Vulcan's Soul Trilogy Book One Read online

  If the desert, the le-matya s, war, Surak’s many enemies, or Torin himself didn’t kill him, T’Vysse would.

  Seven

  Memory

  Karatek trudged behind Varen across Vulcan’s Forge, Varen padding behind them. Skamandros was walking point. If danger lay ahead, he would warn them. Seleya’s spires loomed to their right, casting an immense shadow across their path, darkness without true shade.

  I am the metal being beaten out upon this Forge, Karatek thought.

  Adding to the discomfort of the Forge, he was running a light fever, his usual reaction to anti-radiation medication. But there was no point in stopping to rest now. When the sun reached zenith, they would have no choice. Meanwhile, it was logical to cover as much ground as they could.

  According to the maps Karatek carried, if they rested only briefly at noon, they stood a fair chance of reaching a medical research facility that had taken over one of the old way stations by sunset.

  If they did not reach it, however, they faced undesirable alternatives. They could either venture on by starlight, avoiding the leaf-traps that uncoiled their tendrils in the dark, the sandpits with their patient, hungry inhabitants, or rock outcroppings that could slash their feet to the bone. Or they could hole up in any cave they found and calculate the odds that wild sehlat s or le-matya s hadn’t found it first. They could either hope they found enough vegetation to build a fire, or risk using up the power charges on the torches they carried.

  So, tired as Karatek knew himself to be, he knew it was best not to stop. And to drink only at noon.

  In the agonizing first three days of his journey across the Forge, his companions had repaid every bit of their obligation to him as their host. Now he was in their debt. Torin had been right. If Karatek were undergoing the kahs-wan now, he never would have survived.

  Sand stung his face, as hot as sparks flying from a crucible. At first, the glare from ground and side had all but blinded him. Surak had advised against the use of protective lenses, “for, if you lose them, you have no endurance, whereas, traveling with us, you can adapt in safety.”

  Such safety as there was, here on the Forge. They were but four: too many, perhaps, for even a hungry le-matya to attack, but not enough to fight off a pack of wild sehlat s or Vulcans turned raider.

  The weapons Torin had given him, knife and blaster, were weights beneath Karatek’s cloak that he forbade himself to call comforting. He was no dealer in arms.

  Deliberately, he broke stride lest the rhythm of his footsteps lull him into a dangerous trance.

  When Torin had asked Karatek to remain after the staff meeting at the VSI, Karatek had expected a rebuke or, at best, a “your strategy worked, but don’t try it again.” Instead, Torin had offered a dinner invitation, not just to Karatek, but to his household. It had been an evening to remember. Torin lived almost on the edge of the Forge in a house so old that, until Torin took it over, even ShiKahr’s Preservation Society had thought to pull it down. Torin had intervened and reconstructed the ancient place as it must have been in its prime, during the Last Migration, when a splendor of tapestries, rugs, and bronze vessels reflected the wealth of nomads who had finally settled in what was now ShiKahr.

  Torin’s first wife and eldest daughter had died in a biocide at the Gates of AraKahr. Bonded now to the fiber artist Mitrani, Torin greeted Karatek’s household with ancient courtesy. He met them at his gates, even slashing his hand in token of a host’s obligation to defend his guests to the death, before leading them to the inner courts, where they knelt as Mitrani offered them fire and water.

  Mitrani and T’Vysse might be artist and historian, not scientists. If anything, that gave them a greater appreciation of why Karatek had to accompany Surak.

  After dinner, they sat in the courtyard while Torin poured them each a glass of firewine so old that it was almost syrup. Surak, Karatek knew, did not drink alcohol, but “this is not a depressant but a work of art,” he said, and drained it to the health of his hosts.

  For a while, Torin and his guests sat quietly, staring up at the night sky whose starlight, so far away, mocked their firepits as petty and ephemeral. Then Torin beckoned Karatek aside.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  Not “with,” Karatek noted.

  He bowed assent, a grace he hadn’t used for years, but one that seemed natural in this curiously anachronistic household.

  “You’re all on fire to be gone,” said Torin. “Well, I can’t blame you. This Surak calls himself a man of peace, but look how he speaks of it. Waging peace. He doesn’t so much bring peace, but a sword,” he told Karatek, as T’Vysse nodded.

  “You will walk in company that would defend you to the death, but never forget: These are dangerous men. They cause people to talk sides. You saw how Zerin couldn’t wait to report in to the High Council, while Varekat was prepared to see Surak as absolution, and I think T’Raya’s probably starting to pack. So you stay on your guard.”

  Reaching within his robe, Torin withdrew an old knife and well-worn blaster. “My gift to you,” he said. “The blaster’s power cell won’t show up on scans, a little workaround a few of us who survived an ambush…well, that’s another story. Don’t let Surak talk you out of carrying them.”

  “Sir,” Karatek stammered. “I can’t accept these. Not your service weapons.”

  “Now, come on! It isn’t as if I’m giving you my House’s swords! Now, let me see you put those weapons away. Good! Surak will not like the fact I’ve armed you; but I do not particularly care what he likes any more than he cared when he came in and robbed me of one of my finest researchers.

  “I will tell you why I want you to leave as soon as you can. By now, the messages are flying back and forth. I will be held accountable. In case my decision is overruled, I want you on your way, so far into the deep desert that you cannot be recalled. Leave your com gear at home, too. I won’t run the risk that you could be traced. Now, I pried a rough idea of your line of march out of Surak, told him he owed me—and I’ve sent messages to installations along the way. You’ll find a list waiting for you on your secured terminal at home. Most of the people who run these sites are old friends of mine. Old companions. They may hate me in the morning, but they’ll take you in. And they’ll listen, for a number of reasons beyond old loyalties. If you know anything about me, you know I wouldn’t trade on them—at least not past a certain point. VSI isn’t the only place that’s suffered funding cuts, and I’m not the only one to worry about the direction we’re headed.”

  In the darkness, Karatek flushed with gratitude and apprehension. Torin was pouring a lifetime of contacts, of his immense personal and professional credibility, into his hands.

  “I’ll try not to let you down, sir,” he said, managing not to stammer.

  “You’d be letting down a lot more people than just me,” Torin snapped. “So don’t do it! And when you get back, next time you get some idea out of the epics about claiming a troublemaker as your guest-friend, think again!”

  They both laughed. But Torin’s eyes flashed so hotly in the darkness that Karatek grew bold enough to say, “I wonder, sir, that you don’t come with us.”

  “Me, you young hothead?” He laughed, and Karatek, the father of three, flushed deeply at being relegated to the ranks of untried youths. “You’re not the first person who had that idea. Surak already asked me to join him, both on this journey and on the exile from the Mother World that he preaches like the mad prophet he is. Provided, he adds, that I can control my illogical tendencies to want to fight, not reason, my way out of difficulties.”

  Karatek didn’t even try to suppress a grin. “I wish I had heard him!”

  Torin laughed, then shook his head. “I will tell you what I told him,” he said, and Karatek knew that he would get the older man’s exact words. “I said, ‘I am bone of this world’s bone, blood of its blood, soul of its soul; and my blood and body will remain a part of my Mother World’s rocks and sand long a
fter my katra has fled the Halls of Ancient Thought.’ ”

  Karatek started to kneel to the older man, as if before a priest, but Torin’s outthrust hands stopped him.

  Stopped him and upheld him. Sustained him.

  “Karatek!”

  The voice was Surak’s, not Torin’s. Karatek blinked, not at the firelight of Torin’s courtyard, but at the blazing sun of midday on the Forge.

  “You were drifting,” said Surak. “If you had been alone, you would have fallen. You very well might have died.”

  “I ask forgiveness,” Karatek muttered.

  They marched on.

  Eight

  Now

  STARFLEET HEADQUARTERS

  As the small viewscreen in her private office went dark, Admiral Uhura sat back in her dark brown partha-leather chair, her fingers steepled and her eyes troubled.

  The office about her was a comfortable space furnished in warm golds and browns. A Vulcan calligraphic scroll, tranquil in its brushstrokes, hung on one wall, and a Ghanaian kente cloth in an intricate geometric design of brown and sand hung on another. It did not look like the office of anyone in power.

  The reason was simple: She wanted nothing obtrusive. As far as Uhura was concerned, nothing flashier was needed for or wanted by the head of intelligence for Starfleet Command.

  Uhura had let her hair go completely silver over the years and now it formed a bright halo about her head. Time and trouble had weathered the dark, strong, elegant face. But she had never lost that quick wit—or that keen concern for others—that kept her at the peak of her game.

  Uhura leaned forward once more, hands going to the viewscreen’s controls. But then she shook her head, and forced herself to sit back again. She’d already viewed the tape about twenty times, at every possible speed, resolution, magnification, and frequency, and like it or not, there were no more clues to be gained from it.

  No matter how many times she viewed the thing, though, it never lost its urgency and horror. Whoever the alien enemy…the Watraii…might be, those ships of theirs were damned powerful, and completely outside anything in Starfleet or Federation databases. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been sufficient data to let the experts analyze the weapons the Watraii had used.

  Clever Watraii.

  But the aliens had not merely attacked that Romulan colony, they had eradicated it in a way that made Narendra III look like a picnic. There was a definite irony, Uhura thought, in the fact that she and most of those with whom she worked had spent most of their careers regarding the Romulan Star Empire as a major threat to the Federation. But that didn’t mean that she hated the Romulan people. Good lord, no. They were just that: people. And the people on that colony hadn’t stood a chance.

  Yes, she thought grimly, but bad though that might be, things were clearly going to get much worse. All of Uhura’s sources indicated the same danger. Judging from the attackers’ course, they had every intention of next threatening Romulus itself.

  Serves me right for thinking things were too peaceful, Uhura told herself, and passed the information along to the Federation Council. For what good it will do.

  Then she accessed the various available databases again, trying an assortment of cross-linkings such as “Romulan” and “blood feud”: thirty listings there, and all between various Romulan Houses, all of whom would have been astonished to learn she even knew of their existence. “Romulus” and “indigenous inhabitants” brought up no entries at all. And a cross-linking of “Romulus” and “ancient enemies” brought up nothing but references to Romulan and Vulcan mythology.

  Uhura gave a quick grin to see the name “Ruanek” appended to one of those entries. Well now, wasn’t that interesting? Very few people outside Vulcan knew that the lecturer at the Vulcan Science Academy and martial-arts expert—as well as Spock’s friend—had actually been born a Romulan, on Romulus

  I’ll be questioning Ruanek, I believe, just to see if he knows anything useful about his homeworld’s past history. Tactfully questioning, that was, since there was no reason to cause trouble for someone who was one of the “good guys” and happily married to a Vulcan.

  She tried a new search, then waited…waited…

  Well now, look at this. Not exactly pay dirt, but at least Memory Alpha had finally found a match. Not much of one. There was only one sketchy record of the Watraii, posted by…

  Uhura nearly laughed aloud in her surprise, and said, “Posted by Admiral Pavel Chekov! All right, Pavel, I guess Watraii are easier to find than ‘nuclear wessels.’ ”

  Unfortunately, the record that he’d left was several years out of date. And it was exceedingly vague. But, Uhura thought wryly, it was better than no record at all. And vague or not, even so, it was probably going to make Chekov their only expert on the Watraii.

  And isn’t he going to love that?

  She sent off a new message to the Federation Council, including Chekov’s brief report. Again, for what it was worth.

  Sure enough, none of the serving Federation Council members could add to the report. One thing on which they all agreed, from Terrans to Tellarites, was that the aliens looked disconcertingly formidable.

  Well, yes, gentlebeings, Uhura thought with great restraint, we already have proof of that: an eradicated colony, remember?

  A career spent on starships and in Starfleet intelligence hadn’t hardened Uhura, nor had it destroyed her sense of irony, she who once tried to help Klingons defend themselves against Romulan treachery. But it hadn’t made her a dreamer, either. She wasn’t at all surprised at the next message she received (through the properly secure channels).

  Uhura dipped her head in courtesy as the image formed on the screen. “Mr. President.”

  It was, indeed, the blue visage of Min Zife, the current president of the Federation. He had never looked exactly carefree, Uhura though. Now, though, after an administration that had included every conceivable type of problem, a horrifying interstellar war, cases of enemy infiltration, and treachery of many sorts by various personnel, he appeared to have aged considerably since he first took office.

  I never could understand why anyone would want the job of president in the first place! It’s so much more…comfortable and productive to stay behind the scenes.

  “Admiral Uhura. I fear you already know what I am about to say. And believe me, I like this no more than do you.”

  “Please, continue, Mr. President.”

  He hesitated, clearly reluctant, and possibly a bit embarrassed. “While the Federation—or at least, to be honest, parts of it—would like to provide assistance to the Romulan Star Empire, we must consider what might happen if things went wrong. We know next to nothing about the Watraii and the validity or lack of validity of their claim. It would be dangerous to make any sudden decisions, because if we make a mistake, if we back the wrong side, the Federation could find itself in a three-way war.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, but surely there is a far greater risk in just sitting back and doing nothing.”

  “Is there? Admiral, we both know that the Romulans are already mobilizing for a war.”

  “For their own survival.”

  “Oh, I agree. But they would definitely regard any Federation ships crossing the Neutral Zone as an attack. Yes, and if the Klingons find out that the Federation is aiding the Romulans, we have jeopardized the alliance that was only solidified after so much effort after Narendra III.”

  “And if the Federation is seen to be openly siding with the Klingons by not acting to aid the Romulans—Mr. President, do you truly think that is a better situation?”

  He sighed. “Off the record, do you think I like this mess, either? But the timing is truly terrible.”

  “I suspect that the Watraii knew it.”

  “Perhaps. But the cold, hard fact is that we have just fought what was possibly the most terrible war in Federation history. We’re still picking up the pieces and assessing the costs. And we’re not exactly at peace right now. Many members of
the Federation are still keeping a wary eye on the Breen, as am I.”

  So am I, Uhura thought but did not say.

  The president leaned forward, face grim. “In short, Admiral: This is no time to start a war.”

  In other words, Uhura thought, the Romulans voluntarily withdrew into their own territory almost seventy years ago, so let them fight their own battles. Oh yes, I know how much can be said and not said.

  Her well-schooled face didn’t show the slightest trace of what she was thinking. “I had no intention of starting one, Mr. President. Thank you for your time.”

  The viewscreen went dark. Uhura didn’t even bother with a sigh of impatience.

  Then, almost at once, she received a familiar code. Tapping in the acknowledgment, she watched a new image form on the screen.

  “Admiral Uhura.”

  Uhura didn’t bother with surprise, or waste time asking him how he’d bypassed security. He was one of the masters at figuring out codes. She merely raised a brow in a way she’d long ago learned from him.

  “Hello, Spock. I had a feeling that I was going to be hearing from you before very long. You’re here on Earth for the ceremonies, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I assume that you saw the same transmission I did, and that you’d like to see me.”

  “Indeed.”

  It wasn’t at all surprising that he’d contacted her this quickly. He would surely have come to all the same conclusions as she, and probably, being a Vulcan, come to those conclusions much faster.

  Spock didn’t insult her by asking if she knew what he wanted. “We have work to do” was all he said.

  Together, they began notifying…certain people, the people they both knew and trusted.

  The people who would get things done.

  Nine

  Memory

  “There.” Karatek pointed at the black spires that jutted up from the Forge like the fossilized claws of some immense primordial beast. The rocks cast long shadows that he would have turned into an exercise in navigation if the day spent on Vulcan’s Forge by its fierce sun hadn’t hammered the strength from him. He reached for his water bottle. Then, seeing that no one else drank, he restored the bottle to its hook at his belt.