Vulcan’s Soul Book II - Exiles Page 22

  In the softest of murmurs, Chekov returned, “Spock.” There was no warmth in his voice, either.

  Spock, still pretending to be potentially hostile, moved forward a little closer, as though about to shoulder Chekov aside. Keeping his voice pitched low, he continued. “I cannot say that I am pleased to see you here, but I am truly pleased to see you alive.”

  “Are you?”

  Spock turned slightly, as though simply readjusting the fall of his robes. “This is hardly the place for recriminations. They are almost certainly watching or listening to us.”

  “Probably.” Chekov sat down heavily on the cell’s one piece of furniture, a cot, glaring up at him. “What do you expect of me? Do you want me to throw myself into your brotherly embrace? I was abandoned by you, Spock. I was left to the enemy.”

  Spock sat beside him, still keeping his voice warily low. “We thought you were dead.”

  “Bah.”

  “The evidence was circumstantial, I admit. But at the time, in the heat of combat, there seemed no doubt to any of us aboard the Alliance that you had been slain in that transporter malfunction. And I assure you that we did try, but there was nothing for us to recover.”

  Chekov said nothing to that, but his eyes remained cold.

  You cannot try to recover his friendship here and now, Spock told himself. “Chekov, I assure you that if any words of apology from me would help you, you would have them in a moment. But the past is the past. Like it or not, it cannot be changed here and now.”

  “Ah yes, the famous Vulcan self-control. Very useful, isn’t it?”

  “Not at the moment. Chekov, we must focus only on finding a way to escape.”

  Ah, but how? Spock got to his feet, pacing the cell as though avoiding the other prisoner but actually looking for weaknesses. Smooth floor, smooth ceiling, smooth walls…solid walls, some careful tapping assured him. If there was a spy cam or other security device, he could not locate it. That hardly meant that such devices weren’t present.

  “There is no way out,” Chekov muttered. “I should know.”

  “No obvious way,” Spock corrected thoughtfully. Even if the cell had no weaknesses, the Watraii themselves might. And if they were watching and listening, there were always possibilities for them to be tricked…

  Again, how? It was unfortunate, Spock mused after a few moments of mental calculations, that Chekov, unlike a Vulcan, could not stop his own heart. But…yes, there was something else that could be done. He asked Chekov carefully, “Do you remember the time when I melded with the rest of James T. Kirk’s bridge crew to protect them all from illusion?”

  Chekov frowned at him, then was silent for a while, not having a Vulcan’s flawless memory and clearly trying to remember back so many years.

  “Yes, I do,” he retorted bitterly at last. “That time, I was already dead.” He stared at Spock. “Is that what you want, Spock? Do you think that after all that has happened, I would actually trust my mind to you?”

  “I cannot force you to agree,” Spock said. He got back to his feet and pretended to be once again studying the cell’s construction, at the same time giving himself a chance to avoid any unseemly display of emotion. “I merely await a logical alternative as to how we can conceal our friends’ whereabouts from the Watraii.”

  Behind him, he heard the faintest hiss from Chekov, but then a muttered, “You win, dammit. Go ahead.”

  Spock sat beside him, using the folds of his robes to hide what he was doing. Hands on Chekov’s temples, he began to calm his mind, to murmur the calming words…

  “My mind to your mind…”

  For all his bitter words, Chekov didn’t even make the smallest attempt to hold him off. It was, instead, almost a violent surrender, as though Chekov no longer really cared what happened. There were a few seconds of being only himself, then a few more confused seconds when he was no longer only Spock…then knew he was also…

  Chekov…

  He was Chekov…

  He was…alone…utterly alone…abandoned…a terrible, terrifying wave of resentment/loss/fear…resentment of those who were his closest friends and who’d abandoned him, guilt about how he felt…

  No. Spock knew this much already, and understood that guilt. He must go further…

  Yes…

  He was with Chekov…materializing in Watraii hands with the horror that had been the living Watraii caught in the transporter malfunction…

  He was with Chekov kept locked in a brig aboard the Watraii ship…no one speaking to him, not even when they fed him…

  He was with Chekov…landing on this planet…arriving at the installation…confronting the Watraii commander…He heard the questioning, the endless questioning…No way to tell day from night, day from day…questioning and loneliness…

  No torture—Spock felt a thrill of relief so strong it nearly tore apart the link, and had to forcibly calm himself. There had been no torture because the Watraii saw in Chekov a wonder, a being who had achieved age, a rare thing among the Watraii.

  And yet, they thought him an enemy…and questioned him…questioned him…kept him here with no way out, no change, no chance…alone…alone and abandoned…alone with his anger and guilt and hopelessness…to have come to this…to end like this…alone…

  Enough, Spock told himself, and quietly withdrew, back into himself, into his mind. He sat still for a while, dizzy and giving his mind a chance to accept that he was himself, complete in himself, Spock, and not Chekov as well.

  Beside him, he could dimly sense Chekov shuddering. The mind-meld had not been easy for either of them.

  Spock opened his eyes. “I understand,” he said simply.

  There was nothing else that he could say just then.

  Chekov said nothing. Instead, he lay down on the cot, his back turned to Spock, and soon was at least feigning sleep.

  Since there was nothing else to be done at the moment, Spock sank to the floor and settled his mind into the calm coolness of meditation. He blocked any worry about the precious time ticking away, the time till Scotty took the shuttle offworld. There was no time just now…

  But time returned with a rush as the cell door opened. It was not an inquisition. Watraii guards were there with a sleeping mat for Spock and food for the two prisoners. Spock got to his feet, but the wary Watraii stayed out of reach for the few seconds that the door was open.

  So be it. There would be other chances. Spock settled down on the mat again with his share of the food. Meat? No. Some form of vegetable protein: he could eat it. The meal was little more than the equivalent of Starfleet emergency rations, but it was surprisingly nutritious. Could this possibly be the normal food for the Watraii, too? A flash of memory brought back Ruanek’s sarcastic “I’d rather get shot than have to live here.”

  I assume from the lack of commotion that you and Data are still free and hunting the artifact. And I assure you, wherever you two are, I shall do my best not to get shot nor to remain living here.

  Spock’s inner clock told him that it must now be night on the Watraii world. Scotty would be forced to take off in the late morning. But there was nothing else that could be done just now. Curled up on the sleeping mat, calming his mind with Vulcan disciplines, Spock settled down for the night.

  “There,” Ruanek whispered to Data as they crouched behind a low natural wall of rocks in the Watraii world’s dim gray version of twilight.

  “I see them,” Data whispered back.

  “It isn’t that large a group. Four…five…only six in all. We could take them out.”

  “Yes, I have no doubt that we could. But what good would that do us?”

  Ruanek glared at the android. “You’ve been saying something like that about every search party we’ve been avoiding, Data—every cursed search party that’s been driving us farther and farther away from the artifact. The answer should be obvious enough to you by now: Eliminate them, and we have fewer searchers!”

  “On the contrary, Ruanek.
Slay these, and it is certain that more will come looking for their missing fellows.”

  “Akhh.” Ruanek pulled out a small pack of emergency rations and bit savagely into it.

  “I know that you were trained to fight. I know that you wish to lash out like the warrior you once were. And I, too, would like to eliminate some of them, I admit it. But surely you see my point.”

  “Akhh,” Ruanek repeated, more softly. “Unfortunately, yes, I do. And yes, I know that you’re right.” He shrugged impatiently, snatched another mouthful of the rations, then tucked the pack away again. “More evasive action it is, then.” Glancing up, Ruanek added, “Not much more daylight left. I wonder if the Watraii can see in the dark.”

  “We will soon find out,” Data said. “Where do we head now? Down that gully?”

  Ruanek shook his head. “Good shelter, but too easy for us to be trapped.”

  “That ridge?”

  “You really do want to get us shot, don’t you?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Run along a ridge while we’re outlined by the setting sun? You can’t possibly think that’s a good idea. And yes, that first question of mine was a rhetorical question. Come on, Data, this way, behind these rocks. We’ll keep them guessing until we learn if they really can see in the dark.”

  Spock had not truly slept, not while he was being held in an enemy cell, but meditation had rested him sufficiently. He heard Chekov groan and stir on the cot, and turned in time to see the human sit up, staring blurrily at him.

  “Was not a dream, then,” Chekov muttered. “You really are here.”

  “I am, indeed.”

  Chekov grunted. “For what good that does us.”

  The cell door opened without warning, and several armed Watraii entered. One of them gestured peremptorily to Spock.

  He dipped his head to them. “I assume by this that you have finished cleaning up the shuttle crash site.”

  “Come,” was all one of them said.

  The reason was obvious. Yes, they had finished cleaning up the wreckage of the shuttlecraft. They were ready for the interrogation.

  In the instant before the Watraii separated them, Spock told Chekov, “I have never regretted more that Jim Kirk’s gifts for command were not mine. He would never have given up on you, as he did not give up on me. I ask forgiveness.”

  Something not quite clear flickered in Chekov’s eyes. It might have been a glimmer of understanding. But, Spock knew, complete forgiveness was still a long way off.

  But it will come, Spock thought. With time. Once we are safely away from here.

  Then the Watraii took him away.

  Morning, Ruanek thought, getting to his feet and brushing off layers of grit, was definitely not one of those sunny, birds chirping, blue skies brightening things on this world. Dark gray, then lighter gray in this Land of Endless Winds.

  No. He lowered his head as a new gust of wind brought a new dust storm swirling about their heads. Land of Endless Winds was definitely too poetic for this world.

  “Are you all right, Data?”

  The android blinked, then hesitated for a second, running a swift, silent diagnostic check. “I am in perfect functioning order. Despite the continuing problem of this perpetual dust.”

  At least, Ruanek thought, there was an advantage in scrabbling about this desolate world with an android. Since Data didn’t need to slumber in the flesh-and-blood sense of the word, Ruanek had been able to get a fair amount of real sleep without worrying about anyone sneaking up on them. No one had, either. The Watraii hadn’t found them in the dark.

  And you, Spock? Ruanek wondered. How did you spend the night? Are you all right? For that matter, I hope that Captain Scott is alive and well, too. And that we all get back to him in time.

  Then Ruanek tensed. “Data, I don’t know about this,” he said with sudden inexplicable wariness. “Something’s not right.”

  “I do not see anything unusual.”

  “It’s what we don’t see that bothers me.” Ruanek frowned slightly. “Are there any Watraii about?”

  “I am not sure. The ground winds are sweeping up too much grit. I suspect that they are finding it difficult to locate us as well.”

  “I repeat,” Ruanek said, “something is definitely not right. Let’s get out of this area before it’s—”

  He broke off as they came face-to-face with a Watraii team making its way through the stinging dust. Both sides froze in mutual surprise for a moment. Then Data pointed out, “Logically speaking, our position is hopeless.”

  “This isn’t the time or place for logic,” Ruanek snarled, and hurled himself directly at the Watraii. He hit the nearest one smack in the middle with a savage headbutt, kicked out backward at another, hearing a satisfying grunt of pain as he squarely connected with a kneecap, then whirled to stab a third Watraii in the throat with his stiffened hand. He was at the same time fully aware of Data fighting methodically and efficiently at his side—of course, efficiently, Data was an android—no, he wouldn’t let his concentration lapse. But it must be shocking the Watraii that their weapons wouldn’t work on Data. And Ruanek was just moving too quickly, in too close, for them to try firing at him. The violence was coming as pure relief—

  And it was suddenly over. Ruanek danced in one place, letting himself come down from the warrior high, then settled down to stand panting. “Not bad. Not bad at all. We got them all.”

  “We did, indeed,” Data said without enthusiasm, dragging the bodies one by one into hiding. “We were lucky, Ruanek.”

  “Luck is an illogical concept, Data. And yes, illogical or not, I know that we were lucky. If we hadn’t recovered from surprise a moment before they did—but we did, and they didn’t, and we won.”

  “And now the Watraii will be coming after us with even more enthusiasm.”

  “Then we will just have to put even more enthusiasm into getting that artifact, won’t we?” Ruanek retorted. “I don’t have to remind you that the time left before Captain Scott lifts off is running short. So let’s not waste any more of that time in moralizing.”

  “An excellent point,” Data said.

  Twenty-Three

  Memory

  “Best estimate of arrival at a habitable world: 97.3 percent. Should the exploratory shuttle missions confirm our estimate, S’task has given instructions to plan evacuation to the planetary surface.”

  Karatek removed the memory device, wiped his brow, and headed for the command center to wait for Shavokh’s own exploratory shuttles to return home.

  Not for the first time, he wished his son-in-law Serevan were present to supervise the docking.

  He knew that was hardly fair. Serevan had labored day and night to assemble working shuttles from other, crippled vessels and the remnants of their spare-parts inventory since the surviving fleet entered orbit.

  Serevan and Sarissa had been among the first exiles to land on the two planets in this system believed capable of sustaining Vulcan life. He could hardly be expected to be in two places in the same time.

  But night and day, where were they? Where were the expeditions from the other ships? S’task had issued the recall order 2.6 hours ago. Some shuttles had already risen from the planets and headed toward their parent ships.

  Some. One shuttle from Sunheart had crashed back onto the planet’s surface, a victim of catastrophic engine failure.

  Two would not return. The first had exploded when it touched down. Still another, landing close to a mountain range, had encountered wind shear. Its pilot had been Solor. He might have been unfamiliar with atmospheric conditions after all these years in space, but he had achieved a controlled crash landing remarkable in that neither he nor his crew had been killed. He had reported sufficient supplies to establish a base camp and perform their mission of surveying the terrain and collecting samples. He requested, if possible, that they be retrieved.

  Karatek supposed he should have expected that his decision to send Shavokh’s last
shuttle to bring back his son’s team would prompt accusations of favoritism from his old antagonist, Avarak.

  Favoritism? When Karatek had lost how many children?

  In actual council, of course, Karatek had ignored the outburst. He had disregarded counterattacks that Avarak should have been cast out of Shavokh after the mutiny. Instead, he had reminded Avarak that Solor’s crew was gathering critical data that the ships had to have. Avarak had glanced away, conceding the point—after having made his own.

  Karatek was quite aware that Avarak and his colleagues were not done. A reckoning would come.

  In Shavokh’s command center, the crew focused as intently on the data streaming in from planets and shuttles as if they were adepts working at levels of meditation that could warm a body, heal a mind, or stop a heart. Another reason for rescuing Solor’s crew: there were not many adepts left, and T’Olryn, one of the few survivors of the Seleyan tradition, had accompanied her mate.

  Karatek smoothed his hand down the bulkhead against which he stood, savoring the unusual warmth of the battered metal. So close to journey’s end, he had ordered his engineers to heat the ship. He had increased ship’s gravity to match projected gravitation on the two likeliest sites for planetfall. With S’task’s concurrence, he had ordered an increase in rations until, after 56.3 years, the exiles were once again consuming optimal calories for their metabolism.

  Personally, the augmented diet made Karatek feel almost ill. No matter; the younger members of the fleet, who would assume the greater share of the physical labor of building settlements, needed to be brought back to full strength.

  The bulkhead quivered beneath his hand, almost like a living creature. A living, sick creature. Karatek was many years away now from the days of his own engineering expertise, but he recalled enough to know that if that vibration continued to build, the consequences of an extended journey would be—Speculation was pointless now, he reminded himself.

  If it were not illogical, Karatek could have said he was warming himself by the light of his new sun. But what actually lured his eyes wasn’t just the sun, but the worlds circling it.