Vulcan’s Soul Book II - Exiles Read online

  She waited, apparently calm, not stirring so much as a strand of her dark hair, although Spock could almost feel the force of his wife’s tension. The younger crew members were, indeed, the most risky aspect of this mission, being the least predictable. Indeed, some of the newer members of the crew here on the bridge were glancing uneasily at each other. The minutes ticked by…

  But no one spoke up, either on the bridge or over the open channel.

  Saavik let out her breath ever so slightly. “Thank you,” was all she said.

  This time, unlike their last clandestine mission, there would be no coalition of vessels; there must not be a large fleet to alarm the Watraii and endanger Chekov any further. Only Uhura would know the whole story.

  It was, Spock thought with a carefully buried touch of wry humor, yet another case of “If things go wrong, Starfleet and the Federation never heard of this mission.”

  And these members of Starfleet are, as Saavik warned, risking court-martial. Again.

  Yes, and Ruanek risks worse, should we need to land on Romulus and he is recognized. The sentence of death still hangs over him. We were fortunate to get him away from the Romulan Star Empire that time during the war, after he avenged the emperor’s murder.

  But worry, of course, was illogical.

  Ruanek strode grimly down a ship corridor, just barely keeping himself to a walk. He had excused himself from the bridge rather than risk displaying an unpleasant and very non-Vulcan example of emotion.

  T’Selis had sent him a message. It had been terse and not at all reassuring, saying only, “Do what you must.”

  Now, what had that meant? Oh, Ruanek had hardly expected any passionate outburst from his Vulcan wife, not even a declaration of love. You just didn’t send such private emotions if you were a Vulcan, no matter what you might say in private. But even so—

  “Do what you must”?

  That sounded almost, well, indifferent. Or—illogical idea or not—angry.

  Ruanek knew very well by now that just because Vulcans controlled their anger, it didn’t mean that they weren’t capable of it. They felt anger and all the other emotions, all of them nicely packaged there beneath the calm exterior.

  Trust me, Ruanek thought. T’Selis, just…just trust me.

  Not at all satisfying. But he—

  He sprang back. He and another being had almost collided. Ruanek was no longer a Romulan warrior hair-triggered to attack instantly, but he still had to fight the urge to snarl a challenge.

  Instead, he heard himself exclaim with almost childish wonder, “You are the android!”

  “Indeed I am, sir. Lieutenant Commander Data at your service.” The android tipped his head slightly to one side, studying Ruanek. “And you, I understand, are Ruanek of Vulcan.”

  “Yes.” Ruanek paused, trying not to stare. “Ah…forgive me for greeting you in such a childish way.”

  “Oh, I am not insulted.”

  “Good,” Ruanek said. “Tell me, Mr. Data. That emotion chip you mentioned before, does it allow you to feel the concept of honor?”

  “Yes.” Data’s light voice darkened slightly. “I assure you, sir, I would not lightly risk my career.”

  “And I wouldn’t lightly risk my marriage, either.” Ruanek paused, bemusedly studying that strange pale golden skin and those eyes that seemed so very alive. If not quite human. His curiosity roused, despite his best efforts to quell it. “I admit it,” Ruanek said after an awkward second, “I am not familiar with android beings.”

  “And you would like to ask me some questions.”

  “Would I be intruding if I did?”

  “Not at all. Indeed, I would like to ask you some questions as well.” The android actually…smiled, and it was a very convincing smile. “I find it quite fascinating that you were raised on Romulus yet now live on Vulcan.”

  “So does everyone else,” Ruanek muttered, then shrugged. “I have no pressing mission yet.”

  “Neither do I. Shall we sit together and talk?”

  It might take his mind off T’Selis and that too-curt message. “That seems…most logical,” Ruanek said. “I believe we can find a peaceful corner of the mess hall.”

  “Assuming, of course, that we can actually find the mess hall.”

  Ruanek stopped short. “That was a joke. That was actually a joke. You have a sense of humor.”

  “That,” Data said, almost wistfully, “has been a matter of discussion for some time.”

  A wide-eyed young human who’d introduced himself as Ensign Del showed them to the mess hall and almost worshipfully withdrew.

  “I am not exactly used to being an idol,” Ruanek said, watching the young man leave.

  “Nor am I,” Data added.

  The Alliance’s mess hall was a cheerful place with good lighting and yellow and orange overtones, clearly designed to keep the mixed crew at their ease when off duty. Ruanek and Data found a corner table and settled down to talk.

  “…and so,” Data summarized after a time, “you could, were you to be fanciful about it, say that my ‘father’ was Dr. Noonien Soong.”

  Ruanek stared at the android in wonder. “And you were, uh, designed by him to be an independent entity, to constantly evolve and learn.”

  “Precisely. I admit that I do still find humanity both puzzling and fascinating.”

  Ruanek snorted. “You sound like Spock.”

  “Perhaps. But it is true enough. That is why I attended Starfleet Academy—I wished to learn more and to go further.”

  Ruanek shook his head. “And I—I wanted to learn, but until I came to Vulcan, I wasn’t permitted to do so.”

  Data blinked. “The Romulan Empire does not educate its warriors?”

  “Only in how to best defend their patrons.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Ruanek forced a smile, not wanting to dwell on this subject. “But at least I never had to prove I was a sentient being.”

  “That was not a pleasant time,” Data agreed. “But I did win the case, with the help of Captain Picard.”

  Ruanek nodded. “Of course.”

  Data’s head tilted. “Do you know Captain Picard?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Ruanek sat back as a flash of memory overtook him: the escape from Romulus with Spock, who was lost in the blood fever, the rescue by the U.S.S. Stargazer, captained by a younger, not yet bald Picard…A good deal of those memories were lost or confused since Ruanek had been injured and on the verge of utter exhaustion at the time. But he and Picard had actually worked together.

  “Ruanek?”

  “Never mind. Captain Picard might or might not remember me, but I certainly do remember him.” Ruanek leaned forward. “Now, would you please tell me what it’s like serving aboard the Enterprise? Spock has told me about the old one, James T. Kirk’s ship, of course, and that sounded like an amazing vessel. But I know this is a different series, a much more advanced ship.”

  “So it is.” Data hesitated. “I scarcely know where to begin…”

  Scotty, of course, had almost immediately gone off on a tour of the Alliance’s engineering section, practically rubbing his hands together in glee and anticipation. By the time he returned to the bridge, the Alliance was well under way toward the Watraii homeworld.

  “Scotty?” Spock asked.

  Scotty shook his head. “My, what a frustrating situation that was.”

  Saavik glanced up over her shoulder at him from her chair. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why, everything was in perfect running order! Not a blessed thing needed my tinkering.”

  There were barely stifled chuckles from the bridge personnel, except, of course, for the Vulcans, who still managed to give the impression of being pleased. “Coming from you, Scotty,” Saavik returned, “that is high praise.”

  “Och, ’tis only the truth!”

  Lieutenant Abrams, a stern-faced, solidly built human woman who was the Alliance’s chief tact
ical officer, suddenly announced, “Two ships, Captain Saavik, bearings 836.5 by 2362. Closing fast.”

  Saavik leaned forward in her chair. “Identify them,” she ordered. “And get the image on-screen.”

  “They’re Klingons, Captain.”

  “Interesting. Apparently Chancellor Martok has decided that he can spare us two ships after all.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case, Captain,” Abrams said grimly. “They have weapons at the ready.”

  Nine

  Memory

  Never mind justifications by Surak’s disciples that “the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few” or Commander S’lovan’s belief that intervening was for “the good of the fleet,” for the first time since they left Vulcan, the exiles were united and going to war.

  Perhaps not wholly united: they had seen how some of the technocrats not only could try to circumvent the council, but could adorn the council’s decision to go to war with terms like “get at the effective cause,” “rescue party,” and—Karatek’s favorite, if he wanted to choose among equally distasteful descriptors—“achieve a logical and efficient resolution.”

  Perhaps they should recruit aid from the ships that flew in consort with Shavokh. That had been T’Partha’s suggestion, vigorously backed, in private, by T’Vysse. Much to Karatek’s dismay, not only had Solor opposed that, but Sarissa, on whom he had counted as a voice of cool logic, had shaken her head.

  “On Firestorm, they circumvented main communications. If I contacted the other ships within timely communications—and if I could count on hearing the truth, there is an 89.88 percent chance that I would uncover similar deceptions.”

  “We don’t have that time,” Solor interrupted. He had come to council as a guest to see Karatek take back his position and watched with what Karatek privately considered too much satisfaction.

  At a glance from the ship’s commander, he inclined his head. “I ask forgiveness.”

  “Whether Firestorm abandoned its shuttle willingly or not,” Commander S’lovan said, “we have a duty to try to preserve life.” He inclined his head at Karatek, who nodded approval.

  “Will you arm us?” Solor demanded.

  Avarak raised his head, fires starting to glow in his eyes. Karatek hoped that any alliance between him and his son would be brief. He looked down at the screen built into his place at the conference table. Today’s meeting was an open council; any member of Shavokh’s complement who chose to do so could monitor it and respond. Numbers appeared and began to grow rapidly as viewers indicated their opinion, favoring weapons.

  “No weapons,” said the commander.

  Sarissa rose, quick as a blade drawn from its sheath.

  “You would send our people down there unarmed, unprotected?” she demanded. Apparently, she had extended her mantle of protection, at least, her verbal protection, from her brother to the young men and women whom Karatek could see in the viewers’ gallery above the council table. They had not been content to watch from elsewhere in the ship.

  “What is the use?” asked the commander. “We have all heard Seyhan’s transmissions. If the…the entities who snatched our people from a deserted asteroid and carried them more than eleven light-years away almost instantaneously chose, I think we can—to borrow a word you seem overly fond of—logically assume that they could vaporize this ship with equal speed. Which is why I have given navigation the order to hold off.”

  The numbers rose, signifying assent. A paradox: consensus had approved of the idea of armed conflict only 3.2 minutes ago. How quickly it could change, Karatek mused. He needed T’Partha’s skills now to shift it.

  “No,” said the commander. “I cannot justify issuing you weapons.” He stared at the bulkhead across from him, decorated with the mosaic Shavokh.

  Did Vulcan survive? Karatek wondered briefly. Or had their lost brothers and sisters reduced it to rubble like the asteroid on which Seyhan and his mining expedition found an enemy with even greater destructive force than Vulcan’s emotions?

  Focus, Karatek, he told himself. If he were to help lead again, he must keep to the matter at hand.

  “I say that the ship holds off. But I agree,” said the commander, “that we must intervene. After all, did Surak not say that the spear in the other’s heart is the spear in our own? How much more should we care for the well-being of those from the other ships?”

  “Even if they deceived us?” The representative who spoke was known to Karatek: Telas, once a farmer, from one of the northernmost provinces by Vulcan’s last sea. Before his constituents had chosen exile, they had lived in daily sight of depredations on their land by other Vulcans. Over the years he had learned, gradually, to trust. It seemed that he had to learn that lesson once again. Karatek marked that down as another grievance against the technocrats.

  “Especially so,” Karatek found himself speaking out. “If they lie, our job is to provide them an example of right, logical conduct. Surak spoke of waging peace. Commander S’lovan may no longer be one of us, but he understands.”

  “So, you say…” T’Partha encouraged him to continue. She only did that when whatever subliminal analysis she used indicated to her that the consensus flows had reached a point where they could be identified and channeled into productive use.

  “I agree with the commander,” Karatek said. “The entities that have taken our people as fighting slaves have weapons beyond our power to duplicate. Or, perhaps, envision. They use primitive combat as entertainment. We cannot fight them.”

  “This is the time to see if your people can succeed in waging peace,” said the commander. Although S’task had never trusted that skill, S’lovan might be more flexible, especially if T’Partha could work on him.

  “How many people are on that shuttle?” Telas demanded. It was time and past time that Karatek forgot those outmoded designations, he told himself yet again. But now. Now, he must pay attention. Of course, the man invoked the “needs of the many” axiom.

  “What the needs of the many require,” Sarissa interrupted, “is not cowardice, but obedience to the code of ethics that led some of us to make this journey! What made you choose to come?”

  The numbers rose on Karatek’s monitor so fast that the screen blurred.

  Karatek caught his daughter’s eye. Was it ethics, he wanted to ask her, that made her willing to risk the lives of her brother and his closest associates? Seeing how her eyes flashed, how Solor’s head went up and his back stiffened, Karatek feared it was something more emotional and more seductive: honor. The old-fashioned, deadly honor Solor had learned from N’Keth before he died.

  Leaning over, Karatek whispered to his son. “No weapons, remember. Not even the blade you took from N’Keth.”

  Solor flushed like a boy barely past his kahs-wan.

  “One thing more,” the commander told Solor, who rose from his chair and stood at a posture of military attention that Karatek had not seen on board Shavokh in years. Except, of course, on Commander S’lovan himself.

  “You will go unarmed. You will wage peace against these entities and seek to expand our frame of reference. If these creatures are as technologically advanced as the evidence indicates, it may be that they know of habitable worlds.”

  Such worlds would not be safe, Karatek thought. They would be within range of these entities. They had not brought Vulcans this far out into the long night to serve as fodder for strangers’ deadly games!

  “Because it is vital to add to our knowledge base by any ethical means whatsoever, you will go to the planet bearing communications gear such as Seyhan wore. A record will be made and maintained. Karatek, are you prepared to do that? Are you able?”

  Karatek knew what that meant. He might see his son and his son’s comrades die, then have to relive the experience while under the coronet, remembering for all time. But he had no choice, no honorable choice. So he yielded to the logic of the situation and inclined his head, then focused, once more, on the mosaic behind the commander
’s chair, how the light gleamed on the Shavokh’s pinions, glinted off its beak.

  “I anticipated this conclusion,” the commander admitted. “The shuttle has been prepared. You will leave before we move so far out of range that its fuel capacity will not suffice to intercept us when you return.”

  In other words, Solor and his crew must not only go up against the alien entities and the slaves they controlled, including fellow exiles, but must confront the cold equations of the shuttle’s top speed, its maximum load, including passengers, and its fuel capacity. No matter how successful the mission was in waging peace, it would never succeed in liberating everyone.

  One hand on his son’s shoulder, Karatek walked Solor and his crew—brilliant, irreplaceable members of Shavokh’s discouragingly small younger generation—down the shuttlebay and off to their war. It had been many years since he had seen anything in this bay except gears and cold metal. Now the battered but still gleaming metal bulkheads held all the colors of his never-forgotten home. Although the temperature remained constant—and consistently lower than in the ship’s living quarters and laboratories—it felt paradoxically warm, homelike now that his son was leaving.

  Speaking in low, urgent tones, Karatek urged Solor to remember to control anger, cast out violence, and employ only reason. Superfluous advice: he had had many years to raise the man now at his side. If the job had been poorly done, speaking now would not amend it.

  Sarissa stayed behind, speaking in equally low, urgent tones to the men and women not chosen for the mission, consoling them, attempting to persuade them, if Karatek knew her, and not to lash out at people whom they believed had lied to them.

  Even if they had.

  Those two were developing a cult of personality, Karatek realized. It was only logical that fiery younger people, denied full play for their talents, attempt to do so. It showed initiative. It showed passion and ability. But it was dangerous. Who knew that better than Karatek? At the behest of Karatek’s own superiors, he had traveled Vulcan with Surak. And from the standpoint of a cult of personality, no more dangerous man had ever been born on Vulcan or on whatever homeworld that Vulcan in Exile might find.