Vulcan's Soul Trilogy Book One Read online

  “This is Captain Jack Butterworth of the U.S.S. Verne. Hello, Captain Saavik.” The image that formed on the screen was of a sturdily built man, no longer young, whose carefully dyed blond hair didn’t quite hide his age—not that the clearly normally cheerful fellow would care.

  “Captain Butterworth!” Saavik exclaimed, and then forced herself back into proper Vulcan calm. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “My crew and I could hardly stand by as families were slaughtered. Besides,” he added with a grin, “I wanted to see one more active mission before retirement.”

  “Ah…welcome.”

  As his image vanished from the screen, Ruanek said, not without a touch of sympathy, “Let me guess: He’s the sort who gladly shows holos of his grandchildren to anyone who asks.”

  Saavik raised an eyebrow. “You seem to understand Earth customs very well.”

  He gave her the almost-smile that over his years on Vulcan had come to be his compromise between a Romulan grin and Vulcan stoicism. “Thank the time I spent as Sarek’s diplomatic aide.”

  “Earth survived it,” Spock commented, absolutely without expression, and heard Ruanek snort.

  “Ah, Captain Saavik,” Lieutenant Abrams said. “I have two Klingon ships in range, and closing fast.”

  “Their weapons?” Saavik’s voice was Vulcan-calm.

  A split-second pause, then: “Off-line, Captain.”

  Friends, then, Spock thought. Then he corrected that to, Or at least not enemies.

  “Lieutenant Suhur,” Saavik commanded, “open hailing frequencies.”

  “Hailing frequencies open.”

  “Very good.” Leaning forward slightly in her chair, Saavik said, “I am Captain Saavik of the Alliance.”

  The first Klingon commander was a huge, muscular warrior who proudly declaimed, “I am he who speaks for the Demon Justice, Commander Tor’Ka sutai Triquetra, captain of the Demon Justice, ship of the Demon Fleet of the Klingon Assault Group.”

  “Demon Fleet?” Ruanek murmured in question.

  “Privateers,” Spock told him, just as softly.

  “Pirates,” dismissively.

  “Privateers. Licensed by the Klingon government, no doubt, though of course not officially acknowledged.”

  The commander of the second ship, which had been painted a startling white, was an older Klingon warrior, one with the flaming red hair that sometimes appeared in the noble Houses. He said with simple dignity, “I am JuB-Chal, captain of the Dragon’s Wrath.”

  “No offense is meant by this question,” Saavik said, “but is a white ship not unusual?”

  “It is, yes!” JuB-Chal agreed proudly. “This is a white Kvort-class bird-of-prey. Some of our enemies have thought us a hospital ship—but have learned to their dismay that we are not!”

  JuB-Chal and his crew burst into gales of laughter at that thought. Klingon humor, Spock thought.

  Commander Tor’Ka cut in, “And now we, captains and crews together, will come along with you on this mission for honor, glory—and blood.”

  The viewscreen went dark.

  “Now there is an interesting mix,” Chekov said. “All ve lack are the Romulans.”

  There was a second, not quite stifled snort from Ruanek. At Chekov’s puzzled glance, Spock commented, very carefully, “Even as you, Admiral Chekov, are our one and only expert on the Watraii, so Ruanek is our expert, right now, our one and only expert, on Romulan affairs.”

  “And let me state here and now,” Ruanek commented to no one in particular, “that I am growing very weary of being the one and only expert on Romulan affairs.”

  “It is the price you pay for being born to the profession,” Saavik commented mildly.

  “Hah.”

  Chekov, totally bewildered by now, simply shook his head, muttering, “Vulcans.”

  But Spock knew that behind the banter, Ruanek was, logically enough, uneasy about having old wounds reopened after years of political exile and rebuilding his life.

  He is also, I am sure, keenly aware of the death sentence hanging over his head should he land on Romulan soil. I trust that such a landing will not become necessary. If it does, I will do what I can to shield him.

  But how can he, being who and what he is, resist the chance to help his people?

  “Captain…” Lieutenant Suhur didn’t lose his Vulcan calm in the slightest, but he still managed to put a world of wariness into that word. “Starfleet is contacting you.”

  “I am not surprised. I will take this in my ready room. Gentlemen,” to Spock, Chekov, and Ruanek, “will you please accompany me? Lieutentant Abrams, you have the bridge.”

  Eighteen

  Memory

  The afterglow from the last slide illustrating Torin’s closing statement faded. Now the screen filled with a fleet of reconfigured ships that soared out of Vulcan orbit into the long, long night, accompanied by a fanfare of commercially inspiring music.

  Thank you for that unbiased presentation, Torin, Karatek thought.

  As the ceiling lights glowed once more, a crowd of scientists, lobbyists, and Concerned Individuals made a concerted rush toward the VSI’s director of research and development.

  Better Torin than I, Karatek decided.

  He stepped down from the dais, edging toward the door. As the crowd thinned, he found his way blocked by two more figures. Anyone else would have leaned against the wall. Predictably, these two stood almost at military attention.

  “I estimate,” said Surak, “an 87.23 percent probability that leadership will shift on the High Command to Technology by the end of Tasmeen. More: There is a 64.31 percent probability that Technology’s majority will be slim enough that it will have to ally with the Security Party.”

  Karatek stopped short. Where had Surak and his shadow hidden themselves? Neat and poised though they looked, Surak’s balance was uneven, while Skamandros’s cheekbone bore bruises and even what looked like a scar from a knife fight.

  “Who do you think they will want to fight first?” asked Skamandros. That was it: He looked like he had been in a fight. Or perhaps several pitched battles.

  “After our host Karatek’s disclosures this morning,” the man continued, “the High Command is likely to be able to choose among its enemies. I can think of at least two governments that will blame them for even a temporary alliance with the te-Vikram.”

  “Live long and prosper to you too,” Karatek interrupted what sounded like an ongoing debate. At that moment, he wished that he, like Surak, was the servant only of logic. It wasn’t bad enough that, only this morning, Karatek had fought and fled in fear of his life, and learned that the High Command he had served loyally his entire adult life had allied with a splinter group he had reason to hate. He was battered and exhausted, and now, without a word of greeting, Surak and his shadow emerged from whatever refuge they had found for themselves and promptly started arguing.

  Surak inclined his head with the ceremonious manners Karatek remembered.

  “Since returning from the desert, I have been otherwise engaged,” Surak said.

  “I can see you have,” Karatek replied. “Just look at you! You look as if you, not I, had been the one facing assassins from the High Command.”

  “And the te-Vikram,” Skamandros added. “People who forget the te-Vikram come to regret it.”

  “I find your sarcasm callous in the extreme,” Karatek snapped.

  “And I find your emotionalism illogical,” Skamandros replied.

  Parry and riposte. It was a good thing Karatek was a civilized man, or he would have challenged Skamandros then and there, and never mind the fact that he had called the man guest-friend.

  Control, Karatek told himself. If Skamandros can restrain himself, you can too.

  Surak held up a hand for peace.

  “To answer your question,” he said, “we were waging peace.”

  “Interesting methods you have,” Karatek remarked.

  “Now who is employing sarca
sm?” Surak asked. “You accurately imply that we, like you, encountered assassins. Only in our case, the assassins were sent not by political bodies, but by my nephew.”

  “I thought your family wanted nothing to do with you anymore?” Karatek asked, distracted despite himself into what he knew was improper curiosity.

  T’Vysse had told Karatek that Surak had broken with his family, which was one of the most aristocratic in the Confederation.

  “Until I die or resign my place in the family,” Surak said with a lift of his head, “I am still Head of House. My nephew, who is heir presumptive, hoped to assume his responsibilities somewhat…prematurely. The discussion grew somewhat intense until I convinced him of the error of his reasoning.”

  “Was that how Skamandros got his scar?” Karatek asked. He looked away, as courtesy required when prying past propriety. Within the family, all was silence—but not now.

  Skamandros sketched half a bow, acknowledging Karatek’s courtesy.

  “You know, it is illogical to retain a scar when surgery is available to remove it,” Karatek said.

  “I retain it to remind myself to move more quickly next time,” Skamandros said.

  With anyone else, Karatek would have laughed. With Surak and his shadow, he threw up his hand in the gesture he used with Torin when he was outmatched during arms practice. He kept his hand motion restrained, though, modeling it on Surak’s own physical control.

  “You are still my guest-friends,” he told them. “Will you come home with me?”

  “No, I thank you. I have agreed to stay with Torin for the present. I suspect he will be followed home by half the audience from today’s presentation, and ground remains to be won. Two counselors will be joining him for dinner, and I estimate more than one chance in four that I will be asked to speak with yet others. Besides, now that you have been attacked, I think it would be more prudent to follow through on my plans.”

  Plans. Just how much of this had Surak orchestrated? How much had he planned with Torin? Scientists and politicians. None of them could agree, much less reach the consensus Surak argued for, but they would argue for the sheer enjoyment—or perversity—of it. Karatek wondered if they were aware yet that Surak wasn’t just more logical than they, but more stubborn.

  He bowed. “Then I will not detain you. Live long and prosper,” he wished them.

  Karatek was pleased to learn that Commander Ivek, promoted during the past months’ confusion, had detailed two of his City Guards to escort him home. He was less pleased to see them carrying energy weapons—not just blasters, but rifles—through the main streets of ShiKahr.

  He would look as if he were under guard for some crime, Karatek thought. Instead of being guarded because he had been attacked. The guards left him at the door in the wall surrounding his home, refused the offer of water, while appreciating the courtesy, and suggested that Karatek lock his gates.

  What sort of world has this become?

  Two months back, the High Command had imposed a blackout on ShiKahr. Karatek’s house was dark, its windows covered to keep in the light from firepits or fixtures. It looked as if it would give only scant welcome, but Karatek knew that, once within, he would be welcomed. Rich cooking smells—not meat because of recent austerity measures, but plentiful and highly spiced—would rise from kitchen and courtyard, and the thermal pool in his bathing chamber would be almost as comforting as T’Vysse’s caring, knowledgeable hands.

  With a pang of disappointment, quickly suppressed, Karatek remembered that T’Vysse was now studying each night for a medical certification. But he would be met by his children: the two of his begetting who had survived and the two he had adopted. In her parents’ absence, Sarissa had even begun to cook dinner. Karatek watched her for a moment he knew he would treasure for the rest of her life as she worked, cutting and measuring with an absurd conscientiousness that made his heart ache with tenderness before he controlled himself.

  He had expected to spend the evening tracking news feeds across Vulcan, scanning for the impact of the VSI’s conference that day. Instead, when T’Vysse came in, they ate quietly, then sat together as Vulcan’s dark night enveloped them as if reluctant to allow the outside world entry.

  Finally, Karatek accessed the news feeds. He and T’Vysse watched in silence while Sarissa watched them with more caution and more fear than a girl her age should ever have had to have learned.

  A riot in the northeast. A raiding party, apprehended shortly after it left the Womb of Fire and entered the Forge. One government severed diplomatic relations with ShiKahr’s High Command, whose leaders resigned in a bloc, to be replaced by a coalition of technologists and militants.

  “Surak estimated that the government would fall within a month,” Karatek told his wife.

  “He did leave a margin for error,” she said. She ended transmission during news of the assassination of a tribal king, and rose to go to bed.

  That was when the ground rocked.

  “Incoming!” screamed Kovar.

  Was the child reacting or flashing back to the destruction of his first home? T’Vysse was at his side, raising him in her arms.

  “Where is thy control?” Sarissa chided. Her voice barely shook.

  “No time for that!” Karatek cried. “All of you! Down to the shelter!”

  Not for the first time, he rejoiced—no, that was too emotional a phrase—he was gratified that he had bought a house that had been built only two hundred years ago, when ShiKahr warred with its nearest neighbors and all houses came equipped with underground shelters.

  Last to enter the shelter, Karatek activated its scans. He hoped his neighbors all had refuges of their own, that no one wandered the night in danger and needing a place to hide, so that he would not have to go out, find that person, and share limited resources that might be all that stood between his family and painful death. He hated himself for that feeling and suppressed it ruthlessly.

  Surak was right: Emotions could prove to be traps. Look at what hatred and fear did, once again, to Vulcan.

  With the news feeds playing over the shelter’s antiquated systems, he began what he knew would be a nightly task from now on—expanding the shelter, making it more comfortable. Making his family safe.

  He only wished he could secure his homeworld the same way. Once again, the ground rocked.

  Toward dawn, Kovar cried softly. Again, Sarissa urged him to self-control. “How will thee fare on thy kahs-wan?” she asked.

  If all went well, Karatek thought, many living now on Vulcan would soon face a different ordeal—not in the desert but in the depths of space.

  Nineteen

  Memory

  ONE YEAR LATER

  A veil of reddish sand drifted in the evening wind above the scaffolding that enveloped ShiKahr’s ancient gates and concealed the long, long track that led out into the Forge as the citizens of ShiKahr waited for their sons to come home.

  Centuries ago, it had not been the same foregone conclusion that it was today that the youths who went out into the desert in the kahs-wan ordeal would all return safely. Centuries ago, the boys went out as a class, then straggled back one at a time, or in twos and threes to families who waited behind the security of their walls to see if they had gained adult sons who might further protect them or whether they had need to crop their hair and mourn.

  In recent years, however, kahs-wan classes had sprung up and become extremely successful. Now it was the custom for the parents and family of boys facing the trial to meet at the Gates and wait for Rovalat to return with the boys.

  Rovalat, a grizzled, hardy man, was of T’Kehr Torin’s age cohort and, in fact, his military unit. For decades, most families in ShiKahr had chosen not to teach their sons in the ways of the desert themselves, but instead to entrust them to Rovalat to be instructed in the ways of survival and the lore of the Forge.

  Rovalat had created innovations in customs that were at least a millennium old. It used to be that men would go down to the Ga
tes, wait, and escort the new adult males to a feast where they celebrated their responsibilities and, if they chose, took adult names. But Rovalat marched his charges out through the Gates, prepared for their ordeal. Then he went out into the Forge himself and waited to collect his charges, now successfully adult, so he could march them back into their families’ embrace.

  Kahs-wan had become a festival. This new custom had become so popular that some daughters were protesting that it wasn’t fair that they be denied the praise and gifts bestowed upon their brothers.

  This year’s celebration had even drawn out T’Kehr Torin, even though his last son had completed his ordeal many years ago. The old scientist strode back and forth, as if mounting guard. At times, he stopped to talk to Subcommander Ivek, while at other times, he stared out into the desert.

  Sarissa, who had suffered more than any boy who had survived his trial when her family’s installation had been destroyed, sat beside her foster parents T’Vysse and Karatek. Hands steepled in her lap, she was practicing her composure with the same care that she brought to her meditation, her martial-arts training, and her other studies.

  For most of the young people who waited by the Gates, the kahs-wan ordeal was their first solitary experience with the dangers of the Forge. But Sarissa and her brother Kovar had already lost their parents to attacks of te-Vikram in the deep desert. She had been Tu’Pari then. Now, her S-name, testimony to her veneration for Surak, became something she struggled to live up to as she settled the folds of her cloak about her so that they flowed as elegantly as those of T’Vysse and stared once more at her hands, seeking the calm-within that logic was supposed to provide.

  As the evening drew out, and the reddish veils of sand muted and deepened into dusk, soon to be replaced by the deep night, the women and girls sat by the walls, their clever strained faces frozen into masks of composure, the ornaments in their hair tinkling, while the men forced themselves not to pace.