Vulcan's Forge Read online

  Can you kill a brother Vulcan?

  He'd hesitated too long. What felt like half of Mount Seleya fell on him. Spock thought he heard his father saying, Exaggeration. Remember your control.

  Then the fierce dawn went black.

  SEVEN

  Obsidian, Deep Desert Day 1, First Week, Month of the Shining Chara, Year 2296

  He stood in noble, straight-backed isolation in the desert's cleansing forge, the sun blazing all about him, fire to burn impurities from him, from those who followed him—fire to destroy those who would not yield. And fire, just incidentally, to highlight him impressively, like one of those herodeities out of these primitives' childish mythologies. Behind him, his keen ears warned, some folk had gathered. A handful of his Faithful, not quite daring to intrude on his meditations.

  I do not meditate. I wait for my plotting to blaze into flame. But these weak things need not know my plans.

  "What?" he called over his shoulder without deigning to turn, and heard the small rustlings of amazement, of how did he know we were here?

  Fools. They had not yet realized just how keen were his senses. "You disturb me. Why?"

  "The spy . . ." That was Arakan-ikaran's voice. "There has been a report from the Outsider base."

  That was, of course, the Federation outpost. "Has the spy left his post?" It was the softest of purrs. "I did not give him permission for that."

  "Oh, no, no," Arakan-ikaran assured him hastily. "He remains faithful to our cause. To you! He sent word, though, to Rharik, who sent it to Kheral, who—"

  "I am pleased to see that the network remains intact. What is the information?"

  "A small force of the Outsiders has set out into the desert, headed by the Outsider Fool and . . . another."

  That hesitation was hardly accidental. "Which?"

  A nervous pause. "One like you, Master."

  It took every atom of his will not to start. He could not have been betrayed. It could not be part of a Federation trap; they could not know what, who, he was. But there were traitors among his kind, that he knew quite well. Traitors who would willingly turn from the True Path to fawn on those Outsiders. Traitors, too, or at least treacherous ones, among the Sundered.

  "Master . . . ?" Arakan-ikaran asked warily. "Is this of your holy kind? Another you have summoned to guide us?"

  Oh, you weak idiot. "No." He turned, slowly and dramatically, well aware of how splendidly the sun's fires haloed him. "Think, you who call yourselves my Faithful. Think! Who would bear my seeming yet be of the Outsiders?"

  They picked up the bait without hesitation. "The Fiery One!" The whispers flew through the gathering. "The Fiery One has come!" "The Outsiders have sent us the Fiery One!"

  Predictable. They had come to the proper conclusion, all without his needing to say a single untruth. The Fiery One in their primitive belief was the Tempter, the Evil Force that was not the purifying fire but the foul and all-destroying blaze.

  Good. Very good. "This is not the Fiery One," he said before unseemly yet useful frenzy could become hysteria, his voice cutting easily through the noise. "This is not the Fiery One but his agent."

  "But—but what shall we do?"

  "Nothing." His face a perfect, elegant mask of tranquility, he told them, "Leave that one to me. I shall be a clear white flame to protect you. But you must serve me."

  "We do!" they cried in orgiastic worship. "We always will! You are our lord and we are the Faithful! Let us serve!"

  He suppressed a sigh. Once again, they used their absurd, so useful faith to incite themselves to a frenzy such as a Vulcan might only experience in the depths of plak-tow. "Yes," he said. "In time. Now you must tell me what else our spy had to say."

  "It is of the Outsiders, Master. Their route into the desert is too sure. It seems to say, 'We know where the Faithful are hiding.' Can this be so? Is the Fiery One's slave guiding them to—"

  "Be calm. They know only what I allow. They know only where we have been. The desert is vast, and I will provide shelter for my children." He glanced at Arikan-ikaran. "There is yet more. What?"

  "With the Outsiders, it is said, rides one they call the—the—" Arikan-ikaran stumbled over the unfamiliar, alien words. "The 'chief medical officer.' Is this one not a shaman? A person of some importance among them?"

  "It is." But even as he said this, he wondered, Chief medical officer? From which ship? Is the Federation calling in new vessels?

  Arikan-ikaran took his hesitation for encouragement. "Is this not a useful thing? Would he not make a valuable hostage?"

  Ahh. Now and again, one of these primitive creatures did show a spark of logic. "Yes. Indeed yes. You are wise." Watching Arikan-ikaran's proud face fairly glow from the praise, he continued, "But you have missed the major point. This one, this 'chief medical officer,' might prove even more than a mere hostage." Turning back to study the sun, the pure, cleansing fire, he added over his shoulder, "He should make a most valuable lure as well."

  "You bet I'm going with you," McCoy exploded. "That's a desert out there!"

  Spock glanced blandly at David Rabin. "Dr. McCoy does have a tendency to state the obvious."

  McCoy snorted. "You know perfectly well what I mean, Spock. That's a wilderness, full of accidents just waiting to happen, and—"

  "And we need an adaptable medical officer to accompany us. Quite logical."

  "I—oh. Well, we certainly can't head out there in standard Federation uniforms, so I guess you, Captain Rabin, have gear for us."

  He exited with just a touch of haste. Rabin glanced at Spock again, then grinned. "Not fair. Humans don't expect humor from Vulcans."

  "I? I merely stated the obvious."

  "Right. Of course. Come, my humor-impaired friend, let's get going."

  The desert robe, Spock thought, felt comfortably familiar, very similar in weight and weave to those from Vulcan. There were, after all, only so many logical ways to design desert garb, he concluded, and pulled the robe's hood up over his head: Good. Deep enough to provide more than adequate shade.

  Ahead stood the rest of the party, five humans, four of them with the darker complexions that indicated genes of desert stock. The fifth was Lieutenant Diver, looking very small and delicate amid all the flowing robes; her specialty was igneous geology, which made her a logical part of the group. Six humans, Spock thought, including McCoy, plus himself. The shuttlecraft would be almost full but not overburdened. There would be sufficient room for a prisoner, should such a need arise.

  McCoy, medical gear slung over his shoulder, was looking about at the rest of the party, shaking his head. "When I said we weren't going to wear standard uniforms, I never expected this." His sweep of a hand took in all the loose, flowing desert gear.

  Captain Rabin, resplendent in a white desert robe and flowing headscarf that made only the vaguest nods to regulations, frowned slightly. "Maybe it's not Federation textbook." It was said as much for the clearly disapproving Junior Lieutenant Albright, who was not going along and who, perspiring in full Federation uniform, still looked the very image of the proper Federation officer, as for McCoy. "But it's damned practical."

  "Huh. Probably. But," McCoy added, tongue firmly in cheek, "I'm a doctor, not Lawrence of Arabia."

  Rabin, not missing a beat, gave him an elaborate salaam. Several of the others stifled laughs, and one, a handsome, olive-skinned young man, murmured, "Most elegantly done, sir."

  "Why, thank you, Ensign Prince."

  Spock raised an eyebrow at the subtle emphasis on "prince."

  "That is not merely a name, I think. Do you refer to an ancient title?"

  The ensign grinned, perfect teeth gleaming, and glanced quickly at David Rabin as though this was an old joke between them. "Yes, Captain Spock, he does. I am Prince Faisal ibn Saud ibn Turki and so on and so on of the ancient Saudi line—for what that's worth. This, by Father's calculation, makes me seventy-ninth in line for the throne."

  "While he's waiting for the crown," Ra
bin added dryly, "he'll be the pilot of our shuttlecraft. Not as fast or elegant as the cruisers he'd prefer, but . . ." His shrug was eloquent. This, apparently, was also a long-standing joke. Interesting, to see a captain and crew so at ease with each other. A human thing, though, Spock admitted; it required the sharing of common emotions.

  He turned his attention to the shuttlecraft, not quite frowning. The craft seemed in good working order, but it was decidedly antiquated. "Its lines seem very similar to the Galileo model."

  Rabin nodded. "That's exactly what it is, modified somewhat for the desert climate."

  "Damnation!" McCoy exploded. "The Federation never throws anything away, does it?"

  " 'Waste not, want not,' that's the outpost way," Rabin retorted dryly. "It would be nice if we had something better suited to low atmospheric flight, but you take what you've got." He squinted up at the cloudless, blindingly bright sky. "Our meteorologists have assured us that there are no nearby storms."

  "There are none," Spock agreed, weather-sensitive as were all the desert-born.

  "Yes, but unfortunately Obsidian's weather is too unpredictable for any serious long-range forecasting. On that interesting note, gentlefolk, let's go."

  There was, Spock thought, no truly logical way to arrange seating. He took the seat directly behind Ensign Prince, Captain Rabin beside him, and, with Rabin's agreement, let Lieutenant Diver, as geologist, have the forward seat beside their pilot, since she would need to have the clearest view of the terrain.

  The ancient shuttlecraft groaned, shuddered, then, metal complaining, lifted itself off the ground, occasional vibrations still shaking it. Ensign Prince fought with the controls, swearing under his breath in what was decidedly not regal Arabic and was certainly not meant to be overheard (though two of the crew, a man and woman evidently familiar with the language, stifled snickers), then gave a recalcitrant panel a hard kick.

  The shuttlecraft's flight leveled out.

  "Works every time," the ensign said over his shoulder.

  "Glad to hear it," McCoy drawled from where he sat behind Spock. "I'd hate to have to walk back."

  "No danger of that," Rabin countered. "If the serenti didn't get you, the qatarak would."

  "Trying to scare me? Captain Rabin, I've seen some things out there," in space, said the sweep of McCoy's arm, "that would give your desert beasties nightmares. Treated some of them, too," he added thoughtfully.

  Spock's frown was barely more than the faintest twitch. Was this continuing jesting between the two humans turning into true rivalry? Such things happened all too frequently aboard the Intrepid II, but on the ship he had usually let the crewmen work out their own solutions; humans, he had learned, did not often appreciate Vulcan interference, no matter how logical. Yet aboard the Intrepid II, there had been time enough and room enough for settling quarrels. Here there were no such luxuries.

  But before he could work out a logical progression of arguments to settle matters between the two men, Lieutenant Diver, who had been looking intently out of the forward window, said, "Sir, there are clear traces of ancient watercourses down there. They probably can't be seen from the ground."

  Spock looked down at the vast expanse of gray-tan-brown and found the traces to which the lieutenant referred: the faintest darker lines, as though he were glancing down at some faded drawing—were that not too fanciful a concept. The network of underground irrigation tunnels could be seen from the air as well as unnaturally straight disturbances in the soil—but these ancient watercourses led away from that network. Even, Spock mused, as the faint data trail the Intrepid had been able to send had led away. "Indeed. Continue with your thought, Lieutenant,"

  "Whoever's doing the sabotage has to have a safe base of operations, as well as a source of water. If they're not using the local wells—"

  "They're not," Rabin cut in. "The locals do not let strangers use their water."

  "Well, then, their base has to be a distance away. Quite a distance. I'd guess that there's still water up in those mountains to the northwest, and that if we follow the watercourses, dried-up though they are, back along their route, we'll come to that water."

  "And hopefully the base," Rabin added. "Scanners picking up anything, Ensign Kavousi?"

  Rustam Kavousi, a burly young man originally from New Persia, was one of the two who'd understood Ensign Prince's muttered curses. Now he clearly was just barely stifling some of his own. "I keep getting readings, Captain Rabin, but the blasted things fade out before I can confirm them. Static."

  Rabin glanced at Spock. "So much for high tech. What do you suggest?"

  "That we follow Lieutenant Diver's advice and what clues we have and investigate the mountains."

  "Seems the most likely choice to me. Ensign Prince, change our course to . . ." He leaned forward to study the instrument panel. "Assuming that compass is still functioning, to bearing forty-nine point five."

  "Bearing forty-nine point five it is, sir. Though if I may, sir: We're not going to reach those mountains today."

  "Understood," Spock and Rabin said almost as one: they were both well aware of how deceptive distance could be in a desert, even from the air.

  "We can put down there, twelve degrees off starboard,"

  Rabin said after some study of instruments and landscape. "That's a Turani oasis. Nobody home right now," he added, peering down, "but they've got relatives in Kalara who are friendly toward the Federation. They won't begrudge us a little water."

  Ensign Prince landed the shuttlecraft with remarkable smoothness considering the rock-strewn, hard-packed desert floor. "I don't dare be rough," he replied to his captain's wry congratulations, "not with a ship this old."

  It took only a short while to set up camp. "We won't use any wood," Rabin said, glancing up at the lacy trees framing the tiny pool. "It's scarce enough as it is."

  "And," Spock added, "I do not doubt that the Turani, like most desert people, have severe penalties for any who harm a tree."

  "Exactly. Sorry, everyone, no hot-dog roast tonight." That archaism got a chuckle from his crew, but McCoy stared at Rabin as though not quite approving of his levity.

  "Is something wrong, Doctor?" Rabin asked, a touch too casually.

  McCoy shrugged. "Each to his own methods."

  "Indeed." Rabin continued to his crew, "Artificial light and heating only. We'll use the portable generator."

  Spock watched keenly to catch any further not-quiteanimosity between Rabin and the doctor before it could grow into true hostility, but there was none. This was not precisely satisfying, since one never knew when humans might not decide to call an issue settled.

  David has never been a somber or overly logical type, but he is certainly experienced enough to avoid foolishness. And McCoy is . . . as McCoy is.

  The brief, gaudy desert sunset quickly faded into a moonless night bright with stars. Spock exchanged brief comments with Uhura as the Intrepid passed overhead, a bright, swiftly moving dot of unblinking golden light amid the seemingly unmoving stars. Soon the ship would be out of range on the far side of the planet, but there was time to assure each other that there was nothing to report.

  Snapping his communicator shut, Spock moved apart from the others, standing alone in the darkness, robe wrapped tightly about himself against the growing chill. The humans would probably think him meditating and therefore not disturb him, but Spock knew that he was simply finding enjoyment in the night: the sweet, dry scent of cooling desert, the whisper of wind, the soft singing of sand against rock, the chirping of insects that existed even here—

  Someone else was here. Not by the slightest tightening of muscles did Spock reveal that he knew they were being watched. He moved forward as calmly as though aimlessly strolling. There was only the one spy. . . .

  He pounced. The spy was a scrawny desert nomad with no spare flesh to him but with muscles like wire. But Spock's Vulcan strength was the greater, and he dragged his struggling, frantic catch back to the others, who sp
rang to their feet, grabbing for phasers. "There is no need for alarm," Spock assured them. "He was alone."

  But the spy had squirmed about to stare up at him, and pure horror contorted the nomad's face. "The Fiery One . . ."

  "I fail to understand—"

  "Please, please do not do it. Do not burn my soul."

  Spock straightened, all at once comprehending. This was not the first time some low-tech (and even the occasional not low-tech) being had mistaken him for a figure of evil. Though I fail to see why slanted brows and pointed ears should be considered anything but mere physical features, "I will not burn your soul," Spock told the nomad, and felt the man sag in relief. "You will not be harmed. But you must answer my questions."

  "Y-yes, oh Mighty One, If—if I may."

  "First, why were you spying?"

  "Th-those were my orders."

  "Indeed? From whom?"

  A shudder shook his captive. "No . . . I don't . . . I can't . . ."

  "We will not harm you," Spock repeated. "But you must tell us who sent you to spy on us."

  "No . . ."

  "Who sent you to spy on us?"

  "The Master," the nomad blurted in terror. "Please, please, I cannot say more!"

  In a surge of panicky strength, he tore free, racing off into the night. "Phasers on stun!" Rabin commanded. "Don't let him escape."

  Phaser beams cut the darkness. The nomad fell, and they rushed to where he lay. McCoy got there first, kneeling at the side of the crumpled figure.

  "Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I hate having to say this." The doctor glanced up, eyes shadowed. "He's dead, Spock."

  "That's impossible," Rabin cut in. "The phasers were—"

  "It wasn't the phasers." McCoy got slowly to his feet. "The poor terrified idiot took some type of fast-acting poison. Did a really efficient job on himself."