Yesterday's Son

by A. C. Crispin

  The gray eyes narrowed, as Zar concentrated on the actions he could not see. "Yes—how much time left?"

  "Eleven hours, five point five minutes." Spock retrieved the pebble, dropped it again, to look at his companion squarely. "Do you have any more questions about … what we've been discussing? It is something you should know—though I never envisioned myself giving what McCoy might term a 'straight from the shoulder.'"

  Zar understood neither the reference, nor the self-deprecation that accompanied it. Something else was bothering him. After a long silence, he ventured, "Only every seven years?"

  Again he sensed amusement, this time betrayed in the Vulcan's voice. "You sound dismayed. Surely you know by now whether you're subject to that time constraint or not … even for those of us who are, it can be accelerated or retarded under certain circumstances. Sometimes circumvented entirely."

  This time it was Zar's turn to voice a dry, "Obviously."

  "Very few non-Vulcans even know that the pon farr exists. It is not a subject for light discussion. Most Vulcans prefer to forget about it … as much as possible."

  "I understand." The wind tumbled through the ruins like the ghost of a long-dead surf. After a few minutes, the younger man peered out at the landing craft. "There are only two of them left, now. Do you want to try it?"

  "We still have time. Wait a few more minutes. The fewer we have to deal with, the better our chances for remaining undetected."

  Zar nodded, and settled back against the rock. "I've read about Sarek, but never any mention of his Human wife. Is she from Earth?"

  "Yes. While he was ambassador to Earth, he married Amanda Grayson, a teacher."

  "A teacher—-that's funny."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Both of our mothers were teachers … I wonder if they're all alike?"

  "Teachers, or mothers?" The Vulcan leaned back against the rock, and looked up at the perpetually star-spattered sky.

  "Both, I guess. In some ways she was a harder taskmaster than you are. We had no one but each other to talk to, but I couldn't make any grammatical mistakes without being corrected."

  "That sounds like my mother, too—someday, I suppose you'll meet her." The thought carried amusement.

  "You're amused. Why?"

  "How can you tell that?"

  "I can pick up your emotions. When we're in close proximity, and there aren't any Humans to drown them out. Humans are like listening to ordinary voices in a room, and sometimes they even shout. You're like a whisper in a large room … but I can hear a whisper, if there's nothing to distract my attention." Zar paused, then continued, "Your emotions are clear-cut, not jumbled, like Human ones. You feel one thing at a time—the way you think."

  "Vulcans are not supposed to feel emotions at all." Spock said, his voice distant.

  "I know. However, I'd be willing to bet that they all do. Don't worry, I can screen it out, if it bothers you. . . . You forgot to tell me what was funny."

  "I was thinking of my mother. I suddenly envisioned her reaction if somebody told her that she had a twenty-six-year-old grandson. Considering Sarpeidon's year as it relates to Terran Standard, you're nearly twenty-eight, actually. Amanda would …" The Vulcan shook his head slightly, evidently picturing the reaction again.

  Zar sensed the amusement, stronger than before. Curiosity gnawed at him, and he finally asked, "What would her reaction be?"

  "Probably the same as mine was, considering that she isn't old enough to have a grandson your age."

  "You thought that when you first found me …about yourself, and my age, I mean?"

  "Yes." Spock noted the younger man's surprise, and said, nettled, "It's true, after all. How old do you think I am?"

  "I don't know. I never thought about it … fairly old, I guess."

  "The situation is a physical impossibility."

  "Oh."

  Silence for several minutes. Then the Vulcan said, abruptly, "There's something I must tell you."

  "What?"

  "The meaning of the word 'krenath.'"

  Zar had forgotten his mention of the word to Kirk. He felt his face grow hot, and was glad it was dark.

  "On Earth, in the past, Humans illogically placed the blame for illegitimacy on the children of the union. Fortunately, the word 'bastard' now has no real literal meaning. Colloquially, it is used to denote a person who is undesirable, for various unspecified reasons." Spock took a deep breath, then continued, "On Vulcan, where family is one of the most important factors in a person's life, it is different. The krenath are regarded as wronged by the mistakes of their elders. They are accorded every possible redress, including full status in both families. It's the parents who are stigmatized."

  The younger man thought for a long moment, felt his anger draining away. He realized something of the effort it had cost the Vulcan to voice that explanation.

  "So you would be admitting to a serious breach of … custom … by acknowledging me?"

  "Yes."

  Zar fought back the question that came to his mind.

  It obviously wasn't the Vulcan's intention to acknowledge him—at least while Spock was still alive. Embarrassed, he scrambled over to peer out, then turned back excitedly. "They've gone. All except one guard. Let's move."

  Chapter XIV

  The bridge of the Enterprise was quiet, the atmosphere one of silent expectation. Kirk slumped in his command chair, sipping yet another cup of coffee—one that he hastily put down as he straightened to face Lieutenant Sulu. The young helmsman repressed a sigh—the waiting was wearing on all of them. "Subspace sweep completed, sir. No sign of any approaching craft."

  "Very good, Mr. Sulu. Next sweep in ten minutes, then shorten the intervals by one minute each time."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Lieutenant Uhura, have you picked up anything from the approaching Federation craft giving a new ETA?"

  "No, sir. I'll inform you immediately if I do." She sounded a bit huffy. The Captain realized he was telling her how to do her job, a vice he normally avoided. Nothing bred sloppiness and inefficiency in subordinates faster. He shook his head, realizing that fatigue was making inroads on his judgment and efficiency.

  He heard the bridge door, then McCoy stood at his elbow. Kirk looked up, realized that the Doctor was upset. "What's up, Bones?"

  "Jim, I've looked all over the ship for Zar, and can't find him. Nobody's seen him. Or Spock. Do you know where they are?"

  "I sent them down to Gateway to rig a force field around the Guardian." The Captain's voice was low, even.

  "You what?" The Doctor spoke in a whisper, but Sulu looked around, hastily turned back to the navigational controls.

  "Mr. Sulu, you have the con. I'll be in the small briefing room with Doctor McCoy. Inform me immediately of any developments."

  "Aye, sir."

  In private, McCoy repeated his question, only several decibels louder. Kirk gave him a hard look, then snapped, "You're dangerously close to insubordination, Doctor. I suggest you sit down and shut up."

  McCoy sat, and said quietly, "Sory. It won't happen again."

  The Captain sat down opposite him and smiled wearily. "No hard feelings, Bones. It's a rough time for all of us."

  "Yeah, tell me about it. I just finished those autopsies."

  "I sent Zar and Spock down to the surface, because Spock can rig that force field faster than anyone on this ship—with the possible exception of Scotty, whom I can't spare if there's a fight. And I sent Zar—or, rather, he volunteered to go, because he can use that power of his to warn them of Romulans."

  McCoy gave him a long look. "Jim, you must realize that if the Romulans don't kill them, those two will probably do each other in. The situation there is explosive."

  "I admit your point, but I had no choice. Just as I'll have no choice but to begin the destruction of Gateway in roughly ten and a half hours if they fail—whether or not they're back by then."

  The Doctor stared. "You wouldn't do that, Jim. . . .
"

  "You know I will. But it won't be necessary. They should be back any time. I sent the two best-equipped people I could, and if they can't pull this off, nobody can."

  "But … Zar … he has no training, no military experience. The Romulans are ruthless. If they capture him, it'll be the landing party all over again."

  "He's got more training and experience at sheer survival than any of us. He could beat any of us at rough-country scouting—you said so yourself, if I recall. And if the Romulans are savage, remember, Zar isn't so civilized by a long shot."

  McCoy didn't look reassured. Kirk shook his head. "I did what I had to, Bones. Don't look like that … anybody would think you're his father. Not Spock."

  The Doctor took a deep breath. "You're right, Jim. Sorry I got out of line. What I really came up to the bridge to talk to you about was you." He pointed at the Captain. "Have you looked at yourself lately? You look like Matt Decker, and you're starting to act like him. You need sleep. Now, are you going to crawl in the sack and let me give you a hypo to knock you out for four or five hours—six would be better—or am I going to have to declare you unfit for duty?"

  Kirk sighed. "Blackmail again, Doctor?"

  "Sorry, Jim. I'm doing what I have to. Besides, there's nothing you can do at the moment, is there?"

  "You win, Bones." He keyed the intercom. "Mr. Sulu?"

  "Yes, Captain?"

  "I'm going to my quarters. Notify me immediately of any changes in patrol status, or if Mr. Spock reports in. He's on Gateway's surface. He should be requesting beam-up any time. Kirk out."

  He stood up, waving the Doctor aside. "I'm going, Bones. And I don't need a hypo. I want to see that I'm called in five hours, if Sulu hasn't paged me before. Five hours … any more than that, and I'll court-martial you, understand?" He stifled a yawn, then rubbed his bloodshot hazel eyes fiercely.

  "Yes, sir!" McCoy snapped to attention in his best pseudo-military manner. He did it poorly.

  The Captain shook his head as he left. "It's a good thing you didn't have to go through the Academy. . . ." The door to the briefing room closed behind him.

  McCoy slumped back into his seat, leaning his head in his hands. Against his will, he thought of angry eyes, both black and gray, and powerful hands. . . .

  He began to curse, very quietly.

  Chapter XV

  Spock and Zar worked their way over until they were about fifteen meters from the Romulan guard. He was standing with his back to them, beside the ship, wearing the uniform and ramrod stance of a Centurion. Every five minutes exactly, he'd pace the length of the craft, scanning the surroundings alertly.

  The Vulcan's whisper was so low the younger man had to strain to hear him. "Go behind the ship and create a diversion—not too loud. I'll take care of the guard."

  Zar snorted rudely, hissed, "That's highly illogical, and you know it. I'm the one who can get over there and take care of him quietly. No noise, no other Romulans. Wait here."

  Spock made a grab for his ankles, but he was gone, melting into the shadows as though he'd never existed. The Vulcan strained his eyes and finally caught sight of him on the other side of the ship, hidden by the inky shadow of a boulder. Crouching low, he slid around the hull, and Spock saw something gleam in his hand.

  The Centurion was halfway down the length of his beat when Zar leaped. The movement was so fast that it was all over before it registered in the First Officer's mind. Against his will, his brain slowed it down and replayed it.

  The catlike leap—then grabbing the guard's chin, dragging his head back—the slash of knife across throat in one quick motion—and Zar stepped back quickly to avoid the blood.

  It took Spock perhaps a half-minute to stand up and cover those fifteen meters. When he reached Zar the young man was sitting on his heels, wiping the blood off his knife onto one still-twitching shoulder. He looked up, eyes silver in the dim light.

  Spock felt his insides heave. "What are you going to do now? Gut him and hang him?"

  The feral light died slowly in the gray eyes. "What?"

  "You took a life … there was no reason for it … no excuse."

  Zar barely glanced at the blood-soaked figure, then shrugged. "He was an enemy. What does his life matter?"

  Spock clenched his fists, then forced them open again. His words were measured, deliberate. "You have no right to consider yourself Vulcan, if you can do this."

  The younger man hadn't missed the gesture, and his face hardened as he stood to face the other. His voice was cold. "I acted logically. Why let him live, and take a chance on his raising the alarm? Besides, he and his kind killed my friends … and not as mercifully. I killed quickly, They died for a long time."

  Spock shook his head. "Their violence doesn't excuse yours. There was no reason to kill. . . . On Vulcan, life is precious … it can never be returned or replaced. If I had any idea that you intended … this … I would have stopped you." He began to turn away, hesitated. "Warn me immediately if anyone approaches." His glance at the Centurion held revulsion. "You'd better hide the body."

  Zar ground his teeth together so hard his jaw muscles hurt, as he watched him walk away. Then, swallowing convulsively, he bent over, sheathed the knife and picked up the guard.

  The Science Officer had been working for nearly an hour, when Zar, formerly a motionless shadow among shadows, suddenly moved toward him. Dropping down at the Vulcan's side, he whispered, "How much longer?"

  "Approximately four minutes to finish these settings, then I can turn the power on."

  The younger man shook his head. "Too much time. We've got to hide and get out of here. Somebody's coming. Now." The gray eyes narrowed as his expression turned inward, listening. "More than one."

  Spock hesitated, then resumed working. "I'll set it, then hide. You get out of sight."

  "I'm not leaving you. I may not be Vulcan … but I'm no coward." Again that far-away look. "We haven't got a chance. There are six of them. They'll be here any minute!"

  The First Officer gritted his teeth, hesitated another long second, then stood up and kicked rocks over the unit. "We'll wait until they pass, then come back. Head for those ruins over there."

  They ran. When they reached the ruins, a ghostly tumbled pile of blocks that might have been a collapsed building, or a highway, or almost anything else, they climbed quickly to the top. There was a large boulder overhanging the others, with a small hollow beneath. They just fit.

  The two men could see the Romulans through a narrow slit in the bottom of the boulder that gave them limited vision. The six soldiers milled in confusion, obviously searching for the vanished guard. Then they moved away, and the two in hiding were dependent on Zar's ability to tap into the searchers' emotions. They crouched, not talking, except when the young man breathed a comment.

  "They're puzzled."

  Two minutes went by.

  "Suspicion … they've called for help. . . ."

  Another ten minutes.

  "More of them. All looking."

  An hour and a half.

  "Surprise. Shock, Anger. One found him."

  Now they could see the enemy crossing and re-crossing their vision slit in pairs. Once they crouched, hands and faces hidden, grateful for their dark clothing when a Romulan crawled up and glanced casually down into their hiding place. The overhang was dark; he didn't see them.

  Six and a half hours. They didn't speak, only watched with increasing tension as the searchers combed the ruins with the ruthless patience of experienced hunters. Zar was familiar enough with that kind of patience to know that the Romulans would keep looking until they were sure the intruders were gone. In these ruins, that could take a very long time indeed.

  Gradually, as time crept by for the two men cramped into the tiny hiding place, the number of Romulans searching dwindled. Finally, when fifteen minutes had passed without sight of one, and Zar reported that he could sense none in the immediate area, they crawled out of the rocks, straightening knotted
muscles in relief. "How much time left?" Zar asked, dreading the answer.

  "Thirty-four point two minutes until the Captain begins the destruction pattern. Depending on where he implements it first, we may have some additional time, until the planet begins breaking up. I would not count on it, however."

  "We can't hury, though. I can pick them up all over the place. . . . Stay low, and follow me. I'll keep to cover when I can."

  They headed to the left, a slow scouting sneak toward the perimeter of the cloaking device screen. By mutual unspoken agreement, they knew that any further attempt to return to the Guardian would be suicidal.

  Crouch and run a few meters, dodge behind a fallen column or boulder, scan the area ahead, crouch, drop to hands and knees or belly to worm across an open space—and then do it over again. . . .

  Both men were tough, strong, but soon the pace told. Spock concentrated on ignoring the stabbing pains in his hands. His fingers and palms were scraped raw, and the cold was making them ache more. He couldn't afford the time or effort necessary to set up mental blocks against the pain, so he endured it.

  Zar was a little better off. His hands were hardened by years of exposure, and the cold didn't affect him. Hunger was another thing—the pangs in his middle were hard to ignore. Hunger in the past had always been a thing to fear, and his habitual reaction made it hard to concentrate his perceptions on sensing the enemy.

  They had covered nearly half a kilometer of broken, rock-studded ground before they reached the perimeter of the screen and knew it had all been for nothing.

  Whoever was commanding the Romulan task force was taking no more chances on unauthorized intrusion. Guards were paired and stationed in open areas just out of visual range of each other … well within earshot, Spock thought, taking out his phaser, only to look at it and put it away again. Too much noise, even on stun. And the open areas make a sneak ambush impossible. . . .

  The Vulcan turned to his companion. "Do you think you could run fast enough to make it past them if I fired from cover?"