by Jean Lorrah
Although he kept control of his facial muscles, Sendet’s eyes showed surprise.
T’Pina could not understand why he would expect her to accept his assertions when they were patently untrue.
At the same time that her mind rejected Sendet’s false assertions, she regretted her sharp reaction. The conversation had begun pleasantly. Why was it deteriorating?
“In the past generation,” Sendet said flatly, “outworlders have gained a strong foothold. What is more serious, their influence on Vulcan grows daily.”
“How can that be detrimental?” T’Pina asked. “Do you not believe in IDIC? The combinations of diversity have produced only good. On Nisus, where everyone is different from everyone else, scientific progress occurs at a rate never seen before in the history of the galaxy.” She searched his face. “Sendet, I fear you and I have a basic disagreement in philosophy which neither is likely to overcome. If you will excuse me, I shall return to my quarters.”
“You will not stand your ground and fight?” Sendet asked.
“… fight?”
“With words,” he explained. “I do not suggest the lirpa.”
The lirpa. Today it was a ceremonial weapon, although every Vulcan male was trained in its use because of the possibility, however rare, that he might one day face a ceremonial challenge.
But the heavy, awkward lirpa was not a woman’s weapon. Between a man and a woman it had no function today, but historically it had been the method used by a male warrior to strike off the head of a woman who betrayed him. During the Reforms, sisters, daughters, even the occasional wife who followed Surak against the will of male clansmen, were sometimes executed thus.
Sendet’s words drew a chill up T’Pina’s back … and yet there was something paradoxically pleasant in that chill. For all her experience of people of widely varying cultures, T’Pina found Sendet like no one she had ever met before.
“Will you abandon the field,” he challenged her now, “or stay and refute my contention?”
“I have no need to refute it,” she replied. “The people assembled on this very ship refute it. The captain and his first officer—Human and Vulcan, and it is said that they command the finest ship in Starfleet. Sarek of Vulcan and his human wife Amanda; Sorel and Corrigan—”
“And Daniel Corrigan’s wife, T’Mir,” Sendet interrupted, his voice so cold T’Pina didshiver—and this time there was no pleasant aspect to the chill. “There you see the hidden vice within the virtue of IDIC,” he continued. “Vulcans intermarrying with outworlders, polluting our blood—”
“I will hear no more of this,” said T’Pina, carefully controlling a growing anger. “I did not think any person trained in logic, as surely a scientist must be, could so easily deny fact. Good night, Sendet.”
T’Pina left the observation deck, fighting down an illogical sense of loss. How could someone so young, healthy, attractive, be so wrong? And, when he was so determinedly wrong, why did she feel such an attraction to him?
It was true she had not managed to terminate the discussion with courtesy and dignity. Perhaps that was why she was dissatisfied with herself.
She must meditate. Therefore she did not go back to the reception, but took the turbolift to the deck where quarters had been assigned to the passengers.
She palmed the plate outside the room she shared with her mother, and the door slid open.
But the room was not empty, as she had expected. In the outer office area, with its desk, terminal, and two chairs, sat T’Kar and the healer Sorel.
T’Pina grasped control. “Good evening, Mother, Healer. Do you desire privacy?” The open-work screen between the work area and the sleep area did nothing to prevent voices from being heard through the entire cabin. “I shall return to the reception.”
“No, T’Pina—stay,” said T’Kar. “Sorel has been telling me about the man you met at the reception.”
“Do not be concerned, Mother. I know what Sendet is.” For a healer to feel compelled to warn them, as surely Sorel had been doing, something was badly amiss—and that suddenly caused T’Pina to put together facts she had known, but not connected before. “He is not part of the medical mission. He is a Follower of T’Vet.”
“He told you?” asked Sorel.
“There was no need. His philosophical beliefs told me. We …have nothing in common. When I discovered that, I left him on the observation deck.”
“You did well, my daughter,” T’Kar told her.
Then why do I feel as if I’ve done wrong? T’Pina wondered, shielding her thought—but not strongly enough. Sorel’s head lifted slightly, and those unreadable black eyes rested on her.
“T’Pina,” said the healer, “I can answer your question. Shall I speak before your mother, or would you hear in private?”
T’Kar’s blue eyes revealed surprise as she looked from Sorel to T’Pina, knowing that Sorel had read something with his healer’s ESP that could be shielded from any other Vulcan.
T’Pina had never hidden anything from her mother. In fact, she had intended to confide her ambivalent reactions to Sendet if her meditations did not resolve them. She had often found that private meditation left her mind ever cycling through a problem, while discussing it with her mother would clarify and resolve it.
“I know I have done nothing shameful, Healer,” she replied. “Speak.”
“No, T’Pina, nothing shameful at all,” said Sorel. “What you are experiencing is perfectly normal. Your physical examination revealed the first signs: you are fully matured.”
His meaning, to Vulcan ears, was clear. She was already legally an adult, a citizen, and her graduation from the Academy had admitted her to the ranks of those who shaped the future. Now her physical growth matched her intellectual achievements: she was ready to marry and bear children.
“It is nothing to fear, my daughter,” said T’Kar.
“I do not fear it,” said T’Pina, only half lying.
Sorel said, “You are unbonded. So is Sendet. The attraction you feel is normal, but you have learned to control your desires with rational thought, as do all intelligent beings. Proceed as you have begun, and you will not err.”
“Sorel,” T’Kar said hesitantly, “do you think I should actively seek a husband for T’Pina?”
“I do not think that will be necessary,” Sorel replied. “I predict that eligible males will quickly present themselves once T’Pina sets foot on Nisus.”
Marriage. Bonding. That would resolve these unsettling feelings. Now that she understood what was happening, T’Pina recognized her reaction to Sendet: it was normal for Vulcans to bond, husband and wife sharing a mental intimacy unknown among nontelepathic species. When she met an unbonded male of appropriate age, there was an instinctive attraction.
Her parents had chosen not to bond her in childhood, although there had been several offers. Now she wondered if T’Kar and Sevel had been wise; the ancient tradition of bonding at age seven meant that when the pair reached their maturity they already had one another to rely on.
With sudden insight, she recognized that of the three Vulcans in that room, she bore the least discomfort.
Both her mother and the healer had lost bond-mates; T’Pina yearned for some unknown that she had never had.
T’Kar had had the presence of Sevel through allthe years until his death. It was certainly worse for her, knowing what was lacking in her life.
And Sorel—his wife had been torn from him unexpectedly, without the chance for farewells or healing rituals. His lack must be an agony compared to the pleasure/pain of T’Pina’s vague yearnings.
Was it possible, she wondered, that Sorel and T’Kar might find what they needed in one another?
“Thank you, Healer,” she said. “Knowing what is happening will enable me to control it. It is still early. I shall return to the reception if—”
“I must leave,” said Sorel. “Dr. McCoy has some new information to share with the medical personnel.”
&
nbsp; “Thank you for your help, Sorel,” said T’Kar.
The healer did not give the standard reply: “One does not thank logic.” It was not logic that had led him to speak to her mother, T’Pina knew. Instead, he said, “I am here to serve. Do not hesitate to call upon me.”
Chapter Twelve
When Korsal started home from the power plant, the clouds had closed in again and it was pouring rain. Since he now wore a waterproof jumpsuit, he didn’t get soaked again, but the cold rain on his bare head made him shiver.
Leaving home hurriedly, he hadn’t been able to find the helmet that should have been hung on the cycle’s handlebars. One of his sons was due a scolding: Kevin if he had misplaced the helmet, and Karl if he had been riding the cycle. Karl had inherited the Klingon early growth pattern. He was big enough and well coordinated enough to handle the cycle, but Nisus law prohibited anyone less than ten standard years old, no matter what his species, from driving a powered vehicle.
Oddly enough, that frequent argument with his younger son was reassuring to Korsal: it proved that the boy was Klingon. In the empire, he would have been operating such equipment for over a year by now.
And, Korsal reminded himself, be well begun in his primary military training. There was no military training on Nisus. Korsal had not protested when Kevin had taken the examinations for early entry into Starfleet Academy, for he did not expect him to be accepted. Would the Federation teach its military strategies to someone with dual citizenship, when one of the nations was the Klingon Empire?
Well, if they did, the boy would certainly get adequate training in combat and weaponry, and an excellent general education along with it. If they did not … Kevin would have to decide within the next three years whether he would go to the Klingon Empire and perform the required minimum military service, or renounce his Klingon citizenship. The boy knew he would have to make the choice; Korsal kept painfully silent on the subject, although he hated the thought that either of his sons might renounce his father’s heritage.
Korsal had trained both his sons in small-arms self-defense himself, and insisted that they enroll in all the martial-arts classes offered in school. Should they choose their Klingon heritage over their Human, he would not have them defanged.
The encounter with Charles Torrence had unnerved Korsal more than he cared to admit. After the first year or so of mutual distrust, the Klingon delegation and the other scientists on Nisus had become accustomed to one another. Nisus had many children of mixed heritage, and when Korsal married Cathy Patemchek they had not hesitated to have children of their own.
Korsal’s sons were competitive—something they had inherited from their mother as much as from himself—but that was the norm on Nisus. All children were “advantaged” here—all had well-educated parents who encouraged them to learn, to participate, and to judge people by accomplishment rather than origin. He could not imagine a better place for his sons to gain the foundation of their education. That, and his Human wife, had been the primary reasons Korsal had not returned to the Klingon Empire when the rest of the delegation did.
But now … would this plague bring an end to the cooperation that characterized life on Nisus? Unbidden, he recalled Therian raving obscenities at him with his dying breath. The same things Charles Torrence had said, focusing on his marriages to women who were not Klingon.
He hadn’t intended to marry twice. He had been content with Cathy—but she was career Starfleet. She had thought her assignment to Nisus permanent; Korsal was certain that she would not have married —certainly not borne two children—if she had known she would be unexpectedly promoted and reassigned to a starship.
Korsal could not go with her, nor could the boys. And … Cathy refused to resign. The opportunity was too great: science officer on a Constitution-class starship, the rank of commander.
They had fought bitterly, made up just before she left. There were promises of meetings on leave, of requests for reassignment to Nisus at the first opportunity. There were message tapes every few days, then every few weeks, and finally … divorce documents, with a message cassette of a tearful Cathy telling Korsal and her children that she had no right to bind them when she could not be with them. She gave up her sons’ custody to Korsal … and none of them had seen or heard from her since, although Korsal had heard she was climbing steadily through Starfleet’s ranks.
Korsal left the muddy mountain trail for the smooth pavement of the town. He now rode on a slick cushion of water, not daring to speed up as he longed to, to get out of the cold rain and away from his morbid thoughts.
But the thoughts would not be denied. When Kevin was born, Korsal had decided to stay on Nisus until his son was old enough to decide between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Karl’s birth had extended the length of his intended stay. Now—was the plague going to force a premature choice upon all of them?
Was there a choice? “Fusions,” children of mixed heritage, were regarded with scorn in the empire. There was only one way to overcome it: military glory. His sons would be forced to fight—often against Humans like their mother—or endure being second-class citizens.
Korsal had traveled in the Federation, experienced the fear and hatred of Klingons that prevailed everywhere but on Nisus. He had thought Nisus a safe haven. Was he wrong?
Was that what Therian had meant when he cried out, “The children!” the day he died? Was his last lucid thought the realization that if this plague released pent-up prejudices, large numbers of Nisus’ children—all those of mixed heritage—would suffer the consequences?
No … surely even oncoming madness would not lead from that thought to the uncharacteristic attack on Korsal.
Then what? Korsal’s scientist’s mind suddenly fastened on an idea: suppose there were a connection between Therian’s discovery and the particular form of his madness. What if he had indeed seen something significant in those statistics scrolling up the screen, certainly something about children, but … perhaps children like Korsal’s children?
All that data was still available—the engineering computer was still linked to the hospital computer system, still taking part of the overload. Korsal could call up the statistics from his home terminal. Now that he had some idea of what he was looking for—
Korsal stored the power cycle and entered the house. His shoes squished, and he was dripping water.
He stopped in the utility room, kicked off his shoes, and looked for towels, eager to get to the computer, suddenly sure the answer was there. Cause? Pattern of spread? Every piece of information was a step toward either finding a cure or stopping the spread of this khesting plague.
But as he began drying himself off, the door to the kitchen opened, and his liver turned over.
He didn’t have to look at her. Her scent, delicate, almost unidentifiable as such, embraced him before she arrived herself, taking the towel from his suddenly unsteady hands and mopping his face, murmuring, “Korsal. Oh, my husband, you are home at last.”
Seela. Orion and female, she was enough to suspend any man’s thoughts, but when she focused her attention on him it sometimes seemed he forgot to breathe. His liver turned over.
Like all females of her race, Seela had emerald skin, black hair, and vivid blue eyes. Her body was lithe and sensuous, her fingers gentle but strong as she unfastened his jumpsuit and pushed it off his shoulders, rubbing her face against his neck. “I am so sorry I was not home when you arrived this afternoon,” she whispered.
“It was fortunate you were not,” he managed, “as I had to go out again immediately.”
It was days since he had touched her. He had no resistance. Coherent thought fled, and his next lucid moment was sometime later, in their bed upstairs, with no memory of how they had gotten there. Memories of their loving, though, were keenly sweet. Smiling, Korsal traced Seela’s face with one finger. She caught it between her teeth, nipped it gently, her eyes offering—
Korsal’s stomach rumbled, and Seela laughed. �
�Come, my husband; I will give you dinner. What happened at the dam?”
Satisfied now merely to be in Seela’s presence, Korsal told her about the ice and the turbine as he ate. He did not tell her about Charlie Torrence, but the memory brought his train of thought back to his inspiration on the road. Finishing his meal—Seela’s excellent cooking even more delicious after the hospital food he had been subjected to for the past few days—he poured a cup of coffee and told her with regret, “I have work to do. It’s early.”
In his office, he had to chase Kevin away from the computer terminal. The boy stared at himin astonishment. “I thought you’d be, uh, occupied for the rest of the evening.”
“You think too much—about the wrong things,” his father told him. “Why don’t you give some thought to what happened to the power-cycle helmet?”
“Oh …I forgot to put it back. It’s in my room,” Kevin admitted. “I wore it yesterday, out at the airfield.”
“What were you doing at the airfield when you were supposed to be observing quarantine?”
“They needed hoverer pilots. People started getting sick out at the geology camp, so they had to be evacuated. They needed every qualified pilot who wasn’t sick, Father.”
Korsal stared at his son. Kevin had been called on in his father’s place. No, he realized, if he had not been stuck in the hospital they’d both have been called—but still, his boy was taking his place in the community as a man. “You did right. I am proud of you, Kevin. And tomorrow you and I have a job to do by hoverer—you pilot, and I’ll navigate.”
Kevin grinned, exposing his teeth in the Human way. He must have seen something in his father’s eyes, though, for he pulled his lips down before the grin faded. Then he said, “I’m sorry I forgot to put the helmet back. I’ll do it now.”
Korsal turned his thoughts to the computer. Yes, he found, the engineering computer was still tied in with the hospital computer; probably it would remain so until the emergency was over. He began searching for the statistics Therian had been working on just before his death, statistics, he guessed, that had to do with the progress of the various strains of the disease in children.
