Star Trek - Sarek

by A. C. Crispin

  Valdyr quickly accessed the English word on her portable comm link, then

  nodded. "Exactly," she said.

  "Well, what about Chancellor Azetbur? She's a woman." Valdyr's eyes

  sparkled. "She is special. Her father made the other members of the High

  Council promise to uphold her as his successor, and they have done so.

  The people support her ... but the warriors' code is difficult to

  change."

  Peter fixed her with an intent stare. "What about you,

  Valdyr? What would you like to do with your life?" She dropped her eyes.

  "I ... have dreams."

  "Of what?"

  "When I was small," she said, "I wanted to be a warrior.

  It is hard for women to do ... but possible. But I was sickly.

  When I realized I had attained my full size, I ... knew I could never

  be strong enough to be a warrior, no matter how I studied."

  "Even so, you learned to fight."

  She nodded. "And I am good with a knife," she said, with a touch of

  pride. "But, I am too small to truly defend myself against another

  Klingon with nothing more than my hands."

  She'd said that offhandedly, so he wouldn't feel insulted.

  "So you can't be a warrior. What's next?"

  She glanced around, as if suddenly concerned that they might be

  overheard. "I hoped to become a diplomat, like my uncle."

  "Are woman allowed to be diplomats?"

  "There is no law against it."

  Peter got up off hi stool, paced the cell a few times. He

  still ached, but he was feeling much better. "That's funny that you

  should say that," he admitted. "I thought about shifting to a career in

  the Federation diplomatic corps myselfi"

  She cocked her head, her long braid swinging. He found himself suddenly

  wondering what that massive mane might look like all undone. "You did?"

  she asked.

  He nodded. "That's why I studied Klingonese and Romulan even before the

  Academy."

  "Then why did you change?"

  "I'm not sure anymore," he said, halting and staring at her, his brow

  furrowed. "I guess Command was what everyone expected me to do."

  "Everyone expects me to marry Karg and spend my time running a

  household," Valdyr said dryly.

  Peter made a face at that, and Valdyr almost smiled. "I think," she

  said, "we should try very hard to do what it is we want to do, not what

  we are expected to do!"

  "I agree!" Peter said, flashing her a smile. Then, remembering who he

  was, and where, and what would soon be happening to him, he sobered

  abruptly. They did not speak of the coming torture, but it sat there

  between them.

  Valdyr chewed on her lower lip, her sharp, slightly crooked teeth

  scoring the soft flesh. "Pityr," she said softly,

  "please believe me. This is not something I wish to do.

  I ... have no more control over this than you have."

  Peter sank back onto his stool, his shoulders slumping.

  "Your uncle is using me to capture and kill my uncle, Valdyr. What kind

  of honor can Kamarag gain out of this?"

  She drew a quavering breath, shaking her head. In the smallest voice she

  admitted, "There is nothing about honor in any of this. There will be

  nothing for our family when it is over but shame."

  Peter came over to the observation panel, reached through the slot as

  far as he could, and just managed to brush the flesh of her arm with the

  tip of his forefinger. She leapt back, her knife instantly in her hand.

  "What--?"

  "I'm alive, Valdyr, just like you," Peter said. "Remember when you first

  gave me water? You saved my life with that

  water. Why did you do that, when you knew what was facing me? When you

  knew what you would soon be doing to me?"

  She tightened her jaw and remained silent, staring at his fingers as

  though they were some bizarre life-form.

  "You gave me water ... and I held your hands. Remember?

  They were so warm, your hands, so much warmer than mine. I was pretty

  shocky, all my blood going to my injuries ... but I'm warm now, Valdyr,

  just like you. I'm alive. Feel. Feel how warm I am. Go on ... "

  Hesitantly, she approached the panel as if mesmerized, then put out her

  hand, brushed his fingertips with hers. His skin tingled where she

  touched him. Her body temperature was slightly higher than his, although

  nowhere near as high

  "m 7"

  as a Vulcan's. ee. Peter said, softly. "Warm. Alive. Just like you. And

  I want to stay alive!"

  She was staring down at his hand, wide-eyed, as though she'd never seen

  it before.

  "Can you really do it, Valdyr?" he whispered, as he closed his fingers

  around her long, elegant ones. "Can you do this thing that has no honor

  in it, just because your uncle wants you to? Can you really do this ...

  to me?"

  She shuddered and closed her eyes. With a surprising surge of strength

  she clasped his hand so powerfully, her nails scored his palm, drawing

  blood. Then she murmured,

  "Yes."

  What an idiot you are, mister.t he thought bitterly.

  Valdyr's face was flushed, her eyes bright with ... regret?

  Was it really?

  Yes, Peter decided. It really is ...

  "I don't want to die," he said, gazing at her through the panel.

  "Valdyr, I especially don't want to die at your hands." He gripped her

  just as tightly as she gripped him. "I don't want my uncle to die

  either. And more than that ... I don't want the peace our people are

  only now working out to crumble ... You know that's what will happen

  when all this comes to light."

  She nodded grimly, raising her eyes to his.

  "And I don't want to see you give up your dreams. Don't lose all the

  honor you've worked so hard to gain. I couldn't

  bear to know that my death would take that from you." He prayed she

  would not think his speech that of a self-serving coward willing to say

  anything to save his life. He was saying nothing but the plain truth.

  "Valdyr," he whispered, "I've come to really care about you. As a person

  of honor ... of dignity ... and of great strength." She looked down,

  staring at their joined hands, saw their cornmingled blood dripping onto

  the slot. With a choked, inarticulate sound, she yanked her hand away,

  then turned abruptly and bolted down the corridor, racing as though a

  demon was on her heels.

  Peter reined in his own emotions as he pulled his abandoned hand back

  inside his cell. He stared at the crescent-shaped wounds on his palm,

  still oozing blood. He must're cut her as well, as puce-colored liquid

  mingled with red in his palm. He made a fist, holding their blood

  inside, and fought back the demons of his own fear.

  As Wing Commander Taryn studied the chessboard before him, one slanting

  eyebrow went up in pleased surprise.

  "You are improving," he remarked, considering his options and finding

  they were limited.

  His opponent was a slender young woman with delicate, almost elfin

  features that were emphasized by her cropped black hair and elegantly

  pointed ears. Her name was Savel, and she was twenty-two Standard years

  old. Her Vulca
n parents had been killed while trying to escape when

  Savel was a baby; she did not remember them at all. The young woman had

  lived in a government-operated creche until Taryn had taken her into his

  household at the age of five.

  The commander regarded her as an adopted daughter, and had raised her

  with the same advantages that he had bestowed upon his two sons.

  "A very interesting gambit," Taryn conceded. "Not one I ever taught you.

  Where did you learn it?" Savel's black eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  "While I was with you at Khitomer, Ambassador Sarek's aide challenged me

  to a game. Soran won, using this very tactic."

  Taryn stiffened in his chair. "You played chess with Ambassador Sarek's

  aide?" Now it was Savel's turn to tense. "Yes," she admitted.

  "You did not forbid that, Vadi. "The word meant "uncle" in Romulan,

  which Savel spoke as fluently as she did Vulcan.

  "What harm could that do?"

  "A great deal," Taryn said, sternly. The commander leaned forward in his

  seat, his dark eyes holding hers. "What if I had been forced to come

  searching for you, and encountered Sarek? I told you, he suspects us. If

  we had met face-to-face ... there is no telling what he might have

  done.

  He has already unmasked one of us, and for that reason I was at great

  pains during Khitomer to stay out of the ambassador's way. You knew

  that, Sayel." The young woman hung her head. "Yes, I knew. But Soran was

  ... very pleasant to me. I found our conversation enjoyable. I do not

  often get the chance to speak with someone near my own age, Vadi." Taryn

  sighed. "I know," he said. "But, Savel ... you took an unnecessary

  risk. We are close to the completion of our plan, within grasp of our

  goal ... " Now it was the woman's turn to whisper, "I know." She gazed

  at him with a touch of remorse plain to read in her dark eyes. As she

  had been raised by Romulans, her control was not as great as a

  native-born Vulcan's. "Forgive me, Vadi."

  "Very well. As long as you will promise not to take such a chance

  again."

  "I promise," Savel said. "Vadi ... it is still your move."

  "So it is." Taryn studied the chessboard, then made one of the two moves

  possible to him. Savel's mouth twitched as she moved a piece of her own,

  so quickly that Taryn knew he had fallen into her trap ... for a trap

  it was. The commander sighed, frowning, but inwardly he felt a wash of

  pleasure at her growing skill as he said, "I see it now ... mate in

  two." With a near-bow of respect, he ceremoniously knocked over his king

  as a sign of defeat. Though losing to Sarek always rankled him, losing

  to Savel, whom he had taught himself, was almost pleasurable.

  Taryn sat back in the overstuffed armchair in his comfortable study,

  with its shelves of data spindles, its ancient has-reliefs and weapons

  hanging on the walls, and the glow from the fire-box chasing the last

  v estige of chill from the air. It was winter on Freelan, and even here,

  in the northern equatorial region, frost and snow were common during

  these long, dark months.

  Taryn thought with longing of times he had lived on Romulus, in a small

  house on an ancient, winding street.

  The wind there was warm, even during the brief rainy season ... a far

  contrast to the bitter gales that raged at night around his dome-shaped

  house on Freelan.

  "Have you heard any news of Kamarag?" Savel asked.

  "Will we need to encounter him again?"

  "I do not know," Taryn said. "The reports I have received tell me that

  he has had Captain Kirk's nephew kidnapped, and that he has demanded

  that Kirk exchange himself for the young man. Kamarag has good reason to

  hate Kirk, and he has sworn a blood oath to avenge his young prot6g6,

  Kruge. So it is possible that he will require no further prodding."

  Savel nodded. "There was a strong core of hate in him before I ever

  touched his mind," she said. "Who is monitoring him now?"

  "No one, at the moment," Taryn replied. "Darns was, for a time, but he

  has now been detailed to Earth. There is a major trade conference there,

  and he and Stavin were needed to attend."

  She nodded. "It is possible we may have to visit Kamarag again. The

  ambassador may balk at actually executing Kirk, knowing that if he does

  that, he will surely be declared a traitor, once his actions are known

  to Azetbur and her councillors."

  "Getting close to him may be too risky, now," Taryn said.

  "Even if the ambassador merely captures Kirk, that will probably be

  enough to touch offhostilities--especially since the raids along the

  Neutral Zone are increasing."

  "Who is working there, Vadi?" Savel asked, cocking her head at him.

  Taryn smiled thinly. "That is the beauty of it ... no one.

  We prodded Keraz, we prodded Chang, we prodded Kruge and Wurrl and

  Makesh and Kardis. Now insubordination and mutiny are creeping through

  the Klingon forces like a spy in the night. Every week there are new

  reports of terrorism ... and we are responsible for only half of them!

  Azetbur is holding on by her elegant fingernails--but soon, her grip on

  her people will be lost. And then ..." He nodded.

  "War," Savel said, with an expression Taryn could not read. It seemed to

  be compounded of equal parts eagerness and revulsion.

  "Vadia-lya," he said, referring to her as his "little niece" for the

  first time in years, "what troubles you?"

  "Nothing," she mumbled, gazing down at the thick woven carpet beneath

  their feet. "It is only that--"

  "Yes?"

  "At Khitomer ..." She bit her lip, her control visibly slipping now.

  "Yes?"

  "When the Federation president spoke, he sounded so ... earnest." She

  looked up, met Taryn's gaze, and flushed visibly, but continued, "When

  he spoke of peace between the worlds, I could almost ... visualize a

  galaxy where peace reigns. And that vision was attractive to me."

  "Ah, but Savel, there will be peace," Taryn reminded her.

  "Soon, the purpose to which I have dedicated my life will be achieved.

  Soon, there will be peace. Of course a little strife must precede it,

  that is unavoidable. The war between the Federation and the Klingons

  will not last long, and the conflict between what remains of the

  Federation and our forces will be even briefer. But soon ... within a

  year or two, we will have a lasting peace ... and survival as well as

  victory for the Romulan Empire. Otherwise, what will happen to us?"

  "The Federation will try to destroy us," she replied without much

  conviction.

  Taryn gazed at her thoughtfully, but finally nodded.

  "Another game?" he asked, waving at the chessboard.

  Savel's grave features brightened, though her control was back in place,

  and she did not smile. "Oh, yes, Vadi," she said, eagerly, and moved to

  set up the pieces.

  Stepping off the turbolift, Sarek walked down the narrow corridor,

  halting outside Kirk's quarters. He signaled the door. "Come," the

  captain's voice responded.

  Kirk was just fastening the belt of his uniform jacket. He halted

  abruptly as he saw who
his early-"morning" visitor was. "Ambassador!" he

  exclaimed, "Good morning."

  The Vulcan did not waste time on pleasantries. "Kirk, we must speak for

  a moment," he said. "I have been giving a great deal of thought to your

  nephew's abduction, and logic indicates that it is connected to our

  problem with the Freelans."

  "I was wondering the same thing myself," Kirk said. "I called it

  instinct instead of logic, but it sounds like we've reached the same

  conclusion. What's your reasoning?"

  "While I was negotiating on Kidta, Commander Keraz told me that

  Ambassador Kamarag called a meeting of Klingon officers, and attempted

  to induce them to turn against Azetbur and her government. If Keraz and

  Wurrl were influenced by Freelan telepaths, why not the ambassador?

  With the history of events between you, Kamarag would prove an excellent

  candidate for mental influence."

  "You think Kamarag kidnapped Peter?"

  "Not personally, no. But that he was behind it ... yes, I do."

  Kirk looked thoughtful. "That's an interesting idea," he said. "I know