister, he thought with a surge of warmth he felt for no one else, so small, so innocent, so happy. My lovely little sister.
He held out his hands to her, and Kalinda almost made it all the way to him without falling. Landing on her bottom, she sat and looked up at him with a wide, two-toothed grin.
“Come here, little one,” he said, and scooped her up, smiling to hear her giggle. “Ooof! You’re putting on weight.”
He might be sixteen, nearly his royal father’s height (though nowhere near his bulk and not yet bearing royal tattoos), but damned if he was going to give up the chance to play with Kalinda. His sister, his only sibling, the one innocent bit of life at court, and the only one in the court who didn’t want anything from him but his love.
“And you’ve got that, Kalinda. I’m never going to let anything hurt you, you know that, don’t you? No one’s ever going to hurt you. Now, think you can say ‘brother’?”
“B’o’er.”
“Good start!”
The nursemaid, a good, solid commoner named…Si Cwan realized he didn’t know her name. Anyhow, she was sitting back on her heels, smiling with pleasure at the prince’s affection for her small charge. Then suddenly alarm flared in the woman’s eyes and she went flat in adoration.
“Now, isn’t this a delightful picture?” a cold voice said.
Father.
“My son and heir makes quite a charming nursemaid. Perhaps he has found his true calling.”
With a silent sigh, Si Cwan handed Kalinda back to the nursemaid. The little girl gave a wail of disapproval, and Si Cwan told her, “Hush, now. Behave. You are a princess, after all.”
“ ’Wan!”
Resolutely ignoring that plaintive cry, Si Cwan got to his feet, giving his father the reverence of prince-to-emperor. The emperor was in full hunting gear, soft gorrick-leather boots, trousers, tunic. Si Cwan realized with a pang that there had been a royal hunt—and his father hadn’t even bothered to tell him.
“Father, I—”
“What? The hunt? You were not missed. Now, leave this nonsense and practice your fighting skills. Prove to me that you truly are my son and not some trick played on me by your mother.”
Only by fiercely clenching his fists till they ached did Si Cwan keep from a suicidal attack. “My mother was your honored wife, Father. She did not betray you.”
“Ah, at least the boy shows some spark of fire. Now, leave me.”
Gladly.
It was a beautiful day, the kind sung about by the poets, with blue sky, soft breezes, wari-birds zooming by like streaks of red flame, and the royal gold flowers in full, sweet bloom—Si Cwan had to laugh as he looked around the white-walled roof garden of his father’s estate. Difficult to stay angry or dejected just now. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect day for fighting!
Maybe Zoran didn’t think so, having just been knocked back on his rump. Zoran Si Verdin right now was clearly refusing to move.
“Come on, Zoran, get up.”
His friend, panting, lying back on his elbows, quirked an eyebrow at him. For the barest instant, Zoran’s eyes were not those of a friend.
No, Si Cwan told himself. Don’t spoil this part of the day, too. He must have imagined that coldness. “Come on,” he insisted. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”
He held out a hand. Zoran took it with a grunt. “You think you could hit that hard?”
“Hah. Think? I know!”
“Yeah, sure. Like this!”
As soon as he was back on his feet, Zoran lunged right into an attack. The two youngsters grappled, lips curled back in fierce grins. Si Cwan felt Zoran trying to lock his leg with a foot to pull him down, and twisted, trying in turn to get Zoran off balance. He had him—whoops! No, he didn’t!
Zoran broke off so suddenly that Si Cwan was the one off balance. He staggered, trying to recover, hopping on one foot.
“Graceful,” Zoran drawled, stepping back out of the way.
“It’s deliberate.”
“Su-u-u-re it is.”
“Don’t get it?” Si Cwan paused on one foot. “It’s my imitation of the digbi-bird, you know…” He took two hopping steps for
ward, flapping his arms, mimicking that long-legged marsh bird, and Zoran snickered. “And then,” Si Cwan finished sweetly, “when it finishes its stalk, it strikes, like this!”
His stiffened arm stabbed out, hitting Zoran square on the chest. Si Cwan knew very well what such a blow could do, and deliberately pulled its force, hardly wanting to kill his friend. Even so, Zoran stumbled back with an indignant “Ow! Dammit, Si Cwan—”
“I didn’t really hurt you…did I?”
He took a wary step forward—and Zoran pounced. Laughing, they began their wrestling anew.
“Is this how you waste your time?” a voice asked, cold and cruel as the edge of a blade.
Father again. So much for the lovely day.
Zoran was already sinking to one knee in wise reverence, head down. Si Cwan, of course, remained on his feet, as befitted the emperor’s son, but once again lowered his head in proper prince-to-emperor respect.
Ah yes, Father. Like a war icon as always.
Just now, the man looked like a tall, muscular statue of red stone, no longer in hunting gear but draped in the glittering regal robes of green and gold. Si Cwan began, “We were—”
“I know what you were doing. Playing!”
“But—we were—”
“Be still! I gave you an order to practice your fighting skills. This play-sparring teaches nothing!”
Si Cwan saw the chill contempt in his father’s dark eyes—twin flat stones—and bit back the rest of what he’d been going to say. There was no reasoning with the emperor when the man was in this mood. When he was convinced yet again, despite everything that Si Cwan had done and still did to disprove it, that his son and heir was—weak.
Curse it, Father, I am not weak! I don’t know what else to do to prove myself to you! I’m not about to turn regicide, no matter what you might think, or—no matter how much I love my sweet little baby sister—turn into a—a nursemaid for her!
