Vulcan's Forge Read online

  Rabin sighed. "How many years have you served with him?" he murmured to McCoy. "And he's still alive?"

  "I must have been crazy," McCoy admitted. "He kind of grew on me."

  Rabin eyed him quizzically, then shrugged. "Judgment call, Spock. Which do you think is safer? Riding it out in the shuttle or making a run for it?"

  "If we leave the ship, can we survive, however briefly, in this type of storm?"

  Rabin nodded. "If we cover every bit of skin and nothing hits us, yes. In the deep desert, people dig into the ground itself and survive, and they don't have any fancy gear."

  "Never fancied myself a cave man," McCoy muttered.

  Nevertheless, he gathered his gear about him, then nearly fell against Rabin as the ship lurched again.

  "No time to worry about it!" Rabin snapped. "We've got to get out of here."

  "Port's stuck!" Ensign Prince shouted. "I can't get it to open." He hurled himself at the port's manual controls. "Damnation! Whatever tore off the landing gear jammed the controls, too."

  Cautiously, feeling the shuttle shifting subtly under his feet, Spock moved to the pilot's side, trying . . . no. The door was jammed beyond even Vulcan strength.

  "Stand aside, Ensign."

  Spock drew his phaser, using it as delicately as a surgeon's tool to burn the damaged controls away. He paused, drawing a series of deep, rhythmic breaths, summoning the Disciplines learned on the Plains of Gol, however imperfectly, that would briefly give him greater strength.

  "Come on, Spock," McCoy urged him. "You don't have time to analyze the situation."

  There was no distraction. McCoy's words were nothing. As if detached from his body, Spock watched himself force the port open just wide enough for his fingertips to fit between the door itself and the shuttle's bulkheads, and shoved. There was no pain. There was no effort. There was only need.

  The wind shrieked, driving sharp-edged grit through the narrow gap into the shuttle.

  "Get those visors on now!" McCoy ordered. "Spock, you get those fossil eyelids of yours down, y'hear?"

  Spock, hardly hearing him, took another deep, steadying breath, then braced his fingers against the metal. The port began to slide open, painfully slowly. He almost lost his grip when the shuttle lurched again, sliding free, stopping with a jolt. Rabin launched himself from the opposite bulkhead, adding his strength and, fortunately, helping to counterbalance the shuttle. Ensign Kavousi joined them, grunting with effort. The port slid open a tantalizing bit more. At least slender Lieutenant Diver would be able to squeeze through, but the rest of them . . .

  "Again," Spock heard himself gasp. His control must be slipping. He sounded almost weary.

  This time, their combined strength moved the port open almost wide enough—

  The shuttle jolted, jolted again.

  "That rock's breaking up!" Lieutenant Diver's voice was a little too agitated for a reporting officer's.

  "On the count of three, Spock," Rabin panted. "One, two, three!"

  The port flew open. Obsidian's winds gusted in their faces, and rock dust swirled into the shuttle's cabin. For an instant, Spock could see the promised cave refuge, tantalizingly close.

  "Buddy system!" shouted Rabin over the gale. "I want one of my people to link up with Intrepid's crew. If they don't make it, you don't. Now, move, move, move!"

  He practically hurled Ensign Prince and Lieutenant Diver out of the shuttle.

  "Mr. Kavousi, take the doctor . . ."

  "I can make it out under my own steam," McCoy grumbled, hastening to avoid Kavousi's hand at the small of his back. He clutched his tricorder possessively, covering it with a fold of his desert survival gear.

  The ship slid again. Spock heard shouts of alarm from outside and knew the shuttle was very close to falling.

  "Not long now, Spock," Rabin gasped. "Move!"

  "Do not be heroic. Go! I will follow you."

  "Not a chance. This is my planet. Now, git!"

  He sounded like the doctor, Spock thought, and sprang clear of the shuttle. But he twisted in mid-jump, snatching at Rabin, hand closing on the human's arm as the shuttle, now wildly unbalanced, lurched away. Rabin jumped blindly, Spock pulled, and the two of them went sprawling.

  "Too close," Rabin gasped from where he lay. "Thanks."

  Spock raised his head just in time to see the shuttle upend and vanish over the cliff. The wind howled so loudly he could not even hear the impact of its landing.

  They sat huddled in the cave, Spock and Rabin's crew together, winded and too weary to speak, humans overwhelmed, Spock thought, by the calm more of shock than military training.

  "Everyone here?" Rabin asked. "Come on, folks, rouse: roll call."

  As the crew called off name after name, Spock straightened sharply, missing one familiar face. "McCoy," he cut in over their voices. "Where is Dr. McCoy?"

  "Don't see him—"

  "Not here—"

  "Wasn't he with you?" Rabin asked Ensign Kavousi.

  "All the way!" the burly ensign protested. "I pushed him halfway up the hill! You could hear his complaints over the storm."

  "Yes, but did anyone see the doctor actually make it into the cave?"

  "I did," said Lieutenant Diver. "He was grumbling something about heavy-handed Farsi-types—sorry, Ensign. Then he started all over again about . . . I'm not sure, something about him not having the sense to come in out of the rain. It didn't make too much sense to me, but by then I was too busy scouting out the cave." Her eyes widened. "Captain Spock, you don't suppose . . . ?"

  "I do not make vague suppositions, Lieutenant. What are you trying to say?"

  "W-what if he went back out there?"

  Cutting the sudden tense silence, Spock told her, "It is illogical to assume that he merely . . . wandered off. The doctor, while erratic, is rarely illogical."

  "You saw that bump on the head he took," Rabin said. "Might have confused him."

  "Or maybe he dropped some of his medical equipment in the struggle and went back for it," Lieutenant Diver added. "That would explain that 'come in out of the rain' comment. Captain, he really could be wandering about outside!" Her eyes were wide with the Captain, do something look that people had always directed at James Kirk.

  "Lieutenant," Spock retorted dryly, "if Dr. McCoy were 'wandering about outside,' he would long ago have ceased to wander."

  Humans did not find blunt logic reassuring. Lieutenant Diver stiffened as though she'd been slapped. "You're just going to leave him?"

  "If it is written . . ." Ensign Prince began warily.

  "I do not believe that the doctor is dead," Spock said. "But I will not risk lives in a search for him until the storm subsides. I suggest, Lieutenant, that you join the others in seeing how this cave can be made habitable."

  "Aye-aye, sir," she said, and left him, her shoulders expressing her dejection and disappointment more than the words she was too well trained to utter.

  "What you said about McCoy," Rabin murmured in Spock's ear. "Is that logic or do you really know something the rest of us don't?"

  "I would know," Spock said without explanation, "if McCoy were dead."

  He remembered the brilliant welter of passion and compassion that had been McCoy's mind from the time his katra had resided in it until the fal-tor-pan replaced his essence within a physical shell. Impossible that such a spirit would be extinguished and Spock not sense it. He reached for what tenuous link might remain between him and the doctor. . . .

  No, Spock realized abruptly, McCoy was most certainly not dead. Instead, in true McCoy fashion, he was . . . furious.

  "He lives," Spock added shortly, awarding Rabin one level glance, knowing his friend would respect Vulcan codes of privacy.

  Rabin raised an eyebrow, clearly wanting more data than he was getting, then gave up and turned to the others. "All right, folks. I don't have to tell anyone not to go for a stroll out there." That roused some feeble laughter from the others. "But remember the spy Captain Spock
caught? I don't want anyone to go anywhere alone. For any reason whatsoever."

  "I wasn't planning on going anywhere, sir," Ensign Prince said and, without further preamble, stretched out on the rocky floor, head cushioned on an arm. Spock understood: an odd, uncomfortable way for the man to sleep, but a simple, highly logical method of judging the force of the storm and the likelihood of further rockfalls through vibrations in the rock itself.

  'The wind's shifted, sirs," the ensign told both captains suddenly. "Hopefully, it means that the storm's going to stop. Sooner rather than later, that is."

  He fell silent once more, eyes closing.

  "Ensign Prince has the right idea," Rabin said. "All of you, get some rest. We'll discuss our options later."

  Cautiously, the crew members found places to sit or lie, making themselves as comfortable as was possible.

  "What do you think, Spock?" Rabin asked softly.

  "I think that our limited supplies cannot provide sufficient nourishment, water in particular, for all. In fact, the odds of survival for the entire party for more than four days drop to—"

  "Ah, never mind. I get the picture. What if we split up?"

  "The removal of even two members of the party will greatly raise the survival odds of those remaining from four days to a full Federation-standard week."

  "Two, eh? I can see where this is leading."

  "And so, logically," Spock continued with a slight nod, "those of us most experienced in desert survival must hunt for water and possible aid, while the others must remain here to call your base and await pickup."

  "The 'most experienced of us' being you and me."

  "So it would seem."

  "Ah, what about Dr. McCoy?"

  "We will search as soon as the storm ceases, of course. But I . . . doubt that we will find him." Again he challenged Rabin with a level glance to ask more; again, Rabin merely raised a brow and said nothing. Spock continued, "The next experienced would, I would assume, be Ensign Prince."

  "He would. Our Saudi Prince spends his holidays on Earth, wandering with the Bedouins of the Rub al-Khali, the Empty Quarter."

  "Good. Then, regardless of rank, he must take charge of those who stay behind."

  "That leaves us to do the roving. Partners again, eh, Spock?"

  "Indeed. But first we must provide a means of communications for those staying." Spock reached for a communicator, opened it, and began, heedless of fingers that only now he realized had been abraded in the struggle, to dismantle it. "If we combine all communicators and possibly a tricorder, if there is still one undamaged, there should be sufficient power for at least a brief distress call."

  "If you say so. Haven't pulled an all-nighter since Starfleet Academy."

  Spock raised a brow. "Not you. You are human. Go to sleep, my friend."

  "But—"

  "Sleep."

  Rabin grinned. "Yes, Mother," he said, and went to find himself a space. Spock felt the corner of his mouth crook up ever so slightly. It was illogical, perhaps, but strangely heartening to know that even now, David Rabin was as irrepressible as ever.

  He could already hear minute changes in the wind's howling, as if a master conductor signaled his orchestra for a softer tone. The storm would die before morning.

  And McCoy?

  Survive, Spock told him silently. Wherever you are. do what you must, but —survive.

  NINE

  Vulcan, Location Unknown

  Day 6, Seventh Week of Tasmeen,

  Year 2247

  Spock woke in slow, dizzy stages, not at all sure where he was. There seemed to be a hollowness under him, a lack of solid ground. . . . His head ached, his vision refused to focus, and his stomach was protesting that the world did not seem to be as firm as was proper. There is no pain. He began the discipline as best he could. It is only an illusion . . . Gradually he began to remember . . . there had been the ceremony gone so terribly wrong . . . Sered . . . the Starfleet officer destroyed in a blink of time . . .

  Yes, and then someone had clearly struck him with sufficient force to stun him. Fortunate that his mixed heritage had given him a Vulcan rather than human skull; if it had been the latter, he suspected that he would be suffering a severe concussion.

  Instead, he just felt ill enough to almost wish it were, illogical or not, otherwise. It was, a corner of his mind noted, not as though his father were present to observe and instruct. He need not worry about being a true Vulcan, acting in accordance with his full potential.

  But the pain was gradually fading to an ache, and Spock managed to summon enough self-control to block it totally. The world finally came into focus around him: a significantly restricted world. He was in . . . in a shuttlecraft of some sort, yes, and strapped into a seat. Sered's doing?

  Yes, Sered, indeed. That was he, straight-backed and proud, sitting beside the "cousin" piloting this craft. The other occupants . . . Spock glanced warily from side to side and bit back a groan. Not only had Sered escaped, he had managed to take his hostages with him.

  And I am clearly one of those hostages.

  Were they not his responsibility? After all, he was Eldest of his year.

  "Are you all right?" an earnest voice whispered. "No, no, don't look at me. They haven't noticed we're awake yet. It's me, David Rabin."

  Yes. Spock recognized that much.

  "Are you all right?" David persisted.

  "If you mean, am I injured," Spock whispered back, "not as badly as I might—"

  He broke off as the shuttlecraft lurched roughly to one side then the other, which did not make his aching head feel any better. Eyes shut, Spock once again willed the pain back under control. A subtle glance out a window—once he could see clearly again—revealed nothing but a swirling curtain of brown—

  A storm! A sandstorm! And Sered was deliberately ordering the craft right into the midst of its ferocity. Why would even a madman risk—

  "We can't go on," the pilot was protesting. "I can't hold us steady!"

  "Continue," Sered commanded coldly. "They will be unable to track us. Their sensors will be confused by the storm's static, and all communications will be destroyed."

  "What good does that do us if we crash?"

  "Do you question me? I tell you, my calculations indicate that this craft's tolerances exceed even the full force of the storm. Continue! We shall succeed. We shall hide from the fools far beyond the Forge!"

  The pilot glanced at Sered in alarm. "Are you jesting? There's nothing out there but wilderness! Unstable, volcanic wilderness at that. It looks like—bah, perhaps my ancestors had more sense than I ever believed when they packed up and left—"

  "It is the Forge of our people," Sered cut in. " 'And in the wilderness shall we find shelter.' "

  That, Spock thought with a touch of disapproval, was surely a misquote from one of Surak's lectures.

  Sered continued, "In that wilderness is a cavernous region, a vast underground realm naturally shielded from all detection and known as . . ." He paused, clearly for dramatic effect. "The Womb of Fire."

  The Womb of Fire! Spock echoed in silent shock. He knew very little about the region save for the fact that it was said to be trueiy seismically unstable, highly volcanic, and perilous to the point of—

  Of insanity. His control wavered. Sered might as well have invoked the Eater of Souls. Racial memory, his mother had called it. Illogical to think of such things now—or was it?

  But Sered had not finished. Ranting outright by now, he told the grim-faced pilot, "You should understand. Vulcan has lost the true meaning of Surak's teachings. You would know that, you must, you of the sundered kindred."

  "If you say so."

  "Fool! Vulcan has lost the true message! We have gone too far into logical aridity and in the process become weak. The only course of salvation is a return to the earliest forms of our rituals. And that," he concluded, face gone cold and empty of all emotion, "we shall find in the Womb of Fire. There shall we be annealed, there shall
we be reborn in a stronger, purer guise."

  But even as he finished, a crackling, static-filled message came over the shuttlecraft's instruments, and terror was clear even in the broken words: "Bearing twenty-four point nine . . . west . . . twenty-four point . . . storm . . . sand . . . engines failing . . . going down . . . we—"

  The transmission stopped with terrifying suddenness. "Oh God." David's voice was a horrified murmur. "Oh God. They've crashed." No longer even trying to pretend he was unconscious, he stared at Spock, wild-eyed. "My—my mother might have been on it."

  "We do not know that." Spock said it as gently as he could. "We do not even know if she was taken hostage."

  Sered was transmitting to other craft, "Follow us. Do not deviate from our path."

  "You see?" Spock told David. "There are other vehicles. Even if your mother was captured, she may be safe on one of those."

  "Enough talking," a guard said brusquely, and both boys wisely fell silent.

  There were no further crashes. The storm at last died away, but by that point, the shuttlecraft had already entered the rugged, mountainous region considered unlivable even by the hardiest of Vulcans. All about them, jagged volcanic peaks, sharp-edged as so many dark knives, thrust up stark against the sky, and ancient or sometimes alarmingly recent lava flows covered the landscape in twisted black ropes.

  "There," Sered commanded. "Land there."

  It was the smallest trace of level ground. The shuttlecraft landed with a jolt, listing slightly to one side. "Best I could do," the pilot muttered, "considering."

  Sered ignored him. At the Vulcan's imperious gesture, Spock, David, and the other young hostages were ushered out. David looked around their fierce surroundings then shrugged. "Not a great place for a picnic, is it?"

  Brave, Spock thought. Foolhardy, perhaps, but decidedly brave.

  The warriors were forcing the hostages into a cavernous opening. "We must not allow this," Spock whispered to the human.

  "Right. Go in there, don't come out."