DON’T READ WITHOUT VULCAN’S HEART!
ONE

Federation Protectorate World Obsidian, City of Kalara
Day 2, Fourth Week, Month of the Raging $urM~
            Year 2296

Captain David Rabin of Starfleet stood leaning wearily
against one wall of the Federation outpost, snatching this
rare bit of free time to look out over the stark, clean beauty
of the desert and at least try to relax. He was a not-quite-
youngish man of Earth Israeli descent, olive-skinned and
sturdy, his hair and beard a curly brown, but right now he
felt twice his age and as though he'd spent all his life
wandering in the wilderness.
    Whoever named this planet Obsidian, Rabin thought,
really caught the feel of the place.
    Sharp gray peaks like a row of fangs rimmed the horizon,
and plains of black volcanic glass gleamed beneath the
savage sun. This was very much a hard-edged world, beauti-
ful if you had an eye for such things, reminding Rabin of
Vulcan or the desert preserves in Earth's Negev, where he'd
grown up.

 Now there's a good comparison, the Negev, with all its
 history of wars and fanatics!
    When Rabin had been assigned to planetary duty here on
Obsidian, he'd been told, "This is a perfect spot for you,
Captain Rabin. Why, with your background, your desert
experience, your knowledge of hydrostatics, you'll have no
trouble at all."
    Of course not. Help the people. Introduce them to a better
life without, of course, damaging the Prime Directive. Oh,
and keep an eye out for Romulan intrusions while you're at
it, yes? This world does lie right on the edge of the Romulan
Empire. Of course, we can't spare you any extra personnel
since this is only a small outpost, a scientific outpost at that,
but that won't be a problem, will it?
    Rabin grinned wryly, then shrugged. You didn't rise to the
rank of captain without knowing something about bureauc-
racy. And things could, as the old story went, always be
worse. At least Obsidian's air was breathable, its gravity
almost Earth-standard: no special gear required. Nothing
but the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Job.
    Obsidian's people, not surprisingly, were as hard-edged as
their world. Humanoid, with sharp features, dusky-olive
skin, and lean, angular bodies (what you could see of them
under those flowing robes), they were very much like his
own Israeli ancestors: tough, stubborn, and indomitable.
    All of which they needed to be. As his superiors had so
delicately reminded him, Obsidian did lie perilously close to
the Romulan Empire. Worse, it had a very active sun
producing ever more frequent solar flares. Not a healthy
combination. The folks here in the bustling (and as far as
probes from space had shown, the only) city, Kalara,
shielded themselves from the flares as best they could. But
they were a 1ow-tech people, deliberately so, kept that way
by a network of conservative customs That Just Were Not

 Broken. And veils, hooded robes, and even thick mud brick
 walls might be proper and picturesque, but they simply
 weren't enough protection. Rabin winced at the thought of
 the resulting abnormally high rates of cancer and lethal
 mutations.
     No wonder everyone seems so bitter. So fatalistic. Yes, and
 has so much rage buried just below the surface. Amazing that
 they even contacted the Federation/
    More amazing that they had been able to, if not actually
break, at least bend their customs enough to go the next step
and accept provisional Federation status. But then, Rabin
thought, you'd have to be pretty stupid, customs or no, not
to want the kinder, more benevolent life the Federation
promised, particularly for your children. The child mortali-
ty rate here, poor kids, was frightening.
    And yet, what has the Federation done for them so far?
We've managed to treat a few children, but most of lhe
parents don't trust us. And why should they? We've told them
that their sun's growing increasingly unstable. Well, they
knew that/ We promised them a better harvest, then gave
them just the one good season followed by a blighted crop of
what was supposed to be perfectly desert-adapted quad-
rotriticalewdidn't that make the Federation look stupid.t
    The crop failure could have been due to faulty genetic
coding hitting in the second generation. Some of the techni-
cians had dubiously proposed that excuse, since there
weren't any major signs of insect damage or recognizable
disease. But excuses didn't help anyone.
    Yes, and then there had been the failed hydroponics
facility--the sand that had fouled the machinery and de-
stroyed the entire operation could have somehow filtered in
past the controls. Unlikely, but maybe someone had failed to
make sure a seal was airtight.
 Oh, and then there had been the supply dump that had

mysteriously been attacked by desert beetles, hikiri as large
as a man's hand and with pincers that could take off a
finger--well now, the locals had claimed that they never had
trouble with hikiri beetles: it must have been poor Federa-
tion planning.
    Right. And all those misfortunes coming so closely one on
the other were strictly coincidental. Romulan interference?
They could hardly be unaware of the Federation presence.
But there had been not the slightest trace of activity on the
Romulans' part; they seemed content to merely watch and
wait.
    Besides, you don't need outsiders to help you stir up a good
case of paranoia. There are more than enough suspects right
here on Obsidian.
    The saboteur wasn't Leshon or any of his city folk, nor did
they know who the criminal was; the aristocratic mayor had
sworn to that by one of his people's convoluted and quite
unbreakable oaths, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes at seeing
the mighty Federation discomfited. But who knew how
many other lives were out there in the desert? And this was,
after all, a major trading center, with caravans in and out of
the city every day.
    And I just don't have the personnel to one, watch for
Romulans, two, guard the outpost, three, watch every supply
dump plus the fields and hydroponics facility, and four, scan
everyone who goes in and out of the city!
    A Federation science ship was supposed to be en route to
Obsidian, its goal to study the deterioration of the planet's
ozone layer; maybe when it got here he could beg or steal
some extra personnel from the captain.
And maybe siniki, Obsidian's answer to pigs, could fly.
Rabin could hear the city's noise even through the thick
walls: business as usual in there, everyone studiously ignor-
ing the Federation presence just outside. He snorted, listen-

ing to the normal babble of voices, the grunts and bleats of
animals and a snatch of flutesong; the air was hot and dusty
as always, but he caught a tantalizing whiff of something
spicy being barbecued. Another plus: Humans could eat
most Obsidian meals. He'd walked through the marketplace
several politic times, smiling and nodding, listening to
music, watching street performers, sampling the food.
    And just barely managing to not get lost. Kalara was a
sprawling maze of low, flat-roofed mud brick buildings, each
one covered with intricate clan patterns in reds and blues.
After much negotiation, the Federation outpost, built up
against one of the city's outer walls, had been designed to
look very much like a Kalaran building, even to being faced
with the same mud brick. David, thinking that the Federa-
tion needed some clan patterns too if they were to keep up
status, had over the weeks added various human symbols,
including the Hebrew signs Shalom and L'chaim, Peace and
To Life. The locals, when he'd told them the translations,
had very much appreciated that! It was one of the few times
he had actually gained face since coming to this world.
 "Captain Daflt Rabeen."
    Rabin turned, biting back a sigh and forcing an amiable
smile onto his face. Just what the day needed: politics. "Sern
Leshon." Fortunately remembering local custom, he dipped
his head three times in courtesy.
    The lean, red-robed figure returned the three shallow
bows, while his ritual entourage (three men, three women,
never more or less), in their dull brown robes, bent nearly in
half. Leshon waved them away casually, not deigning to look
over his shoulder, his sharp, narrow face unreadable. "Ah,
again you study the desert!" He spoke Federation standard
rather well, though with a guttural accent. "What, Captain,
if asking may be permitted, find you so fascinating in the
desert?"

    "It's clean." But Leshon could hardly be expected to
recognize a quote from the old Earth movie Lawrence of
Arabia, so David added, "My own ancestors came from such
a place."
    "As did mine." There was no mistaking the irony in
Leshon's voice. "But we left it as quickly as possible."
Point to your side. "Yet you have to admit it's beautiful."
"Beauty? Heat and dust and emptiness." Leshon gave a
sharp tongue-click of disapproval. "We are not wild nomads
to appreciate such miseries. Yes," he added with a sideways
flash of cool eyes, "I am aware that you have attempted to
contact them."
 "Without success."
    Again Rabin heard that disapproving tongue-click. "They
are nothing. Little more than animals unworthy of your
time."
    Federation Directire Whatever-It-Is: Don't try to argue the
natives out of their prejudices. "It wasn't 'wild nomads' who
let beetles into our supply dump, Sern Leshon."
 "What's this? Do you accuse my peoplere"
 "Of nothing, Sern Leshon."
    Except, Rabin thought dryly, a slight touch of hypocrisy.
Leshon and the good folks of Kalara might not be behind
any acts of sabotage or know who was, but that didn't mean
Leshon wasn't enjoying the proceedings. He could hardly
have wanted his authority undermined by a Federation
presence and, David knew, still held a grudge against the
city council for overruling him.
    "Sern Leshon, I don't blame you or your people for being
wary of strangers who aren't even from your--" Rabin
broke off sharply as Junior Lieutenant Shara Albright hur-
ried forward. Young and earnest, with not a blonde hair out
of place, she stopped short, clearly aching to speak but
determinedly obeying protocol. Why oh why, David

thought, did they send me someone who not only isn't
biologically suited to this climate but who doesn't have a
scrap of humor as well? At least her passion for spit and
polish meant that she followed orders about keeping her
head covered and protecting her too fair skin. "Go ahead,
Lieutenant, say something before you burst."
    Her blink told him she didn't approve of his levity, but of
course a junior lieutenant didn't scold a captain. "Sir!" she
began, almost explosively, cautiously in Earth English so
Leshon couldn't understand. "There's another of them. The
hermit types, I mean."
    Rabin groaned. "The usual zealot, I suppose? All right,
let's see what this one has to say."
    This one, clad in the usual worn-out robe, was firmly in
the mold of hermit: the fanatic and determinedly unkempt
sort. He was an older man, filthy, painfully thin and with the
eyes of someone who enjoyed watching heretics burn. Stand-
ing carefully upwind, Rabin gave him the courtesy of a triple
dip of the head, very well aware that Leshon was watching.
 "Demon!" the old man said severely in return.
    "Ah, no. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I and my people
are definitely mortal flesh and blood."
    "Demon, I say! Can you deny you were not born of this
world? Can you deny you come from the Outer Dark?"
    A crowd of locals had begun to gather, a little too
coincidentally, and the hair at the back of David's neck
began to prickle. Judging from the growing tension in the
air, this was a mob in the making, and if he didn't defuse
things quickly--
    "I come," Rabin said very gently, "from the Federation,
that is, the United Federation of Planets, a peaceful associa-
tion of equals. And Imwe, all of us, we come~we come in
peace."
 "You come to destroy us!"

 No reasoning with a fanatic. "Why?"
    That stopped the hermit short. But he recovered all too
quickly. "You dare to mock me! You, your Federation with
its plot, its secret plot to destroy us!" "No. Were"
    "Yes! You plot to destroy our water tunnels and enslave us
all!"
    Obsidian, like many other desert worlds, depended on its
ancient network of water tunnels; even the fiercest of wild
nomads would die before damaging one. The crowd gasped
in outrage, and David cut in hastily, "How? You, all of you,
you've seen what we've brought: food, medical supplies--if
we were the monsters this" benighted old idiot "this elder
claims, wouldn't we have brought weapons instead? Yes," he
added wryly, "and if we were such monsters, would we have
ever been the victims of acts of sabotage?" That translated
as "well-spoiling," and roused wary murmurs of agreement
from the crowd.
    "Poison!" the old man shouted. "You have poisoned the
water!"
    "Really? Then go, bring me some of that 'poisoned' water.
Bring some for yourself, too! Now/Ready? L'chaim!"
    The hermit clearly didn't want to be part of the friendly
ritual of sharing water, but just as clearly didn't dare refuse
and risk accusal. Rabin glanced down at the earthenware
cup. It looked like water, tasted like water. He drank with a
flourish and made a mental note to have himself checked out
later, just in case.
    Lowering the now-empty cup, Rabin smiled, looked
around at the crowd, seeing doubt then embarrassment
replacing anger. "Quite pleasant. Nice and cool. And not
a drop of poison, either. It's very easy to hate, isn't it?
When your crops fail, your children sicken, it's very easy
to believe that he's a demon, she's a witch just because

he or she isn't exactly like you. Believe me, I know. I come
from a land very much like yours." Save for the sun; Earth
never had a sun like this, thank the good Lord. "But we
settled our differences and made the desert bloom, and so
can you. You can see an end to shortened lives, see your
happy, healthy children playrebut only if you let us help
yOU."
    "As slaves," the old man muttered, but the fire had gone
out of him.
 "As friends," Rabin corrected firmly. "And we--"
    Shouts broke into the rest of his words. Rabin smelled
acrid smoke and swore under his breath. Now what?
    "Fire!" someone yelled--in Federation standard. Spitting
out an oath, Rabin ran.
    Sure enough, another precious supply dump had been
sabotaged. Of course, Rabin thought. The hermit's ravings
made a perfect distraction, especially understaffed as we are.
Yes, and more shouts were telling him that another dump
had been caught just about to burst into flame. Someone
had known enough to bypass the controls and get in there,
but--
    No Romulans on Obsidian, assuming Federation instru-
ments were doing their job. No double agents among his
crew, assuming he was doing his job. No locals with suffi-
cient knowledge of technology; that was a given. Rabin
looked wildly out at the desert.
 Just who is out there? Who--or what?
    "It does not seem that Obsidian likes you," Leshon
purred, and Rabin whirled to him.
    "You'd like us to just go away, wouldn't you? Return
things to the way they were. But they aren't going back that
way! They aren't going to get better, either, not with your
sun turned enemy. We aren't trying to cut into your power,
Sern Leshon, surely you see that? I like these people, Sern

 Leshon. I don't want to see any more of them suffer. I don't
 want to see any more children die!"
 "Nor do I," Leshon returned flatly. "But I--"
 "Captain!" That was Albright, her eyes wide with alarm.
 "There are reports of sabotage coming in from Supply
 Dumps Four and Five."
  "Those, too?" Rabin groaned.
    No hope for it. He was understaffed and overpressured,
and now, with the harsh desert summer almost here with its
promise of death for the unprepared, one more loss would
mean the end of the mission. All those poor, sick kidst
    They couldn't wait for that Federation science vessel to
make its scheduled visit. No choice, Rabin thought reluc-
tantly, but to call for emergency Federation assistance. He
ducked into the outpost's command center, absently return-
ing greetings from the personnel, amazingly reassured after
the 1ow-tech, dusty, maddening world outside to be sud-
denly surrounded again by all the gleaming, ultramodern
equipment and clean, cool, if somewhat antiseptic, air.
 "Ensign Liverakos."
    The young man, slender, dark, and competent, glanced up
from his console. "Sir."
    "I want an encrypted message sent right away to that
science ship, the..." Blast, what was its name?
    Ensign Liverakos had already turned back to his console,
his long-fingered, graceful hands flying over the controls.
"The Intrepid II, sir."
    "Ah, of course. Named after that first Intrepid lost in
action years back. And the captain is... ?"
    "One moment, sir... here it is. Captain Spock, sir,
homeworld Vulcan."
 Rabin stared. "You're joking."
 "Uh, no, sir. It is Captain Spock, formerly--"

    "Of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Yes, Ensign, I know. Believ~
me, I know." Rabin felt himself all at once grinning like a
kid. Like the kids he and Spock had both been. "Don't
worry, Ensign. The strain hasn't gotten to me. It's just that
suddenly there's hope. For the first time since all this trouble
began, there is hope."

11

TWO

A

Intrepid II, Deep Space
Year 2296

The science vessel Intrepid H moved silently through space.
Spock, once science officer on a very different vessel, now
captain of this new ship, sat as still as a Vulcan statue in the
command chair, very well aware of every passing moment.
    There, now: It was the exact instant when he was sched-
uled to go off watch. One must be precise at the beginning of
a mission, especially with a new crew, if they were to settle
into the right routine. Getting to his feet, he told the
helmsman, "You have the bridge, Mr. Duchamps."
    Lieutenant Duchamps had the round, cheerful type of
face that seemed always about to break into a smile. But he
replied with rigid formality, "I relieve you, sir," far too
stiffly for a normal human response.
    Not unusual, Spock mused. For the first few weeks of any
mission over the past three decades of his service in Star-
fleet, crew members who had never served with Spock or

other Vulcans tended to be just as rigidly uncomfortable in
his presence.
    Company manners. Leonard McCoy called it. Spock
suspected the stiff-necked, wary behavior was more a matter
of those bizarre tales no one quite believed about Vulcans:
that their complete self-control meant they had no emo-
tions.
    Fact: the newcomers--no, that was not precisely
accurate--the portion of the crew with whom Spock had
never served were still on their best behavior with him.
With, for that matter, the former Enterprise crew members
who had transferred with Spock onto the Intrepid H on what
humans called a "shakedown" cruise.
    Odd phrase. I can observe nothing even approximating
shakiness in the performance of any of the systems function-
ing on board. Indeed, more and more of them are becoming
fully operational by the hour.
    A flash of memory brought Montgomery Scott's message
to him: "Och, be good to her, lad." Scotty's accent had been
set for maximum density, his voice pleading as if Spock
might actually neglect his duties. "She's only a wee lassie.
Let her have some life, not like the other one, that poor lost
first Intrepid."
    Trust Scotty to see familiar relationships in the inanimate.
The situations, Spock thought, were not at all similar, nor
were the vessels. The Intrepid II, designed for exploration
and research, was a modified Oberth-class ship, a smaller,
lighter craft than the Enterprise but still carrying enough
weapons to hold her own in ship4o-ship action. She was,
indeed, a far cry from Scotty's "wee lassie."
    On the day I truly understand Scottyg anthropomor-
phisms, Spock thought with the smallest hint of wry humor,
I will also truly understand every gene of my own half-
humanity.
 But the crew were hardly machines. Dr. McCoy had been

making psychological generalizations about mourning, peri-
ods of adjustments, and stress since the Intrepid H had left
its docking bay. It had, after all, been just over one Earth
standard year since the loss of Captain Kirk, and while a
Vulcan might be able to portion away grief, one year was
hardly sufficient time for humans to adapt.
    Doors too new to have acquired scratches from use
whispered quietly, efficiently shut behind Spock (satisfacto-
ry), and the turbolift began to take him down to quarters
without the smallest hesitation. (Satisfactory, again.)
    He expected nothing less. Lieutenant Commander Ather-
ton's work and reports were consistently superb. According
to the crew rumor that Spock's keen hearing had overheard,
Atherton diverted any human passions he might have into
his engines--"and he hasn't even got the excuse of being
Vulcan?
    Spock permitted himself the slightest upward tilt of an
eyebrow at that. Atherton did have his odd habits. Of Earth
British descent, he spoke with a crisp if archaic English
accent. While it admittedly conveyed information clearly
and concisely, it did seem to bother some of the crew.
  Why? Because it is an archaic accent?
    No. There must be more. Uhura, here on the Intrepid H
with Spock and a full commander in her own right, had once
told him regretfully that she missed Scotty's familiar warm
burr. That the burr had been just as carefully cultivated as
Atherton's crisp accent was a matter neither Spock nor
Uhura had mentioned.
    Humans, Spock thought, did harbor a tendency for what
they called "nostalgia." But it was illogical to regret or yearn
for the past. The sooner the new crew members recovered
from their "company manners" and integrated into the
whole, the sooner the ship would run at peak efficiency.
Morale would then be higher: a desirable goal and a stimulus
to even greater success.

    Sarek, Spock realized with a start. 'M stimulus to greater
success"--that is one of my father g favorite phrases. Fasci-
nating that I shouM use it now. And not quite welcome.
    As for the others, those who had transferred from the
original Enterprise, those who still mourned... Spock hesi-
tated, admitting to himself with total honesty that Captain
Kirk would have known what to do to comfort the mourners
and reassure crew members still awed by the Enterprise
veterans. But Jim was gone.
    That Spock himself might feel more comfortable with a
perfectly integrated crew was not a variable in the equation.
The calculus of captaincy, he mused, deriving an austere
satisfaction from the phrase.
    But austerity could become sterility. Perhaps after he
meditated, he would balance the cold equation with music.
In his quarters was the lytherette that had been Ambassador
Sarek's gift to him.
    Spock straightened ever so slightly. Ridiculous after so
many years to still react this... irrationally. Yet it seemed
that these days he and his father could not even agree on
music: Sarek considered Spock's transcriptions of Earth
compositions frivolous. Surely the act of transcribing music
from one instrument to another, with all the care necessary
to maintain the composer's intent, was a legitimate exercise
in logic.
    Still, there was undeniable emotion in all human music.
Was a shakedown cruise with a crew half in awe, half in
mourning, a time for even a suggestion of frivolity?
    That was too emotional a question in itself. Spock
brushed his fingers across the control panel, overriding the
elevator's programmed speed, testing. It would be interest-
ing to see how the mechanism functioned when the elevator
stopped.
 The stop was smooth. Quite satisfactory. A panel flashed

green, signaling acceptable life-support levels in the corridor
beyondmanother refinement introduced by Chief Engineer
Atherton. Spock stepped out into a corridor partially
dimmed to hint at ship's "night," striding past a few crew
members also going off-watch. Starfleet Medical had long
ago decreed, quite reasonably, that every ship must have a
period of "night" to reflect transspecies biological impera-
tives. Spock knew that his own metabolism, even after so
long away from his native world, was still driven by the
brilliant, hot days and deep nights of Yulcan. He might need
considerably less sleep than a human, but he nonetheless
required the rhythm of day and night.
    Alone in the corridor now, Spoek let his hand rest on a
bulkhead, testing once more. The ship's vibrations were
both so subtle and so all-pervasive that only a Vulcanmor
perhaps an engineer who bonded with his ship almost as a
symbiote--could perceive them. Machinery, Spock had
been given to understand, had a "feel," though he could
sense no more than how expertly the chief engineer man-
aged the deadly raving of matter-antimatter flow into the
great engines, how meticulously he had calibrated the ship's
life-support. For a chief engineering officer to operate at
peak efficiency, however, he must manage his staff as ex-
pertly as his engines.
    That, Spock reminded himself, was equally true for
starship captains. The integration of the crew might have
been a simpler task if more of the Enterprise officers
remained. Sulu had long since left to take command of the
Excelsior. Chekov had joined him as first officer, and Scotty
had retired to the Norphin Colony. Of the bridge crew, only
McCoy and Uhura remained of his comrades on...
Spock's eyes narrowed fractionally, but he mastered his
expression almost immediately... Jim Kirk g bridge.
 Is this human "nostalgia'? Illogical.

    A light suddenly flashed on his belt. Lieutenant Richards,
the new science officer, had presented Spock almost hesi-
tantly with this, his latest refinement on paging technology:
It kept the entire crew from hearing their captain being
hailed. Messages awaited Spock in his quarters, one carrying
the red light indicating urgency,
    Quickly entering his quarters, Spock just as quickly
turned down the light until it was a more comfortable
reddish glow, turned up climate control--adjusted to a
frugal Earth-normal in his absence--to something ap-
proaching Vulcan-normal, then sat before his personal view-
screen and signaled for communications.
    Interesting, he thought, scrolling through the encrypted
data, translating it as he read. No. fascinating.
    Spock's long fingers flew over the keypad, quickly calling
up a visual. A stocky, sturdy figure appeared. A bearded face
with wry dark eyes seemed to stare at him, and Spock felt
the smallest thrill of recognition. The years had changed the
human, of course, but Spock mentally removed the beard
and visualized the face as far younger: Yes. David Rabin--
now, it would seem, Captain David Rabin. Spock played the
audio, unscrambled:
    "Spock, or at least I hope it's you: Yes, it's your old desert
pal, assigned to planetary duty on Obsidian. What am I
doing here? Making the desert bloom, my pointy-eared
friend. Or at least trying."
    Quickly, all humor gone from his voice, Rabin cataloged
the list of problems, ending with, "I like these people, Spock.
They deserve better. We really need your help, my friend.
Rabin out."
    "Obsidian," Spock repeated thoughtfully, staring at the
now-empty screen for an instant. His fingers flew over the
keypad once more, bringing up first the planet's position--
on the edge of the Romulan/Federation Neutral Zone--then

 an executive summary of planetological, biological, and
 anthropological data, and finally his old friend's official
 biography.
    Excellent fitness reports, of course; Rabin was not the sort
to be idle. A good many successful desert excursions on a
good many worlds: his friend had become as much a nomad
as Rabin's ancestors.
    He has also cross-trained in hydrostatics, I see. Only
logical, under the circumstances.
    Successful missions, yes, although comments about Cap-
tain Rabin's "initiative" had been duly entered. Such com-
ments, Spock knew, were ironic: there had been several such
in James Kirk's records. And none at all in his.
What was Rabin doing on an outpost this small?
I'm making the desert bloom, my pointy-eared J?iend.
One comer of Spock's mouth quirked up in what would
have been wild mirth for a human. Rapidly processing the
data, he saw that Medical had red-flagged Obsidian; glanc-
ing at its star's spectrographic assay, he saw the cause. Loki
could be called a main-sequence G-type star, but its recent
level of solar flares and sunspot activity made the worlds
orbiting it less than healthy places to live, complicated by
the fact that Obsidian had almost no ozone layer.
    High infant mortality, high death rate of adults as well,
mostly due to melanomas, carcinomas... Spock down-
loaded the medical data, preempting his science officer's
task for the sake of efficiency; after all these years, he knew
far better than Lieutenant Richards what Dr. McCoy would
need, and the science officer would never reproach him.
A new flash of light: an upgraded message from Rabin.
"We've got trouble, Spock. The grain supplies are contam-
inated. The level of raiding against the cities by the wild
nomads has stepped up. Someone is poisoning the wells!"
 Both of Spock's eyebrows shot up. "They're poisoning the

wells!" was Rabin's personal metaphor, meaning damage.
Prejudice. Danger. A long finger stabbed at a control button,
opening a direct line to Lieutenant Duchamps.
 "Captain?"
      When will he stop sounding astonished? And when will the
title stop sounding incongruous to me? Illogical.
    "Lieutenant, divert course to Obsidian, with all deliberate
speed. I should suggest maximum scan and yellow alert as
we parallel the Neutral Zone."
    "Aye-aye, sir." Curiosity tinged Duchamps' voice, but
"aye-aye" was the only acceptable answer.
    Meditation was out of the question. One did not need to
be a Vulcan to know that diverting course was likely to bring
questions, if not outright debate. Spock took down his
lytherette from where it hung near his copy of Chagall's
Expulsion and began to tune it. Perhaps he could at least--
    Of course, the first interruption struck right then. "Yes,
Mr. AthertonT'
    "Captain, I have just calibrated my engines and was
counting on testing them at lower speeds when your order
came." Atherton's clipped British accept almost trembled
with protective outrage, just barely skirting insubordina-
tion. "I would hate to put undue pressure on the dilithium
crystal mounts just because this David Rabin you men-
tioned has overreacted."
 Me bairns, me puir wee bairns.
    That echo of Scotty's frequent wails kept Spock from
giving the human a precise, perfectly logical dressing-down.
Instead, he took a deep breath, knowing how many people
had no doubt patched into ship's communication or would
have this message relayed to them, and said only, "The rest
of the ship is in such exemplary order, Mr. Atherton, that I
think you might countenance the speed." He kept his voice

 coolly patient, more for the memory of Scotty's concern
 than Atherton's present worries. "I knew Captain Rabin
 when we were boys together on Vulcan. I have traveled with
 him. He would not send out a distress call without great
 need."
     The viewscreen showed how thoroughly Atherton's pale
 face reddened. "Aye-aye, sir," the chief engineer said crisply,
 and Spock's screen went blank. It was illogical, Spock told
 himself, to be grateful to a formula that had been old even in
 the days when Jane%' Fighting Ships meant naval vessels, not
 faster-than-light craft.
    There were no further messages of import. Spock returned
to tuning the ancient lytherette, his fingers caressing pegs
and the luminous varnish of its sound box, then glanced at
the chronometer and made a private estimate before strik-
ing the opening notes of a slow, meditative piece by that
most logical of human composers, Johann Sebastian Bach.
    Quite within the time frame Spock had projected, the
doors to his quarters parted, his privacy coding overridden
as only a privileged character might do.
    The privileged character glowered at him from the door-
way. "Spock," McCoy blurted, "you never told me you had
a human buddy on Vulcan when you were a kid!"
    Ah yes, the news must have spread through the Intrepid at
better than warp factor ten. Gossip always could outpace
even a starship. Rather than replying immediately, Spock
allowed himself the luxury of a few more notes of Bach's
"Air on the G String," then lifted his fingers from the
instrument and let the vibrations dissipate.
    "Since you have already intruded, Doctor, please sit
down."
    McCoy ambled into the red-lit cabin, mimed ostentatious
discomfort at the heat, and sank into the chair opposite
Spock, setting a square crystal bottle down on the desk with

20

 a thump that made the cobalt blue liquid inside slosh from
 side to side. It boiled up, threatening to overflow, and
 McCoy glared at it.
     "If you were a drinking man, Spock, I'd say you could use
 a drink. Where do you keep your beer glasses?"
     "I see no logic to the ingestion of ethanol," Spock re-
 torted. "Especially not before what might be a ship's ac-
 tion."
    A quick foray by McCoy to one of Spock's meticulously
neat shelves produced, if not beer glasses, a substitute the
human considered at least adequate: a pair of translucent
stone goblets. He poured the frothing ale.
    "Now, if this were Saurian brandy or Tennessee bourbon,
I wouldn't waste it on you. But Romulan ale... if your
Romulan cousins can drink it, you certainly can."
    "Romulans do many things no sane Vulcan would do,"
Spock observed, studying the liquid. The ale was the exact
color of antique computer screens.
    "Sane Vulcan?" There went McCoy's eyebrow, raised in
his usual jesting mockery. "Isn't that somewhat of a redun-
dancy?"
    "Believe me, Doctor," Spock admitted reluctantly, "I
have known of cases..."
    No. McCoy had often harassed Jim Kirk with these
nocturnal visits. Ship's doctor's responsible for the captain
health, he'd insisted. "'You're a bartender, not a doctor,'"
Spock quoted Kirk without warning, almost making McCoy
choke on his drink.
    The doctor raised his glass in appreciation. "Absent
friends." The old toast was the most military thing about
him.
    Spock knew he must comply or risk a serious breach of
custom. "Absent friends," he responded and took a meager
sip of the burning ale.

  "I miss him too, Spock."
    A flash of memory: the sharp stab of grief, logical but no
less painful, the memorial ceremony, with humans allowed
to show that grief while he, he must keep his face forever
properly impassive... Spock glanced up from his glass.
"What would you have me say, Doctor? One cannot change
the past."
    His cool tone, Spock thought, would surely provoke
McCoy into a rant. But if the usual diatribe about Spock's
coldness brought the doctor any ease of heart, he was
welcome to it.
    But McCoy said nothing, and there was a suspicious
warmth in his eyes that Spock recognized as human sympa-
thy. "It grows late," Spook said. "This is not your watch.
Should you not be sleeping?"
    "What about you? I've checked computer access, Spock.
You haven't slept form"
 "Ten days, fifteen hours, and thirty-five minutes--"
    "Stop!" McCoy flung up his free hand. "You haven't slept
since we left Tarin Four."
    "Really, Doctor." Spoek raised an eyebrow to the position
his crew called (not to his face, though they never did realize
the efficiency of Vulcan hearing) "eyebrow on stun." "I must
protest your cross-training as a computer hacker. I had no
idea you were so accomplished."
    McCoy flushed awkwardly. "Access time is tied to medi-
cal records," he admitted. "In case of obsessions, compul-
sions, people spending all their off-hours plugged in.
Including," he reverted to his unwelcome subject with a
vengeance, "this ship's captain. I remember the last time
you played sleepless wonder."
 "We returned home safely then, did we not?"
    McCoy glared. "You're worried about this friend of
yours."

    "David Rabin is a very distinguished officer. He was a
capable individual even before he entered Starfleet. Did I
ever tell you," Spook continued, calculatedly offering diver-
sionary tactics, "of when I met him... and his mother,
who was at that time a Starfleet captain as well?"
    He could all but feel McCoy restraining himself from
chasing after the story. "Nevertheless," the doctor contin-
ued resolutely, "you're worried about him. Why, Spook?"
    "Because Captain Rabin is worried, and I trust him.
Obsidian is of strategic importance because of its location
on the border of the Neutral Zone."
    He called up the star map and turned the screen to allow
McCoy to see it.
    "That star's got the jitters," McCoy grumbled. "Naming
it Loki was bad cess. Do you have any idea of the incidence
of lethal mutations on that planet?" he asked, almost
accusingly. "Carcinomas? Melanomas? Place makes metas-
tasis an occupational hazard."
    Wordlessly, Spock handed the physician the data he had
downloaded. McCoy practically grabbed the printout from
him. "A bribe, Spock?"
"Data are never a bribe, Doctor. Let us call it a briefing."
"Didn't have time to get this from Richards, though.
Micromanaging, eh Spock? Science officer wouldn't thank
you for stepping in. Oh well, every man--all right, every
Vulcan--yields to temptation every now and then."
    "I judged that I could approximate your requirements
more closely than Science Officer Richards. Please, examine
the data."
    "This is another reason Rabin's worried, isn't it?" McCoy
asked, looking up after a time, his voice compassionate.
"Obsidian's a 1ow-tech world. Only reason it tolerates a
Federation outpost at all is for the medical technology. And
maybe the water engineering and agronomy."

    Spock highlighted a graph on-screen. "In the generation
since that outpost has been operational, the average age of
the townspeople of Obsidian--we have no way of calculat-
ing population trends for the nomads--has risen two years.
That is a significant change. Another generation or so..."
    "So it's not just tactics. It isn't even loss of face if the
Romulans--"
    "No evidence of Romulan interference has been re-
ported."
 "I don't believe in the tooth fairy, Spock!"
    Spock sipped his ale rather than pander to the doctor's
improbabilities about dentition and the supernatural. "It
would be a loss if the Federation were compelled to abandon
the outpost."
    "It's the waste that's scaring your friend, isn't it, Spock?
The loss of life. The children who will never have a chance at
life, much less health. The people who will never be without
misery." McCoy's voice thinned in pain.
    Spock turned away, remembering Rabin's mobile face,
smeared with grit from Vulcan's deep desert, a trail of dried
blood at one corner of his mouth, tears making clean streaks
in the mess: "I cry because I'm relieved. I'm proud to care so
much."
    McCoy poured himself more ale. "Spock, you're a phony.
Don't tell me your heart doesn't bleed for these people."
    Spock glanced at him, face a cool mask. "In diagnosis, if
nothing else, you are the logical peer of a Vulcan. However,
if you seek to elicit a reaction for which I am not equipped,
you are in error."
    "Tell it to the stars." McCoy drained his glass, then set it
down with a bang. Spock lowered his own drink more
gently. His aim, rather to his bemusemerit, was not as
unerring as it should have been.
 "Function's deteriorating, Spock!" McCoy pounced. "Are

 you going to sleep? I'll make a bargain with you. You sleep
 now, and you can sleep here, not in sickbay. Though how
 you can sleep in this heat..."
     "One does not bargain with duty," Spock pointed out.
 "And you had best acclimatize yourself to 'this heat' if you
 are to accompany me to Obsidian's surface."
     "Try and keep me away," said McCoy, a hunter on the
 trail of his most hated quarry: suffering.
     "Doctor, I would never interfere in the performance of
 your duty."
     McCoy tentatively raised a hand, then let it fall back to his
 side.
     You almost forgot, did you not? Had I been Jim, you would
 have patted me on the shoulder.
     But one did not casually touch Vulcans. "It's okay,
 Spock," McCoy continued as though that awkward little
 moment had never occurred, "I won't tell anyone that your
 heart's in the right place. Assuming that the right place is
 where normal people have their livers."
    He rose. "Get some rest, Captain. We've got more work
than any two men, or Vulcans, can handle facing us on
Obsidian. Someone, I forget who, once said that 'the desert
is a forge on which to try the'... hell, I forget. Soul,
probably."
    A shock of memory surprised Spock. Forge, indeed. Long
ago, he and Rabin had been hammered out on another such
forge. "You have convinced me, Doctor. However, without
belaboring the point, may I remind you that I am better able
than you to tolerate extremes of heat--or of sleep depriva-
tion?"
    "I'd like to see what your subconscious comes up with
when you're really sleep-deprived," McCoy grumbled.
Spock sat waiting. McCoy usually delivered his true message
just when he seemed about to leave.

    "Spock, forget I'm your doctor for a minute. Pretend I'm
your friend. I'm telling you, as a friend: Dammit, get some
sleep."
    He slouched out, muttering to himself, "Hypertamoxifen,
recombinant interferon, genetic splicing..."
    It would be profoundly tempting to anticipate McCoy's
research. But McCoy's points about micromanaging and
usurping his officers' functions had made sense, and Spock
had given him what amounted to an implied promise that he
would comply.
    Replacing the lytherette on its wall mount, Spock dark-
ened the cabin and stretched out on his bed. If the bridge
needed him, he was a signal away. He hoped--emotion
though that was--that they would.
    And then, drifting at last into sleep, hoped that at least for
a short while they would not.

THREE

   Vulcan, Sarek's Estate
Day 3, Fourth Week of Tasmeen,
Year 2247

The view from his father's estate was tranquil in Vulcan's
early morning, the air still cool and sweet with the scent of
desert vegetation, the vast red sweep of desert and moun-
tains still blue with shadow. Spock, already nearly his
father's height at seven Vulcan standard years--seventeen
Terran years--though not yet grown out of a boy's gangli-
ness, stood on the wide stone terrace trying to empty his
mind of all but the tranquility before him... trying but not
quite succeeding.
    This was illogical. He had survived his kahs-wan trial,
proved himself a true Vulcan despite his mixed heritage.
There should be no reason for doubt.
    And yet the question remained. Surely it was not illogical
to wonder about himself?. Spock had studied genetics as part
of his schooling; he was quite well aware of his own hybrid

complexity. But a reasoning being was more than a mere
assemblage of genes.
 What, then, am I?
    His father would probably say that introspection was an
interesting mental discipline only as long as it did not
devolve into unseemly self-absorption. His mother would
probably smile that cryptically amused human smile of hers
and murmur in Earth English something about "teenage
angst ."
 Neither view was particularly helpful.
    So. The question should be, perhaps, less "What am I"
than "What am I to be?" Spock was sure that he lacked the
temperament to become a teacher as his mother had been,
and while the thought of pure scientific research was intrigu-
ing, it did not seem right for him as a career, either. To be an
ambassador like his father... again, intriguing--but that
was Sarek's path, not his. A fact, Spock thought, that Sarek
could not or would not see.
 No. Calmness. Anger is a dangerous emotion.
    A flash of color caught the young Vulcan's attention: a
lar& a desert bird dazzlingly blue against the red sands,
soared up into the brightening sky, racing upward on a
thermal. Spock's gaze followed it up, up, climbing as though
fleeing the known, the safe-- Ridiculous fancy. Illogical.
    And yet, were it not illogical to do so, he might almost
envy the bird its freedom. The thought of seeing strange new
places--
 "Spock."
    He just barely managed to properly compose his face, to
turn without unseemly haste. "Father. Is it time?"
    Sarek, an impressive figure in his somber red ambassado-
rial finery, nodded. "Come, my son."
    Private--and indeed often public--meetings were tradi-
tionally held in the early morning, one of the coolest parts of

the desert day. Sered, Spock knew, had once been a class-
mate of his father's at the Vulcan Science Academy, though
the two had never been close. Now Sered was Sarek's
political antagonist, one who advocated Vulcan's withdraw-
al from the Federation.
    Withdrawal, Spock thought with the certainty of his
nearly seventeen years, is hardly a wise or a logical position.
    But of course it was not his place to speak up. It was his
place merely to watch and witness as Sered came to their
home to debate with Sarek.
    Why? Sarek does not legally or morally require a witness.
Does my father think me his ambassadorial apprentice? I am
not, I will not be, that.
    As they reentered their home, Sarek commented, as
though aware of his son's thoughts, "Sered always was a
brilliant student, brilliant and philosophical. Quite charm-
ing. Deliberately so. Do not let him charm you, my son."
 "No."
    Sarek raised a wry brow but said nothing more. Spock
stood politely to one side as Sered was ushered into his
father's quiet, simply furnished study--a table, chairs,
several cases holding books and scrolls and one elegant wall
hanging in muted brown and sepia tones by the famous
scholar-artist T'Resik. The young Vulcan, still keeping out
of the way as was proper, listened to the two political rivals
greet each other with just the proper amount of cool civility.
    They are saying a good deal in only a few words, yet at the
same time never really saying anything. Spock marveled at
that bizarre juggling-with-words skill, then reminded him,
self that of course they were masters at such. That was part
of how the game of diplomacy was played.
It is not my game. Despite what my father may believe.
But one could learn from any experience, and Spock
determined to learn what he could from this, all the while
trying to study Sered without being noticed.

    Sered was worthy of study. He was a striking figure, taller
than Sarek, lean almost to the point of thinness, with the
clean, sharp features of a noble from Vulcan's distant past.
He was dressed almost too austerely in a simple brown robe
of archaic cut that emphasized the link with the past.
    Arrogance, Spock thought in disapproval, then chided
himself: Illogical to judge merely on physical appearance.
    "Colleague Sered, this is my son, Spock. Spock, this is the
scholar Sered."
    Spock started at hearing his name suddenly spoken. He
bowed politely, then straightened to find himself caught by
Sered's intense stare, a stare that seemed to sum up all he
was and would ever be--and which found him lacking.
    "He does look truly of our people," Sered said after a
moment. "I see nothing of humanity in his appearance."
    Sarek's almost imperceptible crook of a hand sent Spock
back to his corner, struggling to keep his face impassive.
What Sered had said had most definitely been intended as
an insult. Why? The only logical reasons could be to force
Sarek from his calm--or to display deliberate prejudice.
    Sarek never stirred. "There is no shame in my son's
parentage," he said, totally without expression. "Nor is
there shame in that of my lady wife."
    "A fine and sadly rare thing," Sered retorted. "To see so
strong a bond, I mean. Even if perhaps it is--this is not
meant as an insult, Sarek, but as simple fact--even if it is
misplaced."
 "How so?"
    "Ah, Sarek, you know exactly what I mean. We have had
similar discussions in the past."
 "And carne to no satisfactory conclusions."
    "I grant that. But you cannot deny the truth: Ours is a long
and proud heritage worthy of protection."
  "And I grant that. Your point, Sered?"

    "My point is that some of that precious heritage has
already been lost."
    "Because of our alliance with the other Federation
worlds."
    "In part, yes. And yes, of course we have debated this
before. You cannot deny that diffusion and assimilation are
both perils when one deals with outsiders." "We have, indeed, debated this before."
    "Of course. And I will not waste our time in going over
old ground. More important for our people than outside
influences is that we not let ouselves forget Surak's teach-
ings." Sered gave the smallest hiss of disapproval, barely
audible. "Too much has already been lost through misinter-
pretations and false doctrine. Yes, and almost worse than
this warping of logic has been the sundering of our kind."
    "Those who abandoned Vulcan, you mean." In Sarek's
voice was the faintest warning hint of we have been here
before as well.
    "Exactly. Think of it, Sarek. Consider it well. Our own
cousins are lost to us--unless we turn back from the
treacherous path we walk."
    Sarek's slight lift of an eyebrow spoke volumes of skepti-
cism. "To do what? Rejoin a people who have chosen the
path of violence?"
    "Ah, my colleague, consider this: Our ways have become
stale, rigid, far from the healthy whole proposed by Surak.
Can you deny this?" "Yes."
    "You spend so much time in your ambassadorial duties--
no shame in that, but you do not see, you do not know what
happens outside the many embassies. Ours is, indeed, a
stagnant culture. While who can say what our cousins have
become?" Sered paused, the faintest hint of a charming
smile barely touching his lips. "Can you honestly claim you

are not curious? Come, Sarek, tell me: Do you not wish to
see what glories our sundered cousins might have accom-
plished?"
    "Of course," Sarek retorted dryly, "but not if it involves
surrendering all that we are and may become."
    Sered stepped back from the confrontation, turning to
study the intricate wall hanging. "T'Resik's work, is it not?"
"Indeed."
    "A most logically woven piece. See how the twist of fiber
here leads the eye to follow it along till it joins this thread
and becomes one with it. Stronger than before." He turned
smoothly back to Sarek. "And that is exactly what I propose.
We cannot survive as we are. Ultimately, there must be a
merging of the sundered cultures, the two halves made
whole. We must use the fierce, healthy--yes, the emotional
strain to rejuvenate Vulcan's tired bloodlines." Sered's
glance flicked to Spock, flicked away. "In a new joining, a
new, better order, those of... lesser blood--" Again his
glance flicked delicately to Spock, then away. "--those of
lesser blood might be deemed less than worthy."
    "'Lesser blood,'" Sarek said to the air. "There, I believe,
is an illogical thought if ever there was such a thing. Blood is
but a substance, in itself neither superior nor inferior. Odd
that it, whether from one species or two cornmingled, should
so often be used as an excuse for bias--even, it would seem,
in these enlightened times. But of course," he added directly
to Sered, "you would never stoop to employing such illogic.
The fault must then be mine for misunderstanding you. If
you wish to leave, Sered, after such a lack of communica-
tion, there is no loss of dignity in that."
    Sered, face a stony mask, dipped his head almost curtly to
Sarek, ignored Spock completely, and left with precise, cold
dignity.
    "That," Sarek said after Sered was gone, "is, alas, a sadly
warped and dangerous being."

    "But..." Spock began tentatively. "He does seem to
make some interesting points, Father."
    Sarek turned to him, revealing nothing at all of his
thoughts. "And what points might those be, my son?"
    Spock hesitated, trying to focus, to put his thoughts into
clear, concise order. "I must postulate that, since emotion
and mystery are a part of the Vulcan soul--as T'Pau so
eloquently put it--is it not illogical not to study such
issues?"
 "Ah, my son waxes philosophical."
 "I merely meantre"
    "Spock, I did warn you. Sered can be totally charming to
even one fully grown. And you are still far from that."
    Was his father trying to goad him? No, that would hardly
be logical. A test, then, for him to prove his own logical
thinking to Sarek. "I am not yet adult, Father. I admit that.
But surely even a child may see the value of certain
matters."
    "There can be no value in any matters that include a
return to the practice of violence. My son, I do not mean to
belittle your thinking. But you must admit that I have had
many more years of study--many more years of life and' its
experiences."
 "Yes, of course, but--"
 "You are letting control slip, Spock."
    And you--you patronize me, my father. But Spock wisely
kept silent, willing himself to emotionless calm. After a
moment, Sarek nodded approval. "Yes, the words of Sered
sound intriguing. Who would not wish to learn more about
our sundered cousins? But as a mature adult, Spock, I truly
am more aware of the warning lessons of history. Yes, those
ancient days must sound fascinating to one as young as
yourself, full of what your mother would call 'romance.' I
remember when I was your age and felt the same. But there
is nothing romantic about war, nothing fascinating about

 mindless bloodshed. As I grew, I learned that not all paths
 are safe to walk."
    The lecture was rapidly becoming more than a young
Vulcan's self-control could endure. Before he could disgrace
himself by blurting out something such as But I'm not you,
Spock dipped his head courteously to his father and said
instead, "You have given me much to ponder. If I may... ?"
    Sarek nodded, the ever so slight upward crook of his
mouth hinting at his amusement.
    At me. At my youth. At my thinking in other ways than his
and--no. Emotion. Control it.
    Spoek gladly fled to the sanctuary of his mother's wet-
planet conservatory. There he stood alone amid unfamili-
arly damp air and strange, lush-leaved plants, seeing little of
them, willing himself back to proper Vulcan reserve.
    "Spock!" said a startled voice. "I thought you were with
your father."
    Spock turned to see Amanda, looking every bit a true
Vulcan lady in her simple, elegant grey robes for all her
undeniably human features. "I was," he told her. "Till
now."
    Amanda moved closer, comprehension lighting her eyes.
"Oh. I see. He doesn't mean to lecture you, Spock, truly he
doesn't. He--I--we are concerned about you. I'll even use
an emotional term if you'll excuse me the lapse of good
taste: We're worried about you."
 "Why? Because I am not truly Vulcan?"
    "Because," Amanda countered gently, "you haven't yet
puzzled out who and what you are." She held up a hand
before he could speak. "And that, believe it or not, has
nothing to do with mixed heritages. Spock, everyone goes
through the 'Who am I?' stage. It's part of growing up, no
matter what the sentient species, particularly when the
being involved is also going through what my people used to

call, with dread, 'the teenage years!' And--you aren't hear-
ing a word of this, are you?"
    "Mother, forgive me. I have heard too many lectures this
day."
    "Teenagers," she muttered, but there was a wry smile on
her face. "They're all the same. Come to think of it,
everyone~ the same."  "I fail to see--"
    "Oh, I don't mean in surface things like appearance"--
one finger lightly touched an Earthly orchid, very foreign in
appearance to any Vulcan bloom--"or culture. But you
know that I've been studying the various Federation races.
And the more I study, the more I realize that there are
greater similarities than differences among us. I'm finding
certain constants in all the sentient races."
    Spock frowned slightly, as much in confusion as denial. "I
will grant that all peoples have concepts of what they
consider moral or immoral. But more than that--I would
not criticize your logic, Mother--" "Why, thank you, dear," dryly.
 "--but how can your statement be true?"
    Amanda paused to delicately pinch off a wilted leaf.
"Have you never heard that ancient children's tale of the
hero transformed into a hideous beast, a guise from which
he's rescued by the heroine?"
     "Yes, of course. That is 'Sikan and T'Risa,' though no one
tells such a tale to children nowadays." "A pity."
    She clearly meant it. Spock blinked. "Surely you do not
claim to find truth in such a... a foolishly emotional
story."
    "Oh, I do. To you that tale is 'Sikan and T'risa.' To me
that's 'Beauty and the Beast,' and to Andorians it becomes
'The Prince Trapped in Monster Form.' Spock, archetypes,

certain set figures and concepts, are built into all of us. Even
Vulcans, with all their self-control, have them." "I do not see--"
    "The Eater of Souls," she challenged, and laughed when
Spock could not quite suppress a tiny flinch. "You see?"
    The Eater of Souls was an ancient Vulcan myth, a demon-
ic being that had once been said to manifest in sandstorms
during the summer solstice--a being that could devour
Vulcan essences, even down to the katra.
    Spock shook his head in disapproval. "This proves noth-
ing. The Eater of Souls is a foohsh relic far removed from
the cold equations of science."
    "Properly logically stated. And yet, like it or not, you
reacted."
 "I..."
    "Spock, even Vulcans can't--and shouldn't!--deny their
basic mythic roots. Those are a part of every sentient being.
And I know that Vulcans don't want to throw away their
honored heritage."
    Spock opened his mouth, shut it, finding absolutely noth-
ing to say. The day had begun with confusion, and his father
and mother were only adding to that. By now he was no
longer sure where he stood. And anything he said, Spock
knew, was going to be disgracefully emotional.
    Rather than breaching good manners, Spock bowed and
withdrew without a word. The doors of the conservatory
sealed shut behind him.

FOUR

        Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 3, Seventh Week, Month ef the Raging D#rak,
Year 2296

He spumed even the faintest shadow of the sheltering rock
cliff and strode out into the deep desert, his arms out-
stretched as if to welcome the light of a star that both gave
life and took it, agonizingly, away. The world's sun flashed
into his eyes, and the veil, in instinctive reflex, descended
over his eyes, and he permitted it to remain--for that
instant.
    He lifted his hand further, baring his head to the light.
The star was at zenith. It was too bright a gold and more
poisonous than the star under which he had been born and
that he would never see again unless the Faithful and his
sundered brothers helped him wrest its control from weak-
lings and traitors.
    He was too old for the blood fever. Still, his blood was fire.
His eyes were fire. He stripped the veils from them and
gazed directly into the sunlight.

    The Faithful who had followed him from their rock
fastnesses now assembled behind him. They moved softly,
lest his meditations be disturbed and he be angered.
    They feared him more than they feared their own deadly
sun!
The light burned. His eyes were fire, and that was good.
The Faithful ventured forward. He heard the whisper of
worn cloth and knew that one or two, perhaps more, had
followed his example and dared uncover there in the pitiless
light.
    Would you skulk your puny lives away underneath a rock
because you fear your star and its gifts of life and death? he
had demanded only the night before. Pale you are, and call it
safety.
    As a Terran maggot was safe, whether it crawled or walked
abroad on two legs and made futile attempts to make the
desert bloom. Deserts were not supposed to bloom; they
were a forge on which the strong must be tested if the race
were to thrive and conquer.
    At that, the nomads' carefully swathed pallor was at least
a survival positive, unlike the arrogance with which the city-
dwellers squandered their substance on Federation drugs
and exposed themselves to the sunlight for no better reason
than to display their wealth and that they could. The
Faithful despised those of the cities. If their hatred were as
strong as their faith,- they would serve him well.
    He heard one of the Faithful tumble to the ground: that
dawn, the man's breath had come too fast, and he had raised
a hand to his chest as if a spear had transfixed it.
    Behind him, the others groaned at this proof of weakness,
unworthiness.
    "Drag that back to shelter," he commanded. "He will not
stand here upon the sands with us again."
 Or anyplace else. The man had stopped breathing.

      "When shall we be worthy?" Eldest of the Faithful,
 Arakan-ikaran dared speak to him, dared even to question.
  "When you are ready!" he snapped.
    They whispered briefly among themselves, saving their
strength for endurance and to contemplate the garden that
he had promised to set in the middle of the deepest waste,
filled with sweet water, abundant food, and strong children.
In that paradise, no one's skin fissured or blossomed with
evil, deadly colors. No one collapsed and died. But there was
a world to win before paradise could be regained.
    He allowed the translucent veil to shield his eyes once
more. There was endurance and there was stupidity. And
there was meditation, as well. His keen hearing heard the
whisper of every grain of sand that shifted or the faint flicker
of air that brushed against the lesions that had begun to
open even on his skin. If he strained his hearing in the dry
air, he could fancy he heard ionization itself as energy built
up for the next set of solar flares, prominences leaping past
the star's corona, attempting to embrace this world. Blurred
by the veil, dune and rock promontory acquired a halo as if
rainbows turned malignant and extended past the spectrum
visible to the Faithful into fascinating patterns of ultraviolet
and infrared.
 His eyes were fire. His blood was fire.
 And his brothers were calling.
    To meet him here at the appointed place, far away from
the concealment of rock or the reassurance of shielded
equipment, when solar flares were imminent was a risk
worthy of his warrior forebears. Energy pooled, static crack-
ling as a sudden, turbulent shimmering erupted on the
desert plain. For an instant, the brothers who were more
outsiders than true kindred seemed to float above the sand
and gravel, sheathed in light, crowned with fierce colors.
They flickered out, then returned, stronger than before.

     "They come! Without a ship, they come!" the Faithful
 whispered. "Crowned in glory, they walk, so tall and so
 unscarred."
     To these primitives, he thought with sharp contempt, the
 Romulans with their lean height, their arrogant bearing,
 ready for thought or warfare combined, would look like
 messengers from that paradise he had prophesied for them.
 Now their dreams must come true.  And his along with them.
     It was not illogical to dream: it was merely illogical to
 pour one's blood out upon the sand.
  Far better that it be Federation blood.
    The Romulans--even here, he would not willingly speak
the name they had for themselves or call them brothers
before lesser creatures--saluted him, to which he replied
with a stately inclination of his head.
    "Even these messengers from the heavens honor him. Our
Prophet. Ours," whispered one of the Faithful.
    It was more to the point, he thought as the Romulans,
heavily armed, clasped his arm in the warrior's greeting, to
say not that he was their prophet, but that they were his
sacrifices.
 Or anything else he needed.

    If you can bear to hear an insult and not blindly kill to
avenge the slight, the young centurion had once heard a
senator say, you can bear to salute a traitor Even here, it was
not safe even to think the name of the senator: one never
knew who among these savages just might bear telepathic
abilities.
    And it was not, after all, as if the tall figure casting a long
shadow over the sand were a traitor to the senator his own
commander served, much less to the Praetor himself. He
was simply a traitor to his own race. The young centurion
thought that he could very well endure another world's

 treachery, especially if the traitor declared himself open to
 alliance against the Federation. They would use him. And
 when they had won, they would turn and conquer the
 traitor's world as well, giving him his dream of a reunited
 breed--only not in the way he had hoped.
     After all, alliances, especially covert ones, could always be
 disavowed.
     The Romulan touched the amulet at his throat. He was a
 warrior born and had learned more than a warrior's skills.
 Still, the amulet helped him face the traitor and his band of
 mad primitives with suitable composure.
     If it were not for this planet's location and the embarrass-
 ment that expulsion from it would cause the Federation, he
 would not have remained here for longer than it took to
 request removal.
    The young centurion nodded respect to the one who faced
the sun with naked eyes and bared head--no one had ever
said that Romulans could not or did not lie, especially not to
beings they held in contempt. Then he turned toward the
rocks as if studying them. Gradually, he let himself drift
toward the nearest escarpment. The rest of his landing party
spread out, attempting to distract the natives that their
contact called the Faithful.
    His boots crunched on the sharp black rock that littered
the ground. Sound carried a long way in the desert. If the
cursed Federation risked an agent out this far (and they had
one mad enough and almost brave enough that it would be
no disgrace for a Romulan to fight him), he would hear, just
as he would hear if their catspaw and madman moved
toward him.
    Protected by the striated rock, momentarily somewhat
cooler, he snapped open his communicator. Shielded though
it was against the miserable static on this irradiated world,
static crackled from it. He muttered and adjusted the gain.
Perhaps the interference--and the exceedingly narrow corn-

munications band that any Romulan signals officer knew to
monitor--would prevent any Federation meddlers from
eavesdropping, as was their contemptible habit.
    A faint beep came from the communicator, and he
whispered words, implanted by drug therapy, that he had
not even known he had learned and that he would later
forget.
    There was a pause during which the young Romulan
listened to the electrons dance between here and the War-
bird he wished to his ancestors he had never left. Then:
 "Well?"
    Only that one word. Avrak, sister's son to Senator
Pardek--he who proclaimed so eloquently the reasons (if
you could call them such) that he desired more knowledge of
the Federation--rarely spoke more than needful. It was far
safer that way. The senator stood in place of a father to
Avrak, who was in turn the centurion's own patron. If he
were to make a career, win a share of his family's estate,
even select a suitable consort, he could do nothing without
Pardek's consent. As a military client, the young officer rose
and fell, lived or died, with Avrak.
 "Sir!" He could be as sparing of speech as Avrak.
    "How is our traitor?" That Avrak asked at all was high
praise.
     "This malfunctioning star hasn't cooked his brains. Not
quite yet. Even if he does think he's in charge."
 "Excellent. Keep it that way."
 The communicator went dead.
 Had that been a chuckle he had heard?
    Despite the heat of the deep desert and the restraint bred
into him, the Romulan shuddered.

FIVE

A

      Intrepid II and Obsidian
Day 4, Fifth Week, Menth of the Raging Du~k,
Year 2296

Lieutenant Duchamps, staring at the sight of Obsidian
growing ever larger in the viewscreen, pursed his lips in a
silent whistle. "Would you look at that?"
    Spock, who had been studying the viewscreen as well,
glanced quickly at the helmsman. "Lieutenant?"
    Duchamps, predictably, went back into too-formal mode
at this sudden attention. "The surface of Obsidian, sir. I was
thinking how well named it is, sir. All those sheets of that
black volcanic glass glittering in the sun. Sir."
    "That black volcanic glass is, indeed, what constitutes the
substance known as obsidian," Spock observed, though only
someone extremely familiar with Vulcans could have read
any dry humor into his matter-of-fact voice. Jim, for in-
stance. Getting to his feet, Spock added to Uhura, "I am
leaving for the transporter room, Commander. You have the
conn."

       .... r ...............................

  "Yes, sir."
    He waited to see her seated in the command chair,
knowing how important this new role was to her, then
acknowledged Uhura's right to be there with the smallest of
nods. She solemnly nodded back, aware that he had just
offered her silent congratulations. But Uhura being Uhura,
she added in quick mischief, "Now, don't forget to write!"
    After so many years among humans, Spock knew perfectly
well that this was meant as a good-natured, tongue-in-cheek
farewell, but he obligingly retorted, "I see no reason why I
should utilize so inappropriate a means of communication,"
and was secretly gratified to see Uhura's grin.
    He was less gratified at the gasps of shock from the rest of
the bridge crew. Did they not see the witticism as such? Or
were they shocked that Uhura could dare be so familiar?
Spock firmly blocked a twinge of very illogical nostalgia;
illogical, he told himself, because the past was exactly
that.
    McCoy was waiting for him, for once silent on the subject
of "having my molecules scattered all over Creation." With
the doctor were several members of Security and a few
specialists such as the friendly, sensible Lieutenant Clayton,
an agronomist, and the efficient young Lieutenant Diver, a
geologist so new to Starfleet that her insignia still looked like
they'd just come out of the box. Various other engineering
and medical personnel would be following later. The heavi-
est of the doctor's supplies had already been beamed down
with other equipment, but he stubbornly clung to the
medical satchel--his "little black bag," as McCoy so anach-
ronistically called it--slung over his shoulder.
    "I decided to go," he told Spock unnecessarily. "That
outrageously high rate of skin cancer and lethal mutations
makes it a fascinating place."
 That seemingly pure-science air, Spock mused, fooled no

one. No doctor worthy of the title could turn away from so
many hurting people.
    "Besides," McCoy added acerbically, "someone's got to
make sure you all wear your sunhats."
  "Indeed. Energize," Spock commanded, and...

    ... was elsewhere, from the unpleasantly cool, relatively
dim ship--cool and dim to Vulcan senses, at any rate--to
the dazzlingly bright light and welcoming heat of Obsidian.
The veils instantly slid down over Spock's eyes, then up
again as his desert-born vision adapted, while the humans
hastily adjusted their sun visors. He glanced about at this
new world, seeing a flat, gravelly surface, tan-brown-gray
stretching to the horizon of jagged, clearly volcanic peaks. A
hot wind teased grit and sand into miniature spirals, and the
sun glinted off shards of the black volcanic glass that had
given this world its Federation name.
    "Picturesque," someone commented wryly, but Spock
ignored that. Humans, he knew, used sarcasm to cover
uneasiness. Or perhaps it was discomfort; perhaps they felt
the higher level of ionization in the air as he did, prickling at
their skin.
    No matter. One accepted what could not be changed.
They had, at David Rabin's request, beamed down to these
coordinates a distance away from the city: "The locals are
uneasy enough as it is without a sudden 'invasion' in their
midst."
    Logical. And there was the Federation detail he had been
told to expect, at its head a sturdy, familiar figure: David
Rabin. He stepped forward, clad in a standard Federation
hot-weather outfit save for his decidedly non-standard-issue
headgear of some loose, flowing material caught by a circle
of corded rope. Sensible, Spock thought, to adapt what was

clearly an effective local solution to the problem of sun-
stroke.
    "Rabin of Arabia," McCoy muttered, but Spock let that
pass. Captain Rabin, grinning widely, was offering him the
split-fingered Vulcan Greeting of the Raised Hand and
saying, "Live long and prosper."
    There could be no response but one. Spock returned the
salute and replied simply, "Shalom."
 This time McCoy had nothing to say.
    It was only a short drive to the outpost. "Solar-powered
vehicles, of course," Rabin noted. "No shortage of solar
power on this world! The locals don't really mind our getting
around like this as long as we don't bring any vehicles into
Kalara or frighten the chuchaki--those cameloid critters
over there."
  Spock forbore to criticize the taxonomy.
    Kalara, he mused, looked very much the standard desert
city to be found on many 1ow-tech--and some high-tech--
worlds. Mud brick really was the most practical organic
building material, and thick walls and high windows
provided quite efficient passive air cooling. Kalara was, of
course, an oasis town; he didn't need to see the oasis to
extrapolate that conclusion. No desert city came into being
without a steady, reliable source of water and, therefore, a
steady, reliable source of food. Spock noted the tips of some
feathery green branches peeking over the high walls and
nodded. Good planning for both economic and safety
reasons to have some of that reliable water source be within
the walls. Add to that the vast underground network of
irrigation canals and wells, and these people were clearly
 doing a clever job of exploiting their meager resources.
  Or would be, were it not for that treacherous sun.
     And, judging from what Rabin had already warned, for
 that all too common problem in times of crisis: fanaticism.
  It is illogical for any one person or persons to claim to know

 a One True Path to enlightenment. And I must, he added
 honestly, include my own distant ancestors in that thought.
     And, he reluctantly added, some Vulcans not so far
 removed in time.
    "What's that?" McCoy exclaimed suddenly. "Hebrew
graffiti?"
    "Deuteronomy," Rabin replied succinctly, adding,
"We're home, everybody."
    They left the vehicles and entered the Federation outpost,
and in the process made a jarring jump from timelessness to
gleaming modernity. Spock paused only an instant at the
shock of what to him was a wall of unwelcome coolness;
around him, the humans were all breathing sighs of relief.
McCoy put down his shoulder pack with a grunt. "Hot as
Vulcan out there."
    "Just about," Rabin agreed cheerfully, pulling off his
native headgear. "And if you think this is bad, wait till
Obsidian's summer. This sun, good old unstable Loki, will
kill you quite efficiently.
    "Please, everyone, relax for a bit. Drink something even if
you don't feel thirsty. It's ridiculously easy to dehydrate
here, especially when none of you are desert-acclimated. Or
rather," he added before Spock could comment, "when even
the desert-born among you haven't been in any deserts for a
while. While you're resting, I'll fill you in on what's been
happening here."
    Quickly and efficiently, Rabin set out the various prob-
lems, the failed hydroponics program, the beetles, the mys-
terious fires and spoiled supply dumps. When he was
finished, Spock noted, "One, two, or even three incidents
might be considered no more than unpleasant coincidence.
But taken as a whole, this series of incidents can logically
only add up to deliberate sabotage."
    "Which is what I was thinking," Rabin agreed. "'One's
accident, two's coincidence, three's enemy action,' or how-

ever the quote goes. The trouble is: Who is the enemy? Or
rather, which one?"
    Spock raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. "These are, if the
records are indeed correct, a desert people with a relatively
low level of technology."
    "They are that. And before you ask, no, there's absolutely
no trace of Romulan or any other offworld involvement."
    "Then we need ask: Who of this world would have
sufficient organization and initiative to work such an elabo-
rate scheme of destruction?"
    The human sighed. "Who, indeed? We've got a good
many local dissidents; we both know how many noncon-
formists a desert can breed. But none of the local brand of
agitators could ever band together long enough to mount a
definite threat: they hate each other as much or maybe even
more than they hate us." "And in the desert?"
    "Ah, Spock, old buddy, just how much manpower do you
think I have? Much as I'd love to up and search all that
vastness..."
    "It would mean leaving the outpost unguarded. I under-
stand."
    "Besides," Rabin added thoughtfully, "I can't believe that
any of the desert people, even the 'wild nomads,' as the folks
in Kalara call the deep-desert tribes, would do anything to
destroy precious resources, even those from offworld. They
might destroy us, but not food or water."
    "Logic," Spock retorted, "requires that someone is work-
ing this harm. Whether you find the subject pleasant or not,
someone is 'poisoning the wells.'"
    "Excuse me, sir," Lieutenant Clayton said, "but wouldn't
it be relatively simple for the Intrepid to do a scan of the
entire planet?"
  "It could--"
  "But that," Rabin cut in, "wouldn't work. The trouble is

that those 'wild nomads' are a pain in the--well, they're a
nuisance to find by scanning, because they tend to hide out
against solar flares. And where they hide is in hollows
shielded by rock that's difficult or downright impossible for
scanners to penetrate. We have no idea how many nomads
are out there, nor do the city folk. Oh, and if that wasn't
enough," he added wryly, "the high level of ionization in the
atmosphere, thank you very much, Loki, provides a high
amount of static to signal."
    Spock moved to the banks of equipment set up to measure
ionization, quickly scanning the data. "The levels do fluctu-
ate within the percentages of possibility. A successful scan is
unlikely but not improbable during the lower ranges of the
scale. We will attempt one. I have a science officer who will
regard this as a personal challenge." As do L A Vulcan could,
after all, assemble the data far more swiftly than a human
whomno. McCoy had quite wisely warned him against
"micromanaging." He was not what he had been, Spock
reminded himself severely. And only an emotional being
longed for what had been and was no more.

               A
    Commander Uhura had to admit that sitting in a cap-
tain's chair felt... just fine. Being called "Commander"
was fine, too, for that matter. You could have gone after your
own ship, she chided herself. Had enough of "Hailing
frequencies open," didn't you? Had just about suj~cient
seniority. Yet you turned down the chance, .foolish you.
    Maybe not so foolish. When it came right down to it,
Uhura knew that the command chair was figuratively a bit
uncomfortable. Restricting. She never had settled down in
any traditional fashion: no husband, no children, no regrets.
A Federation captaincy left very little time for anything else

but restriction. If she hadn't married a man, she was not,
Uhura thought dryly, ready to be married to a ship.
    Was Spock? That was a question she'd asked herself often
enough in the last three years--a question Uhura rather
suspected even he, for all his Vulcan logic, couldn't answer.
Vulcans never fidgeted, but there were times when Captain
Spock looked as if he found the command chair an uncom-
fortable fit. And if he couldn't decide--
    "Commander," Lieutenant Duchamps said suddenly. "A
message is coming in from Captain Spock."
    Just in time to keep me from getting sentimental. "I'11 take
it here."
    "Commander Uhura." No mistaking Spock's precise
voice. "I would appreciate the crew performing a planetary
scan."
 "Yes, sir. Looking for... ?"
    "Life, Commander. Preferably intelligent. Science Officer
Richards will want to coordinate with Medical for the
requisite parameters and brain-wave complexities."
He said no more. But the sudden silence spoke volumes.
Fascinating, Uhura thought. Wonder what's going on. And
trust Spock not to say anything melodramatic like, "I can say
nothing further for reasons of security." But it5 "reasons of
security," all right. She contented herself with, "We'll start
that scan right away, Captain."
 "Thank you, Commander. Spock out."
    They would have to-shift position, Uhura thought. Lieu-
tenant Commander Atherton had been counting on main-
taining a geosynchronous orbit. He was not going to like
this. Or rather, to be charitable, he was going to act as
though he didn't like this.
    Sure enough, when Uhura advised the engineer of the
forthcoming scan, she was treated to a series of precise,
peevish, but strangely happy complaints about "I5 may put
an undue strain on my test configurations," and "It will take

some time to straighten things out without upsetting previ-
ous calibrations," not to mention, "It will completely
derange my training schedule."
    Scotty, Uhura thought, bemused. The accent may be
diffbrent--ohh, yes!--but underneath that prickly facade, he
really is just like Scotty. If a captain is married to the ship,
she added wryly, then a good engineer is that ship's lover.
    Well, well. They might have a new ship, they might have a
crew half veterans still in mourning, half newcomers wary of
the veterans, but maybe they were going to be able to mesh
into an efficient unit after all.
    Though I doubt I'll ever get used to that British Colonial
accent/
    "Commander?" It was Ensign Chang, a smalk wiry young
man, one of the newer crew members and still somewhat
tentative about what and where he was. "I... uh... think
I just... uh... spotted something. Something odd."
 ,tOdd.,,
    "Yes, Commander. While we were unscrambling ground
communications, there was the weirdest blip on the screen."
His voice became more sure as he continued. "It emerged
from the Neutral Zone, just for a second, then vanished. I
recorded it, though."
    "Good man!" Uhura quickly moved to his side. "Play it
back."
 "And... there! Did you see it?"
    "I did, indeed," Uhura said grimly. "Open a hailing
frequency, narrow beam, Captain Spock only." Even in this
urgent moment, she couldn't help but enjoy ordering some-
one else to do that. "And scramble it."
    "Hailing frequency open, Commander. Scramble acti-
vated."
    Uhura leaned over the control panel. "Captain Spock:
Urgent. We have just uncovered signs of a Romulan War-
bird. it's cloaked, but they lowered that cloaking just now

for a few moments. And that suggests to me that someone
just beamed down to Obsidian."
    Spock replied almost instantly, "Excellent logic, Com-
mander."
    Uhura stiflened in a moment's pleased surprise. That was
high praise from a Vulcan! "Why, thank you, sir," she said,
and returned to the command chair, trying very hard not to
grin. The chair felt a little less restricting now.

    McCoy, there in the Federation outpost on Obsidian,
overheard Spock's transmission to Uhura. "Why, Spock,"
the doctor drawled, "I didn't know you had it in you."
    Spock glanced at him, catching just a hint of an edge to
the jesting words, almost as though McCoy were feeling left
out. It would hardly be rational for the doctor to be envying
David Rabin his prior friendship with Spock. More-prob-
ably, McCoy was longing for the old Enterprise camaraderie.
It would not, Spock thought, be wise to say that. Instead, he
merely raised an eyebrow and pointed out, "Common
courtesy is never amiss. Nor is it illogical to commend
someone for being logical. Particularly," he added, voice
totally without expression, "when that someone is human."
    McCoy nearly choked on a laugh. Spock, satisfied that the
issue had been defused, turned to David Rabin. "I think we
must speak together. In private."
    "Just what I was thinking. We can talk in the closet they
call my office."
    The space was, indeed, barely more than a closet, but the
blank walls and smooth, unornamented furnishings left no
place for spy devices. Spock, nevertheless, ran a quick check.
Yes. Secure. Which brought him to his first point. "Security
on Obsidian has almost certainly been breached. There are
too many examples of a supposedly 1ow-tech people know-
ing too much about activities here: this can only point to
inside involvement."

Rabin sighed. "I thought as much, though I haven't been
able to prove a damned thing."
"We cannot rely on information from the Intrepid alone."
"Right. No matter how good the equipment on your ship
is, it's not going to be able to pinpoint what's going on in
that wilderness outside. It can give us some idea of where to
look, but..." He paused, looking at Spock, the two of them
in perfect understanding, then shrugged and added, with the
tone of someone saying the obvious, "Someone has to get
out there and search."
    "Indeed. But since we do not know the extent of infiltra-
tion, the locals, even those seemingly friendly or helpful,
cannot be trusted. Logically, it must be Federation person-
nel, and they alone, who investigate in the desert."
    "And equally logically," Rabin added, "it's going to have
to be those with the most desert survival experience." He
stopped with a wry grin, considering what he'd just said.
"Guess what, Spock?"
    "There is no 'guess' to this. We are the most logical
choices."
    "You've got it. It's been a long time, my friend, but it
looks like we're a team again."

SIX

   Vulcan, Mount Seleya
Our 6, Seventh Week of Tacmeen,
Year 2247

Dawn hovered over Mount Seleya. A huge shavokh glided
down on a thermal from the peak, balanced on a wingtip,
then soared out toward the desert. Spock heard its hunting
call.
    Where it stoops, one may find ground water or a soak not
too deeply buried, Spock recalled from his survival training.
He had no need of such information now. Nevertheless, his
gaze followed the creature's effortless flight.
    The stairs that swept upward to the narrow bridge still lay
in shadow. Faint mist rose about the mountain, perhaps
from the snow that capped it, alone of Vulcan's peaks, or
perhaps from the lava that bubbled sullenly a thousand
meters below. Soon, 40 Eridani A would rise, and the ritual
honoring Spock and his agemates would begin.
    It was illogical, Spock told himself, for him to assume that
all eyes were upon him as he followed his parents. Instead,

he concentrated on his parents' progress. Sustained only by
the light touch of Sarek's fingers upon hers, veiled against
the coming sunrise, Amanda crossed the narrow span as if
she had not conquered her fear of the unrailed bridge only
after long meditation.
    Few of the many participants from the outworld scientific,
diplomatic, and military enclaves on Vulcan could equal her
grace. Some had actually arranged to be flown to the
amphitheater just to allow them to bypass the bridge that
had served as a final defense for the warband that had ruled
here in ancient days. Others of the guests crossed unsteadily
or too quickly for dignity.
    Vertigo might be a reasonable assumption, Spock thought,
for beings acclimating themselves to Vulcan's thin air or the
altitude of the bridge.
    "The air is the air," one of his agemates remarked in the
tone of one quoting his elders. "I have heard these humans
take drugs to help them breathe."
    All of the boys eyed the representatives from the Federa-
tion as if they were xenobiological specimens in a laborato-
ry. Especially, they surveyed the officials' sons and
daughters, who might, one day, be people with whom they
would study and work.
    "They look sickly," the same boy spoke. His name, Spook
recalled, was Stonn. Not only was he a distant kinsman to
Sered, he was one of the youths who also eyed Spock as if he
expected Spock's human blood to make him fall wheezing to
his knees, preferably just when he was supposed to lead his
agemates up to the platform where T'Lar and T'Pau would
present them with the hereditarymand now symbolic--
weapons of their Great Houses. By slipping out early into
the desert to undergo his kahs-wan ordeal before the others,
Spock had made himself forever Eldest among the boys of
his year. It was not logical that some, like Stonn, would not

 forgive him for his presumption, or his survival; but it was
 SO.
    A woman's voice provided a welcome interruption. "Let's
assume your tricorder is broken or missing--David, don't
lean over like that or you'll give me a heart attack! Your
tricorder's crashed, and you have to calculate how long it'll
take you to hit the lava down there and turn into shish
kebab. Say it's a thousand-meter drop."
    One thousand point five nine, Spock corrected automati-
cally, but in silence.
    "Remember, you'll have to account for less air resistance;
the air's thinner. Get back, no, you're not stretching out flat
on the bridge, and you can't see the lava from here! I gave
you an assignment, David!"
    From the corner of his eye, Spock could see a woman in
the glittering uniform of a Starfleet captain tug a boy who
resembled her back from the edge of the bridge. Allowing for
variations in species and body type, the human youth
seemed close to his own agewperhaps a little old for such
brusque treatment, although he seemed amused rather than
annoyed. He had courage, if not judgment, Spock decided.
If it were not that emotion was impermissible at any time
and completely unacceptable this morning so close to the
Shrine, Spock might have envied the boy his excited grin
and that eager gaze darting from Mount Seleya's peak to the
bridge and the desert.
    He might also, were emotion not unacceptable, have
envied the way the Starfleet officer, clearly his mother, did
not rebuke her son with a politeness that would be worse
than any human rage, but instead distracted him with
mathematics.
    Almost absently, Spock solved the simple equation, then
estimated how long it would take the Terran boy to produce
a reasonably correct solution. The answer came within the

 parameters he had set: a sign of quick intelligence in the
 human.
     "That's better," said the Starfleet captain. "Believe me,
 David, if you don't settle down, I've got more snap quizzes
 where that one came from. I know you're excited about
 seeing Vulcanw"
     "Aren't you?" the boy countered. "I mean, look at that
 desert! It makes Sinai National Preserve look like a
 sandbox!".
     Fascinating. Even Spock's mother did not speak of the
 deserts that occupied much of her adopted world with such
 admiration.
     "David, I swear, someone spiked your tri-ox with adrena-
 line."
    The tri-ox compound did, Spock mused, sometimes have
such an effect on some already excitable humans. But he was
too intrigued by this show of blatant emotion to comment.
    "Calm down!" the woman was ordering. "Before we
return to Earth, I may be able to arrange a field trip. But not
if you create an interstellar incident."
    That sparked a wry grin from the boy but no repentance,
and his mother sighed and continued, "Once you actually
start at the Academy, you'll learn how important diplomacy
is for a Starfleet officer--even one who plans to be an
explorer."
    "Yes, ma'am." The boy subsided, tugging at his close-
fitting formal tunic, so much less suitable for Vulcan's heat
than Spock's loose, dark lobe with its embossed metallic
heir's sigils.
    Lecturing offspring seemed to be a constant among all
sentient beings, Spock observed.
    Then he had to force himself not to start. Not fifty meters
away stood Sered, in a more formal version of the austere
brown robe he had worn for his visit to Sarek's house. The

 robe bore the bronze symbols that denoted Head of House,
 but he had chosen the most archaic forms of the complex
 glyphs. Intriguing.
    "We shall pause here, my wife," murmured Sarek to
Amanda. He added, "Captain Rabin." The ambassador had
not raised his impeccably modulated voice, but the captain
turned and came to... military attention, Spock knew
from his studies, although he had never actually seen the
posture before.
  "Ambassador Sarek."
  "Do you find your stay on Vulcan instructive?"
    The Starfleet officer's face was impassive. "My highest
function is to strengthen the figurative bridge--like the
literal one we just crossedmbetween your world and mine.
My assignment honors me."
    Remarkable. Her son had achieved stillness, if not her
military bearing.
    "You do your service justice, Captain. My wife, may I
present Starfleet Captain Nechama Rabin, from the planet
of your birth? Captain, this is the Lady Amanda, my wife."
    Amanda, who had courteously raised her light veil, some-
how managed to seem taller and more stately than the
woman who snipped roses in a wet-planet conservatory and
admitted to worrying about the son whom she lectured.
"Shalom, Captain," she said, hand raised in the Vulcan
greeting.
    "Live long and prosper, Lady Amanda." The two human
women studied each other for an instant, then smiled.
    "Peace and prosperity," said Lady Amanda. "Could we
have better greetings between compatriots on such a fine
morning?"
    "Let us hope," Sarek took up her words, "that such
greetings extend as well to... friends."
    With a raised eyebrow, he acknowledged the captain's
son. Sered, Spock noted, stood all this while as if paralyzed

 by le-matya venom, watching. My father delivers an object
 lesson, Spock realized.
     "May I present my son, David?" asked the captain. "He
 enters Starfleet Academy next year."
     "Another generation of service?" Sarek said. "Highly
 commendable."
     Spock knew that Sarek, like most Vulcans, held the
 military in low esteem. Did diplomacy require the speaking
 of lies? No, Sarek had said that "service" was laudable; he
 had said nothing of its type. And his approval drove home
 his "lesson" to Sered: Sarek favored both today's ceremony
 and the invitation of Federation representatives.
    The boy stepped forward fearlessly (Of course, Spock
thought), looking up into Sarek's keen eyes, then raised his
hand in the proper salute. "I am honored, sir." His Old High
Vulcan formal greeting was hesitant, but correctly phrased;
he had even mastered the glottal stop. "I also thank you for
the opportunity to witness this ceremony."
    Sarek managed without the slightest change in expression
or posture to register his approval. "It has its parallels in the
customs of your own people, does it not?"
    His father was being positively expansive to this stranger!
Jealousy, Spock reminded himself, is an emotion. A perilous
one. Why should he not be polite to a visitor?
    Spock wasn't the only one who had noticed. He saw
Sered's expression alter in a way that would have been
imperceptible to a human, but to a Vulcan looked as blatant
as a grimace of revulsion. Contempt is an emotion as well,
Spock thought. Then the tall, austere Vulcan vanished into
the crowd.
    "Yes, sir," David was continuing. "Boys undergo a ritual
that confirms them as adults. But not just boys. What
about..."
    Captain Rabin's hand came down firmly upon her son's
shoulder, cutting off what Spock was certain would have

 been a most revealing question. "My son has completed
 advanced desert survival training, Ambassador Sarek. All
 morning, he has told me how magnificent he finds the view.
 He is hoping for an opportunity to visit the Forge."
     It seemed that humans knew the art of using words as a
 diversion as well.
    Sarek dipped his head a polite fraction. "A most feasible
ambition, David. Captain Rabin, with your permission, t
shall have one of my aides arrange an excursion."
    No mention was made of including Spock. Again he
warned himself against emotion. Against jealousy. And
almost succeeded.
    David visibly glowed. He glanced over at Spook, who kept
his face impassive.
    "We have presumed upon your time, sir," said Captain
Rabin. "I know you must be eager to see... your son?"
She raised an eyebrow inquiringly at the ambassador.
"... welcomed into the ranks of adult Vulcan males."
    "Spock," Sarek introduced him briefly. Spock bowed in
silence.
    Was Captain Rabin disconcerted by the brusqueness?
"Lady Amanda, my congratulations," she said carefully.
    "We are very proud of Spock," Amanda replied, just as
carefully.
    With a noncommittal smile, the captain withdrew, towing
a reluctant David as though he were a much younger child.
He, giving up the struggle for dignity, left trailing questions.
"Do you think they'd let him go with me? I'd love to talk
with a Vulcan my age. Who else would come? You know,
everyone's talking about Vulcan boys. What about girls?"
    Lady Amanda's shoulders shook almost imperceptibly.
Captain Rabin stopped in her tracks. "I tell you what,
David. Ask that question, which probably breaks every
privacy code the Vulcans have--and they've got plenty--
create your interplanetary scandal, and you can forget

 seeing the Forge. In fact, it would be a wonder if we weren't
 kicked off Vulcan."
     "But what about girls?" he whispered, clearly forgetting
 about keen Vulcan hearing. "It's not as though they were
 secondary citizens. I mean, what about T'Pau? She's impor-
 tant enough, isn't she? Yes, and what about T'Lar of--of
 Gol?"
     The cal~ain's expression changed to what Spock's mother
 called her "give me strength" face, used when her patience
 was severely tried. "Will you please stop thinking about
 Vulcan girls? They probably all have dates for Saturday
 night anyway."
     David flushed. "Mother, please. You know I wasn't talk-
 ing about that. And you mean you approve--"
    "Look, son," said Nechama Rabin. "As you just lectured
me, T'Lar of Gol and T'Pau will be honoring these boys. Is it
logical to assume that they, as women, would slight girls--
who one day may grow up to be Elders themselves?"
 "But we don't knowa"
    "And aren't likely to. Before you ask, I am not about to try
to find out. And neither are you. Now, quiet or you go back
to Base. This is not, incidentally, your mother speaking.
This is the captain. Understood, mister?"
    "Aye-aye," said the boy. Spock suspected he would behave
appropriately now--until his next attack of "why." But
surely there was nothing improper about an inquiring mind!
It would be interesting to speak with this Terran who shared
a trait with him thata
    But Sarek would probably not allow his son to risk
exposure to human emotionalism by learning more about
this boy or any of the others.
    A deferential three paces behind his parents and two to
the side of Sarek, Spock strode past a series of deeply incised
pits--the result of laser cannon fire two millennia back--
and up to the entrance of the amphitheater. Two masked

guards bearing ceremonial lirpa presented arms before his
father, then saluted Spock for the first time as an adult. For
all his attempts at total control, he felt a little shiver race
through him as he returned the salutes as an adult for the
first time. The clublike weights that formed the lirpa bases
shone, a luster of dark metal. The dawn light flashed red on
the blades that the guards carried over their shoulders. At
the guards' hips, they wore stone-hilted daggers, but no
energy weapons--phasers--such as a Starfleet officer might
wear on duty. Of course, no such weapons might be brought
here.
    Lady Amanda removed her fingers from her husband's
and smiled faintly. "I shall join the other ladies of our
House now, my husband, while you bring our son before the
Elders. Spock, I shall be watching for you. And I am indeed
very proud."
 As, her gaze told him, is your father.
She glided away, a grace note among the taller Vulcans.
Spock fell into step with his father, head high, as if his
blood bore no human admixture. As it was in the
beginning... Silently, he reviewed the beginning of the
Chant of Generations as he glided down the stairs.
    Long ago, some cataclysm or some unspeakable weapon
had peeled half the face of the mountain away, leaving only a
ridge above the crater that had been shaped into a natural
amphitheater. Beneath this roof was a platform from which
two pillars reared up. Centered between the pillars stood an
altar of dark stone on which rested the greatest treasures of
each Great House on Vulcan: ceremonial swords, of which
Spock and his agemates would receive replicas.
    We are trained to abhor violence. Yet we are taught combat
and, to honor us, we are awarded archaic weapons. This is not
logical.
    None of the other boys accompanying their fathers
seemed to have such reservations. The Federation guests

simply watched, the adults clearly impressed, the youngsters
honestly openmouthed. Sered, Spock thought, would no
doubt think that awe was a highly appropriate reaction.
    Behind the pillars glistened a pool, ruddy with 40 Eridani
A's dawn. To either side of the pillars, dark-robed students
of the disciplines of Gol stepped forward to shake frame-
works of bells. Another, whose robes bore the sigil of a third-
degree adept, swung a great mallet at a hexagonal gong so
ancient that its precious iron central boss had turned deep
red. Again, the bells rang, dying into a whisper and a rustle.
    Everyone in the amphitheater rose. T'Lar, adept and First
Student, walked onto the platform. Then, two guards, their
lirpa set aside for the purpose, entered with a curtained
carrying chair. From it, robed in black, but with all the
crimsons of the dawn in her brocaded overrobe, stepped
T'Pau. She leaned on an intricately carved stick.
 Spock's father stepped forward as if to help her.
    "Thee is kind, Sarek," said the Elder of their House, "but
thee is premature. When I can no longer preside unassisted
over this rite, it will be time to release my katra."
Sarek bowed. "I ask pardon for my presumption."
"Courtesy," T'Pau held up a thin, imperious hand, "is
never presumptuous." Her long eyes moved over the people
in the amphitheater as if delivering some lesson of her
own--but to whom? Carefully, she approached the altar
and bowed to T'Lar. "Eldest of All, I beg leave to assist
thee."
 "You honor me," replied T'Lar.
    "I live to serve," said T'Pau, an observation that would
have left Spock gasping had he not been getting sufficient
oxygen.
    Both women bowed, this time to the youths who stood
waiting their presentation.
 Again, the adept struck the gong.
 T'Lar raised both arms, the white and silver of her sleeves

 falling like great wings. "As it was in the beginning, so shall it
 always be. These sons of our House have shown their
 worthiness..."
  "I protest!" came a shout from the amphitheater.
     Even the Vulcans murmured what would have been
 astonishment in any other people as Sered, his heavy robes
 swinging about him, strode down the center aisle to stand
 before the altar.
    "I protest," he declared, "the profanation of these rites. I
protest the way they have been stripped of their meaning,
contaminated as one might pollute a well in the desert. I
protest the way our deepest mysteries have been revealed to
outsiders."
    T'Pau's eyebrows rose at that last word, which was in the
seldom-used invective mode.
    "Has thee finished?" asked T'Lar. Adept of Kolinahr. she
would remain serene if Mount Seleya split along its many
fissures and this entire amphitheater crumbled into the pit
below.
    "No!" Sered cried, his voice sharp as the cry ofa shavokh.
"Above all, I protest the inclusion of an outsider in our
rites--yes, as leader of the men to be honored today--when
other and worthier men, our exiled cousins, go unhonored
and unrecognized."
    Sarek drew deep, measured breaths. He prepares for
combat, Spock realized, and was astonished to feel his own
body tensing, alert, aware as he had only been during his
kahs-wan, when he had faced a full-grown le-matya in the
deep desert and knew, logically, he could not survive such
an encounter. Fight orfiight, his mother had once called it.
That too was a constant across species. But not here. There
must not be combat here.
    "Thee speaks of those who exiled themselves, Sered." Not
the slightest trace of emotion tinged T'Pau's voice. "Return
lies in their power, not in ours."

  "So it does!" Sered shouted. "And so they do!"
     He tore off his austere robe. Gasps of astonishment and
 hisses of outrage sounded as he stood forth in the garb of a
 Captain of the Hosts from the ancient days. Sunlight picked
 out the metal of his harness in violent red and exploded into
 rainbow fire where it touched the gem forming the grip of
 the ancient energy weapon Sered held--a weapon he had
 brought, against all law, into Mount Seleya's amphitheater.
     "Welcome our lost kindred!" he commanded and ges-
 tured as if leading a charge.
     A rainbow shimmer rose about the stage. Transporter
 effect, Spock thought even as it died, leaving behind six tall
 figures in black and silver. At first glance they were as much
 like Sered as brothers in their mother's womb. But where
 Sered wore his rage like a cloak of ceremony, these seemed
 accustomed to emotion and casual violence.
    For an instant no one moved, the Vulcans too stunned by
this glaring breach of custom, the Federation guests not sure
what they were permitted to do. Then, as the intruders
raised their weapons, the amphitheater erupted into shouts
and motion. From all sides, the guards advanced, holding
their lirpa at a deadly angle. But lirpa were futile against
laser rifles.
    As the ceremonial guard was cut down, Sarek whispered
quick, urgent words to other Vulcans. They nodded. Spock
sensed power summoned and joined:
 "Now!" whispered the ambassador.
    In a phalanx, the Vulcans rushed the dais. They swept
across it, bearing T'Pau and T'Lar with them. They, at least,
were safe. Only one remained behind. Green blood puddled
from his ruined skull, seeping into the dark stone where no
blood had flowed for countless generations.
    "You dare rise up against me?" Sered shrilled. "One
sacrifice is not enough to show the lesser worlds!" He waved
his weapon at the boys, at the gorgeously dressed Federation

guests. "Take them! We shall make these folk of lesser spirit
crawl."
    Spock darted forward, not sure what he could do, know-
ing only that it was not logical to wait meekly for death. And
these intruders were not mindless le-matyas.t They were
kindred, of Vulcan stock; surely they could be reasoned
with--
    As Sered could not. Spock faltered at the sight of the
drawn features, the too-bright eyes staring beyond this chaos
to a vision only Sered could see. Few Vulcans ever went
insane, but here was true madness. Surely his followers,
though, clearly Vulcan's long-lost cousins, would not ally
themselves with such insanity!
    Desperately calm, Spock raised his hand in formal greet-
ing. Surak had been slain trying to bring peace: if Spock fell
thus, at least his father would have final proof that he was
worthy to be the ambassador's son.
    They suddenly seemed to be in a tense little circle of calm.
One of the "cousins" pointed at him, while a second
nodded, then gestured out into the chaos around them. The
language had greatly changed in the sundered years, but
Spock understood:
  "This one."
  "Him."
 It may work. They may listen to me. They--
    "Get back, son!" a Starfleet officer shouted, racing for-
ward, phaser in outstretched hand, straight at Sered. "Drop
that weapon!"
    Sered threw back his head. He actually laughed. Then,
firing at point-blank range, reflexes swifter than human, he
shot the man. The human flared up into flame so fierce that
the heat scorched Spock's face and the veils slipped across
his eyes, blurring his sight. He blinked, blinked again to
clear it, and saw the conflagration that had been a man flash
out of existence.

     Dead. He's dead. A moment ago alive, and now-- Spock
 stared at Sered across the small space that had held a man,
 his mind refusing to process what he'd just seen. "Half-
 blood," muttered Sered. "Weakling shoot of Surak's house.
 But you will serve--"
    "Got him!" came a shout. David Rabin hurled himself
into Sered, bringing them both down. The weapon flew from
Sered's hand, and Captain Rabin and Sered both scrambled
for it. The woman touched it, Sered knocked her hand
aside--
    And the weapon slid right to Spock. He snatched it up,
heart racing faster than a proper Vulcan should permit, and
pointed it at Sered.
    "Can you kill a brother Vulcan?" Sered hissed, unafraid,
from where he lay. "Can you?"
    Could he? For an endless moment, Spock froze, seeing
Sered's fearless stare, feeling the weapon in his hand. Dimly
he was aware of the struggle all around him as the invaders
grabbed hostages, but all he could think was that all he need
do was one tiny move, only the smallest tightening of a
finger--
 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 Chafw,
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 inciden-
tally, to highlight him impressively, like one of those hero-
deities 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 dramati-
cally, 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."
  "Butrebut 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 tom"
    "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 sha-
man? 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?"

70

    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."
    "lmoh. Well, we certainly can't head out there in stan-
dard 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 prison-
er, 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 ex-
pected 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 calcula,
tion, makes me seventy-ninth in line for the throne."
    "While he's waiting for the crown," Rabin 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 shar-
ing 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 some-
what 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." }Ie 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 unpre-
dictable 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

73

complaining, lifted itself off the ground, occasional vibra-
tions 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, Lieuten-
ant Diver, who had been looking intently out of the forward
window, said, "Sir, there are clear traces of ancient water-
courses 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 pick-
ing 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 function-
ing, 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

75

 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 de-
sert 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-quite-
animosity 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 strug-
gling, frantic catch back to the others, who sprang 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 Iow-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
shouM be considered anything but mere physical Jeatures. "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. Ifmif I may."
 "First, why were you spying9."
 "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."
  "You can't... do something?"
  "Not in this life."
    Lieutenant Diver wrapped her arms about herself, shiver-
ing. "W-we can't just leave him there."
    Spock, well aware by now of the human need for ritual
even in the most unlikely casesmsuch as now, with the
death of a perfect stranger and a spy as well--did not argue.
Wordlessly, he gathered rocks, wordlessly piled them over

the body, aided by the others. "Now there remains the
question raised: Who sent him?"
    "The Master," Rabin said. "Who or whatever the Master
may be."
    Ensign Kavousi muttered, "Some religious fanatic, no
doubt," and spat. "We do not need an alien Mahdi."
    Rabin glanced at Spock. "Looks like we have one. Feel up
to the challenge, oh Fiery One?"
    Spock frowned ever so slightly. "What do you know of the
religious beliefs of these people, Captain Rabin?"
    "Not as much as I might. They're pretty closed-mouthed
about that. There's your basic Force for Good, and yes, your
basic demonic Force for Evil, the Fiery One." "How is that one usually portrayed?"
    "Redheaded, fiery eyes..." Rabin's voice trailed into
silence as he stared at Spook. "But never anything about
pointed ears or black hair or dark eyes!"
    "Indeed. Then we have a new question. Since I do not
look at all like their image of Evil, how did he know to call
me the Fiery One?"
    "He... couldn't have known, could he? Unless he had
been told."
    "By this mysterious Master, who would seem to be
acquainted with the appearance of Vulcans. Or perhaps with
Romulans. Either implies an offworld origin for the Master,
or too-great familiarity with the Romulans."
    Rabin groaned. "And someone or someones from a
Romulan Warbird did just beam down, didn't they? Noth-
ing's ever simple, is it?"
 "That, I take it, is a 'rhetorical question.'"
    "Spock, in times like this, I can only say... nothing at all
except good night and try to get some rest."

    The morning found the ancient shuttlecraft soaring as
best it could, heading closer to the mountains. The flight

went without incident or evidence until midday, when
Rabin noted, "You're going off-course, Ensign Prince. Head-
ing should be twenty-nine point six West, Forty-three point
two North."
 "Aye-aye, sir."
 "That's twenty-nine point six, Ensign."
    "No disrespect, sir, but I'm trying to stay on course.
There's a tricky wind starting up. Ship doesn't want to--"
    The shuttlecraft rocked as though a giant hand had
slapped it. Ensign Prince gave up attempting to explain and
concentrated totally on holding the course steady.
    Spock and Rabin exchanged quick glances. "Weather
reading, Mr. Kavousi," the human ordered.
    "Doesn't look too good, sir," the ensign replied after a
moment. "Sudden shift of wind: hot air swirling up off the
desert floor hitting the colder air coming down off those
mountains."
    He didn't have to explain anything more to the others. All
the party knew that this sudden desert shift of winds, very
probably with the layer of colder air forced underneath the
hot, could only mean one thing: a sandstorm was being
born. This was not a sandy desert, but that didn't mean
there wasn't enough grit and dirt to form a true menace.
    Yes. With eerie swiftness, a wall of dirty brown was
rousing off the desert floor, swirling higher, higher. Spock
knew that similar storms had been known to reach heights
of ten or more kilometers and had to force himself to remain
properly, logically calm and not grip the armrests of his seat.
    Rabin, of course, couldn't, as captain, show his alarm
either. His voice was almost convincingly steady as he said,
"Take her higher, Ensign Prince. Upper stratosphere if you
can. Get us out of here."
    "Right." The ensign was too busy fighting the controls to
worry about formality. "Should be a calmer layer up there.
Somewhere."

80

    The shuttlecraft lurched, then climbed abruptly--only to
be just as abruptly thrust down again, banking sharply,
shuddering, engines whining:
    "We can't get above the storm," Ensign Prince cried. "The
wind's too fierce!"
    "Ensign Kavousi," Rabin snapped. "Get us a reading.
What's beneath us?"
    Kavousi struggled with the sensors, at last admitting,
"Can't tell, sir. There's far too much static."
    The wind was still rising, engulfing the wildly lurching
shuttlecraft in a world of swirling brown. "This old wreck
isn't going to hold together much longer!" Ensign Prince
warned.
    Spock and Rabin glanced at each other, each knowing the
other was remembering being caught in another, equally
perilous storm from their boyhood. "When positive data are
lacking," Spock said, "extrapolation of the last known facts
becomes necessary."
     "In other words," Rabin retorted, "guess. Take her down,
Ensign Prince." "Yes, sir."
    Engines whining with strain, the shuttlecraft descended
through brown and brown... descended...
 "We're coming in!" Ensign Prince yelled suddenly.
 And then, with bone-jarring force, they were down.

EIGHT

A

Intrepid II, Obsidian Orbit
Year 2296

"Captain ~ Log," Uhura began her entry with vast satisfac-
tion. This was one piece of communications equipment she
had tested but never thought to use. "Stardate 9814.3.
Commander Uhura, Recording, Intrepid II.
    "Captain Spock has beamed down to Obsidian'2; surface
along with Chief Medical Officer McCoy, and Lieutenants
Clayton and Diver. Lieutenant Clayton has already filed a
preliminary report and requested additional plant pathology
data. We are conducting a full-planet scan for intelligent life
while Captain Spock, Captain Rabin, Lieutenant Diver, and
several of the outpost's key personnel are overflying an area in
which nomads have recently been seen. It has been approxi-
mately forty-nine point one eight--"
    Is that accurate enough for you, Spock? Uhura thought
with a grin.
"--hours since Captain Spock has reported in. This is only

partly due to increased ionization levels. I have placed an
emergency transmission reporting the likely presence in-
system of a hostile ship, most probably Romulan, to the
nearest starbase, but do not expect to receive an answer for
several days.
    '7 have become concerned about Captain Spock; Meteorol-
ogy reports a growing storm in precisely the sectors for which
his flight plan was filed.  "Uhura out."
    He had praised her logic in public. I won't let you down,
Spock, and I'll keep the ship safe for you.
    She could almost hear his reply, dry, but with a sty
amusement far in the back of those wise, dark eyes: "Cer-
tainly, Commander. I wouM expect nothing else of you."
 Nothing less, he meant.
    "Commander?" Lieutenant Richards turned from the
massed screens of the science officer's station. "That dust
storm in planetary sectors seven point three four to nine
point six eight that I've been monitoring--sensors are
showing turbulence up to about ten kilometers into the
atmosphere."
    The outpost~ shuttles might be old, Uhura thought, but
they were built to withstand deceleration through atmosphere.
They ought to be able to withstand some dust... shouldn't
they?
    "Storm's already built up to what would be Force I
hurricane strength on Earth," Richards continued. "Now,
it's showing signs of turning into a coriolis storm."
    Uhura raised an inquiring eyebrow. I haven't got time for
a learning experience, mister.
    Richards missed the significance of that eyebrow. "A
coriolis storm," he continued earnestly, "gains strength
from the rotation of the planet itself."
 That struck home. Given the composition of Obsidian's

deserts, a storm like that could carve the flesh off bones, then
reduce the bones to splinters. Small splinters. As long as the
shuttle maintained altitude, it could ride out the storm. But
what if Spock decided to land? Or what if he had to?
    '~Open a hailing frequency, mister," Uhura ordered Lieu-
tenant Duchamps. "Uhura to Captain Spock, Narrow beam.
Encrypt."
    Her ears, attuned after a career spent with such equip-
ment, detected infinitesimal shifts in tone as Duchamps
tried to filter out the storm-borne static and refine his signal.
Her fingers itched for the familiar duty station, and she bit
back the words, Out of the way, mister. That~ my job, that
threatened to leap out at the unsuspecting officer.
    It wasn't her job. Not anymore. Now, her job was to sit
there while Duchamps sweated with frustration.
    As she opened her mouth to acknowledge Richards's
efforts, the science officer broke in, "Commander, I'm
reading increased sunspot activity and a buildup of energy
that could mean a massive solar eruption." Oh. wonderful. Just what we needed.
    Richards bent over his duty station, and what had to be
one of the most threatening spectroscopic analyses Uhura
had ever seen exploded onto a viewscreen: perturbations
deep within the solar core, building up until they erupted
out from Loki into deadly prominences and hard radi-
ation.
 "How long?"
    "Until the flares actually erupt? Loki's treacherous even
in its timing. It could be six minutes or six hours from now.
Or six weeks. Look at the fluctuations in Loki's coronare"
He projected what looked like a halo in convulsions above
the star's blacked-out disk. "Here's historical data supperim-
posed on the present scan."
 "What about radiation levels?" The Loki of Terran my-

 thology, she knew, lay tied beneath a rock upon which a
 serpent coiled, dripping poison down upon him. This Loki
 spat its own poison in the form of hard radiation that, even
this far out from the star, could put Intrepid's crew at risk.
 "Uhura to sickbay."
    "Mercier here." Station-born, Medical Officer Frances
Mercier understood better than any groundsider who had
spent his or her childhood sheltered by atmosphere the
damage an ion storm could inflict, or the nasty things hard
radiation did when it passed through material such as the
hull of a starship. "I gather Loki's acting up again."
    Uhura grinned to herselfi McCoy must be teaching Mer-
cier every trick in his little black satchel, including the
telepathy and clairvoyance every medical officer seemed to
have and that all of them lied about.
    "I've started issuing new radiation badges," the medical
officer continued. "I'm sending someone up to the bridge
with yours, Captain--I mean Commander."
Captain. Now that was a hint if ever there was one.
"I'm going to move the ship so we're shielded by the
planet itself," Uhura warned. "Better make sure you put
away all the glassware, Doctor. When the storm hits, you
could get some breakage."
"Aye-aye," Mercier said, and ended her transmission.
"Helm!" Uhura called. "Prepare to come about. Move us
into Obsidian's shadow. I want planetary mass between us
and Loki."
    "God help them," murmured an ensign, one of the
newcomers who was most shy of the former Enterprise crew.
    "God help all of them down there," Uhura corrected.
"Don't forget we've also got an outpost on Obsidian and
several million people with provisional Federation status.
We're already having... Any luck getting through there?"
 A headshake. Damn.

    "... trouble reaching the captain. He'll know the storm's
building up and expect us to take appropriate action to
protect the... uh... the Intrepid and its crew."
 She had almost said Enterprise. Better watch it.
    The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,
Spock often said. Or the one.
    He'd lived his belief. Once, he'd actually died for it when,
in a desperate attempt to restore warp power to the Enter-
prise as it hid from Khan Noonien Singh in the Mutara
Nebula, he had exposed himself to hard radiation. Once was
far too often. I've lost Captain Kirk. If anything happens to
Spock or McCoy. . .
    The ship banked, its turn more perceptible in the smaller
Intrepid than it would have been in the Constitution-class
Enterprise. Had the original ship survived, Uhura realized
with a little shock, it would be obsolete now.
    A scream of static leapt from the science officer's worksta-
tion. Loki's disk in the viewscreen darkened as Richards
augmented filters rather than burn out the screen. The
corona rippled and acquired a ghostly afterimage.
    "Better strap down," he said. "When that first shock wave
hits..."
    Uhura fastened the restraints over her thighs, glad that no
one was going to try to ride this one out. "If any of the crew
feel like going out for a breath of fresh air right about now,
tell them to forget it," she said. Captain Kirk had always
known when to joke.
 The bridge crew laughed shakily, but at least they laughed.
    "Got an ETA for the radiation front now," Richards
offered. "Eight minutes thirty-five seconds..."
    "Thank you, Lieutenant. Status report, Mr. Duchamps:
any sign of that Warbird?"
    "Negative, Commander. Negative." She could almost
hear Duchamps' skeptical In this mess?
 "Keep looking, mister. The cloaking device might distort

the ion flux just enough so that we can spot it. Look for
anomalies." Right. Loki was practically all anomalies. Be-
sides, it was too easy to retreat into a technicJan's role now
that she had the center seat. "Keep an eye on any 'dead'
space. Wherever there's Romulans, there's usually some-
thing dead."
    That drew another laugh. Gallows humor, thought Uhura.
If there is a gallows, though, it's not going to be ours.

    Groans. Stirrings. Then: "Anything broken?" Dr. McCoy
asked.
    Spock observed a reddish lump on the doctor's forehead
and scrutinized him more closely: McCoy's pupils were not
dilated, and he gave no more evidence of disorientation
than "a man who'd been thrown out of the sky and dumped
on his sore backside," as the doctor had managed to
complain almost as they'd hit.
    David Rabin disentangled himself from the collision gear.
"Just Ensign Prince's pride, I'd say. Trying to stick Brother
Abdullah with being seventy-ninth in line for the throne,
mister?"
    "It's a dirty job," the ensign retorted, "but someone's got
to do it. Sir, you know what they say about landings. A good
landing is any one you can walk away from."
"Let's see what we've got left to walk away from."
Lieutenant Diver, hair fallen over one eye, was struggling
to pull free of restraints and a warped chair, all the while
calling up cartography from a flickering screen. "I--"
    But her voice broke off in a startled yelp as the shuttle
suddenly lurched and slid what Spock's kinesthetic sense
told him was 3.2 meters--downward. A series of impacts
boomed and vibrated on the shuttle's hull: rocks, Spock

assumed, torn loose from a hillside above them. Were they
merely on the side of a steep slope--or did the slope end in a
cliff?
    The entire craft seemed to swerve sideways, then slid
again before it stopped sharply--l.59 meters later, Spock
knew--its nose tilted awkwardly downward. Wind buffeted
the shuttle, sending a shrilling storm of grit lashing at the
vessel's hull.
    "I would suggest," Spock raised his voice over the storm,
"that no one move more than he or she must. This slippage
leads me to conclude..."
    Rabin held up a hand. "Spock, let me suggest that first we
all shift our weight toward the far end of the shuttle as a
counterbalance. Then, no one moves."
    "Ensign Prince," Spock asked, "were you able to see our
landing site at all?"
    "In this mess, sir?" the ensign asked. "Got some quick
glimpses of mountains or at least steep hills. Some cliffs.
Then we were caught in the storm but good and even the
instruments weren't registering much."
 "Lieutenant Diver?" Spock raised an eyebrow.
    Hastily brushing back her hair, she began again, "Cartog-
raphy calls this the Rupathan Range... not sure about the
accuracy, not with that rock composition... highly
friable... hey!"        ~
    The ship lurched again under a fresh roar of wind and a
new cascade of rocks. The shuttle was ruggedly built, but
nothing was that rugged. They were already clearly on a
precarious angle. If the wind was of sufficient force...
    "Ensign Prince," Rabin ordered, "see if you can lift us off.
Now!" he added as the shuttle slipped a little further.
    The ensign's fingers flew over the controls as he muttered
under his breath. "Landing gear's damaged. No..." he
added, looking at his screens. "Landing gear's gone. Let me
see...

     More keyboard tappings brought up a rockscape half
 shrouded by veils of blowing grit and larger debris. He
 leaned forward as though in disbelief, then spat something
 guttural.
     "Surely not camels and goats, Ensign?" Rabin asked. "Let
 alone diseased ones?"
     "Sir, that last slide brought us up against a large rock--
 the last thing between us and what looks like a drop of
 approximately one hundred meters. If we're dislodged by a
 big enough rock or if the cliffs edge crumbles..."
      "Oh great," McCoy said. "A man goes over a cliff and
grabs a root, and then the root starts to pull free..."
 Rabin sighed. "So much for staying with the ship."
      "But we can't sit out that storm in the open! Isn't a lot of
the blowing grit volcanic glass? We wouldn't last a minute."
 "Doctor," Spock began, "if we fall a hundred meters..."
 "Spock, now's no time for a lesson in physics."
    Spock ignored that. "What can we expect of this region,
Captain Rabin? Are there caves?"
    "Yes! There are caves all through here, like on the Forge.
Lieutenant Diver, try to locate one with a sonic scan.
Meanwhile," Rabin added, leaning over a console, "let's see
if we can reach the base... bah, no. Nothing."
    Spock thumbed open his own communicator and was not
surprised when static, then silence greeted him. "I shall
assume that the Intrepid has shifted orbit to place the planet
between it and Loki. The communicator's power is insuffi-
cient to pierce this storm, much less planetary mass. When
the storm subsides..."
    "Dammit, Spock," McCoy snapped, "we may be confetti
before this thing subsides, especially if--"
    "I'm getting something," Lieutenant Diver said abruptly.
"A cave... maybe fifty meters away."
    "Yes!" Rabin exclaimed. Moving very gingerly, he pulled
open the cabinets holding survival gear: rations, water

containers, lights, heavy visors to protect their eyes. "Spock,
what are the odds of our making it to that cave?"
    "Before this shuttle falls from the cliff?." Spock asked. "Or
are you asking what the odds are of our making it to that
cave without rocks hitting individual crew members or of
the cave being uninhabited by something inimical to life?"
    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, Spook 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 Disci-

plines 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 counterbal-
ance 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, tantaliz-
ingly 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 grum-
bled, 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.t"
    He sounded like the doctor, Spook 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 over-
whelmed, 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 straight-

ened 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 some-
thing 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 stiflened as though she'd been slapped. "You're jusV
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 com-
passion 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 vibra-
tions 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 suffi-
cient 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,
SpockT'
    "Indeed. But first we must provide a means of communi-
cations for those staying." Spock reached for a communica-
tor, 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 ifa 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 ef 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 signifi-
cantly 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
browna
    A storm! A sandstorm! And Sered was deliberately order-
ing the craft right into the midst of its ferocity. Why would
even a madman risk--
    "We can't go on," the pilot was protesting. "1 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 likeabah, perhaps my ancestors
had more sense than I ever believed when they packed up
and leftre"
    "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 re-
gion, a vast underground realm naturally shielded from all
detection and known as..." He paused, clearly for dramat-
ic 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 truely seismically unstable, highly volcanic, and peril-
ous 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, Spook 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."
    But what could they do? Helpless against laser rifles, they
obediently entered the cavern. Rough walls, Spock noted,
with a good deal of rock fracture. Unstable, indeed. And:
    "Unstable," David agreed softly. "But what can we--
aie.t"

    The ground shook, shook again, stilled. Spock steadied
David, who had fallen against him, coughing, then pointed
as inconspicuously as he could. "One more tremor," he
whispered, "and that wall will be breached."
    David nodded almost imperceptibly, understanding. Only
one more tremor...
    "C'mon, earthquake," he whispered, and Spock only just
managed to keep his face properly stoic. The human was
incorrigible.
 Better that than hysterics.
    The tremor came. Hidden by a torrent of falling rocks and
a cloud of dust, Spock and David scrambled their frantic
way through the newly opened rift in the wall and kept going
out into the open and the maze of volcanic peaks, ducking
behind boulders, dodging between clefts in the rocks, sure
that laser rifles were going to fire, sure that they were going
to be maimed or killed or--
    No. Now that the ground had settled, Spock could see that
the quake had caused enough damage to confuse even Sered.
He dared to stop to catch his breath.

 "By the time they realize we are missing," he told David,
"assuming that they do realize it, we will be far from here."
 "l...can't..." David gasped, wbite-faced. "I...I
 can't... breathe."
    Of course, Spock realized after a startled moment. David
was human, not Vulcan; the volcanic region of the Forge lay
at a relatively high elevation, high enougll that a human
undergoing exertion would need help to breathe the thinner
atmosphere. If they were ever to reach civilization, David
was going to need tri-ox compound, yes, and desert gear
better than the bedraggled finery he still wore. At least,
Spock thought, sternly quelling his growing alarm, the boy
seemed to be in excellent physical condition for one of his
age and species. That would help for a time.
    "Rest," Spock said. "Breathe as deeply, as rhythmically,
as you can." His voice wasn't quite as properly steady as he
would wish. "Then we shall find you some tri-ox com-
pound."
    David tensed. They both knew, without a word needing to
be exchanged, that the only place for such a find would be
the wrecked shuttlecraft. That David's mother might be one
of its victims was something neither boy wanted to mention.
    But where had the craft crashed? Searching his memory
for clues, Spock knew that it would have to be fairly close;
they had landed not too long after the crash. Ah yes, and the
pilot of the doomed craft had mentioned a bearing... yes,
24.9 West. It would be impossible to pinpoint the exact
location without instruments, but there was still a chance.
Spock told David, "I believe I know approximately where
we may locate the crash."
    David, for all that he was still clearly suffering from the
lack of oxygen, struggled to his feet with a melodramatic
bow. "Lead on, my friend, lead on."
    Spock forbore to add the obvious: that they must reach
the site before le-matyas and other predators did.

     The storm had left few traces behind, and the sun blazed
 in Vuican's clear, bright desert sky. The two boys set out
 across a barren waste of gray flint and red rock and ancient
 black lava flows, moving carefully over the treacherous
 footing.
     "Be wary," Spock said. "Now that the sun is warming the
 desert floor again, poisonous reptiles will be sunning them-
 selves on the rocks."
     "Just like Earth's deserts. Almost stepped on a sunbathing
 snake once. In the Negev. Don't know which of us was more
 scared."
    The curtness made sense. David was clearly keeping his
words to a minimum, saving breath. Used to desert terrain
though he was, without that tri-ox compound he needed to
rest more and more frequently, his face reddening, one hand
pressed to his ribs. During one of the stops, he glanced about
at the rugged wilderness and shook his head. "Can't imagine
anyone living here."
  "Other than the desert flora and fauna? No."
    "Why not? Couldn't you guys put up force shields? Or
maybe even domes?" At Spock's puzzled nod, David contin-
ued, "Then how come you have this blasted wasteland?"
    "It is a part of the natural order," Spock retorted. "We
prefer to keep some portions of our planet primal. It makes
us careful."
 "Careful. Right."
    They set out once more, over terrain that grew more and
more savage. Spires of twisted black volcanic rock rose on
all sides, and the ground was so littered with sharp bits of
flint that Spock and David needed to choose each step with
care. It would be all too easy to cut a foot or break an ankle
here.
    "And such an injury," Spock warned, "would most surely
prove fatal."
 "If the air doesn't kill me first," David said tersely.

    His breathing was growing more and more labored, and
even his brave, cocky spirit was clearly failing. We must
reach the wreck soon, Spock thought, or he will not survive.
He surprised himself by adding, I would not wish such a
brave, bold intelligence to be lost.
    But then they came out of a maze of lava spikes and found
themselves faced with a sharp, steep, rocky slope like the
side of a small mountain. Spock scouted from left to right
and back again, then returned to David's side with a sigh.
    "There is no way around. We can only go up. But," Spock
added, studying the slope above them, "I believe that we
have all but found the crashed shuttlecraft. See, there and
there, where the rocks have been scraped and burned. The
craft must have come in over them. It must lie on the far
side of the slope."
    David made one gallant attempt to climb, then groaned,
collapsing to a rock, head down. "Can't..."
    Spock watched the human uneasily for a moment, not
sure what to do, then decided, "Wait here. I shall go ahead. I
will not be long."
 "No. Wait." David struggled to his feet, face drawn.
 "You must not--"
    "I must. If the shuttlecraft's... just ahead... I want to
be there, too."
    Brave but foolhardy, Spock repeated to himselfi But one
could not help but admire the human's determination. With
Spock's help, David struggled up the slope, gasping pain-
fully for breath, staggering, falling, yet stubbornly refusing
to give up. Those were not coughs, Spock realized. At least
not all of them. Some were sobs.
 But at last they crested the slope.
    "There it is," David said grimly. "Down there. There's
the shuttlecraft."
    What had once been a sleek, modern craft was now
nothing but a broken, twisted mass of metal and composite.

 No one, Spock thought, could have survived. Surely, David
 knew it, too. But all the human said was "Come on."
     He staggered down the far side of the slope, falling more
 than walking, then collapsed at the bottom. Before Spock
 could help him, David struggled back to his feet, trying to
 run. But Spock, stronger than the exhausted human, caught
 his arm, forcing him to a more cautious pace.
 "It will serve no logical purpose for you to kill yourself."
 David said nothing. Doubtless, by this point speech was
 impossible. But he continued to plow doggedly forward
 until they both stood at the shuttlecraft's crumpled side.
    It is illogical to be afraid, Spock scolded himself. He must
not think of what lay within as once-living beings but merely
as objects. He must ignore whatever he saw and concentrate
only on finding the tri-ox compound and some protective
gear for David.
    But it took all his training in self-discipline to stay calmly
analytical at the sight of the broken bodies flung like so
many dolls within the shuttlecraft, limbs skewed at impossi-
ble angles, head twisted on broken necks. The reek of
darkening red and green blood threatened his control and
brought David, retching dryly, to his knees.
    But the human refused to surrender. Rising white-faced
and shaking, David searched body after body. All at once he
raced from the wreck, collapsing into a gasping, sobbing
heap. Had he found his mother's body? Spock ached to run
after him, but forced himself to continue to hunt. He even
managed not to hiss in fury when he found the communica-
tions gear shattered and the one whole laser rifle useless.
    Wait, though. Matters could have been far worse. Here
was a good supply of the tri-ox compound, and there,
spilling out of a ruptured storage compartment, was protec-
tive gear that might fit. He dragged it out of the craft, then
hurried to David's side, only to stand in awkward uncertain-
ty. Was this mourning, or merely exhaustion?

 "Captain Rabin... ?" he asked hesitantly.
    "She wasn't there!" David sobbed. "My mother wasn't
there!"
     "But that is good news!" Spock said in confusion. "She is
surely still alive." "Y-yes!"
    Now truly bewildered, Spock asked, "Why, then, do you
weep?"
    "Oh God, Spock, don't you understand?" David wiped
his eyes with a shaky hand, struggling to catch his breath. "I
couldn't help it; I mean, I feel sorry for those poor people in
there, but--but you don't understand, do you?"
    "I... fear not." An unwanted image of Lady Amanda,
broken and still in death like the bodies within the shuttle,
thrust itself into his consciousness, and he just as brusquely
thrust it away. Control Spock, he told himself, echoing his
father. Where is your control? "Doubtless, anoxia is adding
to your fears." At least so he assumed. "Wait."
    At David's nod, Spock carefully injected him with the tri-
ox compound. David took a wary breath, then another,
relief plain on his face.
    "Better. Much better. Thought I wasn't going to make it."
He wiped his eyes again, and Spock frowned.
 "It is illogical to weep if one is not mourning."
    "I guess it's a human thing, Spock, a--a sign of human
caring, and a... well, a release of stress. Humans don't
consider it a weakness, either," he added almost defiantly.
"In fact, I'm proud that I'm able to care so very much.
You... still don't get it, do you? Ah well, never mind, never
mind."
    He was almost babbling with physical and emotional
relief, so near to hysteria that it grated on Spock's Vulcan
nerves.
  "It would be illogical for me to worry about a human

 emotion," Spock pointed out, and was surprised to hear
 David laugh and agree, "I guess it would."
     Illogical, indeed. But a very human thing. A fascinating
 new thing to ponder.
     David wormed his way into the protective gear. "Not
 exactly the height of fashion, is it?" he asked, waving a too-
 long sleeve. "Boy, I'm glad none of the girls, human or
 Vulcan, can see me!"
    Spock blinked. "Why should survival equipment need to
be fashionable? And why should such a thing matter to
anyone, girl or boy?"
    "A joke," David said gently. "It was a joke." He shook his
head. "We have a long way to go, don't we?"
    "Toward understanding each other? Yes, I believe we do.
But we also quite literally have a long way to go to reach
civilization."
David stiffened. "We... ah... can make it, can't we?"
Spock hesitated. "I survived my kahs-wan trial," he said
at last, "the ordeal that pits a Vulcan boy alone against the
desert."
    "Bu~ you didn't have to worry about having a human with
you," David finished dryly, then shrugged. "Desert training
in the Negev wasn't exactly a picnic, either. But I survived
that." His sweep of a hand took in the vast expanse of
wilderness before them. "Shall we?" "Indeed."
 Together, they set out into the desert.

TEN

         Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day Unknewn, First Week, Menth of the Shining Cilar~,
Year 2296

Dr. Leonard McCoy was having a rotten day. Or night. Or
whatever you wanted to call time on this benighted ball of
black glass circling a star with the spectroscopic analysis of a
serial killer. One moment, Captain Rabin's ten-ton Farsi
security chief was manhandling him out of the shuttle
teetering on a damn precipice and frog-marching him into a
cave. His face still ached from being pelted by grit and black
glass, which was bad; he hadn't been able to tend the others,
which was worse; and not five minutes later, the fact that
three men even stronger than Ensign Kavousi had jumped
him meant that he was now a weapon in someone's hands.
And that was worst of all.
    He had fought, of course, but it had been three against
one. His captors had taken communicator, phaser, tri-
corder, and medical kit from him. Someone, veiled against
Obsidian's disastrous environment, had stomped his

 tricorder into uselessness--except as a lure for Spock and
 the others.
     Then they had stashed him in one of the caves that
 seemed to honeycomb this range until the storm subsided.
 They'd stored him without food, water, or a clue about what
 was going on until, in the last howlings and lashings of the
 warning storm, he had been hauled outside, blindfolded,
 and spirited off in some rough, whining vehicle for far too
 long to wherever the hell they were now. Another damn
 cave.
     At least, this time, they'd left him a tiny light, a primitive
 little candle flame, so he could see his prison. It wasn't
 encouraging. The rock faces weren't rough stone, they were
 obsidian (lava tubes? he wondered, and hoped that the
 volcano that had created them was at least dormant), and
 the volcanic stuff had been polished so he could see
 himself--sorry-looking imitation of an officer and a gentle-
 man, son?--but not break off a chunk to use as a weapon.
    Footsteps padded toward his cell. Can't say I think much
of the hotel staff, McCoy groused, working himself up into a
fine rage. If he could find a use for it to annoy his enemies, so
much the better. If not, it relieved his spirits. $pock, he
thought, $pock, damreit . . .
    Tall figures swathed in desert robes and protective face
veils circled McCoy. Their posture wasn't just military, he
realized. It looked Vulcan.
    Just when he thought things couldn't get much worse!
Vulcans were the last people he could hope to manipulate.
He rubbed his hand over his face, where a growing beard
and tiny cuts itched abominably. "Here. Eat."
    The wrapped bar that the arrogant figure tossed in front of
him bore the blocky glyphs that passed for lettering among
Klingons. McCoy couldn't read them, but he knew the

Klingons ate as much meat as they could as often as they
could. As opposed to Vulcans, whose code of nonviolencem
hah!--made them vegetarians. This unappetizing cube was
sure to be mostly protein, possibly animal in origin. And
"origin" really didn't bear thinking about.
He got the message with the meal: deliberate insult.
"Like my old grandma back in Tennessee said when she
taught Sunday School, 'Thou preparest a table before me in
the presence of mine enemies.' If that's what you're doing,
son, you're doing a rotten job."
    "Eat," McCoy's captor said again, unveiling. The doctor
was gratified to see that what he had taken for an accent was,
in fact, a split lip. And a dark-green bruise marred one of his
captor's pointed ears.
    "This... stuff is probably incompatible enough with
human physiology that I'll get a terminal case of the runs, if
not worse," McCoy told his jailer. "I'm hot. I'm tired. I'm
dirty. I probably stink from here to high heavens--an
offense to your fine sensibilities. And on top of everything
else, you feed me stuff you wouldn't throw a stray sehlat."
    No response. Maybe their Anglic wasn't good enough to
understand his rant, and they'd swiped his tricorder. Rotten
as his Vulcan was, he'd try to make them understand in that
language.
    He rasped his throat dry on it, and the tall figures looked
at one another. One of them laughed, sharply and briefly.
    Say what? McCoy asked himself. If you're laughing,
mister, not only have you got a lousy sense of humor, but
you're no Vulcan.
    He suppressed a groan. If it looked like a Vulcan but
laughed, it had to be a Romulan. He didn't need Vulcan
logic to tell him that the presence of Romulans on Obsidian,
bordering the Neutral Zone, was the worst possible news. If
these Romulans felt secure enough to reveal themselves, that

 meant that unless McCoy was very, very lucky, he could
 forget about a comfy ride back to the base when they were
 done with him.
     "We are now engaged in a great civil war... another
 one," McCoy muttered. "The perfect ending to a perfect
 day."
     "This... weakling is the war criminal Makkhoi?" a
 Romulan behind him asked the one he was trying to face
 down. "I heard they called him Bones because of experi-
 ments he performed on prisoners' bone marrow .... "
     Now, just a damn minute! McCoy felt his blood pressure
 spike up. The name's McCoy, not Mengele!
    "Quiet!" said their officer. Probably a centurion and
young for the rank at that. "Those charges were never
proved."
Well, what do you know? Out of the mouths of babes... .
The centurion spoiled the good impression McCoy was
getting of him by his next words. "He may be a notorious
meddler and spy, but he was James Kirk's battle companion
and as wily as the captain, respect to his shade. He was a
great killer, but no torturer. Whatever else this Makkhoi is,
he is loyal to his own. I would offer him honorable parole if
that traitor did not forbid."  What traitor was that?
    Centuries of inherited forlorn hopes had made McCoy
good at grabbing any opportunity, however slight.
    "You have my name, sir," he said, bowing in his best
Southern Cavalier style to the centurion. "May I know
yours?"
    "Ruanek," the centurion told him. "Centurion of the
Empire. Of House Minor Strevon."
    McCoy cudgeled his brains for his last Intelligence brief-
ing and came up with only a headache.
 "In service to... ?" he probed.

    Centurion Ruanek shook his head. "I was warned you
would try to trick me. You have the courtesy of my name. Be
content with that."
    "Hard to be content where the room service is as bad as
this, son," McCoy improvised.
"If you were my father, I would fall on my sword."
Aha! "If you were my son," McCoy retorted, "I would
have exposed you at birth. Or I'd lock up all the sharp toys
in the house till you learned some sense."
    He saw reluctant humor glint in this Ruanek's eyes. Good.
Maybe I can work on him. Time to change tactics. "Now that
we've exchanged fire," McCoy continued, deliberately sof-
tening his tone, "how about some information? Like, where
are you taking me and what's happened to my friends?"
  "You will be told. If you will not eat, come now."
    No one pulled a weapon on him, which McCoy supposed
was some sort of social promotion, Romulan style. He left
the revolting bar of goo sitting on the rock. Fasting in
moderation was good for the system. With luck, no helpless
creature would find it.

    The Romulans prodded McCoy through a maze of tun-
nels, pushing him past intersecting corridors where he could
see people, their backs to him, working feverishly, or caches
of stored goods, some covered with the types of dropcloths
the Federation routinely used for valuable supplies--Nice
little thieves' ring here, maybe. as a sideline to the sabotage?
From one or two tunnels he caught distinct whiffs of the
sorts of chemicals one found in primitive armories.
    The ancient rock was honeycombed with these tunnels,
which probably allowed the "wild nomads" to communicate
during storms. So they weren't truly primitives, despite city-
dweller prejudice. McCoy hadn't seen this many tunnels
since Janus VI. I could use a nice friendly Horta or two about

now, he thought. Even if "friendly" was hardly the word to
describe what was left when a Horta with a grudge got done
with an intruder.
    Their path slanted down. McCoy almost lost his footing
on a patch of slick obsidian he wasn't expecting. Great. Let's
all go sliding down into wherever... wouldn't that reflect
credit on the Federation? We come in peace for all
mankind--oooops/
    Fortunately for the remnants of his dignity, he didn't have
to traverse the rest of the tunnel on his backside. One of the
Romulans steadied him roughly. He found himself standing
in what looked like a huge natural cave, roughly the size of a
shuttlebay on a Federation spacecraft, its walls smoothed
and painted with symbols such as McCoy had seen on rocks
here and there in his brief visit to this world.
    Pictoglyphs. . . graphs... whatever the hell they're
called. Wonder what they mean.
    In some past era, the cave had been equipped with two
enormous metal doors that sealed it off from what must
surely be the desert. McCoy tried and failed to pick up any
residual vibrations from the storm. Clear skies, maybe? He
hoped Spock and Rabin wouldn't waste time going after
him.
    He took a second look at those doors. Damned impres-
sive! Etched with similar glyphs and figures, they were
probably as much a work of faith as of protection and
technology. Metal-poor as Obsidian was, simply mining and
smelting enough metal or trading for it with the city-
dwellers must have been the work of generations.
    The Romulans came to military attention. A little slow to
salute, aren't we? Is this your traitor? He raised an eyebrow
as Centurion Ruanek brought his fist to his chest in seem-
ingly reluctant deference to...
 Standing with his back to the Romulans was a tall

mysterious figure in pure white robes. Slowly, the figure
turned and acknowledged the saluting Romulans as if his
acknowledgment was an honor, even a blessing. He was
taller and leaner than the Romulans and veiled to the eyes.
    A little overdressed for the vast indoors, aren't you? McCoy
wanted to ask. It had to be all this desert melodrama that
was getting on his nerves, not the threat to his life or to his
crew or to Obsidian's Federation or the planet itself, right?
Right. And maybe pigs can fly.
    With the same sense of ritual that he had shown before,
the tall figure unveiled, revealing a cold face with high
cheekbones planing up to elegantly angled pointed ears.
    I'm dead anyway. Might as well make it good. Rejecting
the idea of an exaggerated salaam, which probably wouldn't
translate from one culture into another, McCoy groaned
melodramatically and set his hands on his hips. "Well, look
what we've got here. Another Romulan just crawled out
from under a rock."
 He heard a faint choking noise from one of his guards.
    "Vulcans do not crawl out from under rocks," said the
figure in white.
    Does $pock know about this? was McCoy's first thought.
Just when he thought things had gotten as bad as they could,
a renegade Vulcan would have to turn up. He supposed that
if he wished this one "live long and prosper," he wouldn't
reply with "peace and long life." Not unless renegade
Vulcans lied as wel} as betrayed.
    He had had years of practice in riling Vulcans, or one
particular Vulcan, and some good luck in fooling Vulcans as
eminent as T'Pau herself. He'd give it his best try.
    "Vulcans don't attack their allies either. When I last
looked, mister, Vulcan was a part of the Federation, and the
Romulans weren't. Seems to me that you've got things
mixed up, haven't you? What's the logic in that?"
 The Vulcan studied him as if he were a Rigelian flatworm.

 Worse: he might have had some scientific respect for Rige-
 lian flatworms. Contempt glinted in the absolutely flat, cold
 eyes. Bones had last seen that fixed intensity on Khan as his
 madness worsened, but there was more to this gaze than
 simple madness.
     When McCoy had been a boy, he had sneaked off to a
 revival meeting, one of the last held on Terra, by a man later
 remanded for treatment for an attempt on the Andorian
 ambassador's life. "God created man in His image. Man,
 not aliens that creep or crawl or have blue skin."
     The Vulcan who stood before him had the look of a
 religious fanatic. McCoy thought of holy wars from centur-
 ies and planets past--some now little more than radioactive
 asteroids orbiting desolate stars--and suppressed a groan of
 real pain.
    The Vulcan barely stirred. "If you are in truth the
physician McCoy, as my long-sundered cousins tell me, then
he who leads you is Spock, half-breed and outsider, flawed
from his boyhood and usurping the place of those worthier
than he."
    Bad as McCoy's Old High Vulcan was, he recognized the
gutturals of invective mode. Linguistics said it was vanish-
ing from the language, but, as far as McCoy was concerned,
it couldn't disappear fast enough.
    Well, wasn't it a small gaIaxy? How did this madman
know Spock? No, wait a minute. The birth of a half-human
baby, particularly one who was the son of Ambassador
Sarek, certainly would have made the equivalent of the front
pages all over Vulcan. Not unusual at all that this guy should
know about Spock. Definitely not unusual that he'd single
Spock out as an example of all that was wrong with Vulcan:
they'd gone through the same deadly nonsense back on
Earth with such nasty terms as "miscegenation" and "half-
breeds."
 Yeah, but we outgrew it. Vulcans are formidable enough.

Vulcan religious Ji~natics, with their logic and their physi-
cal strength perverted--God, that doesn't bear thinking
about.
    "All right, maybe you think Spock's nothing more than a
half-breed," McCoy accused. "But you're a fine one to talk,
turning your back on your own people and double-dealing
with Romulans."
    "They are our brothers," the Vulcan said. "You others are
creatures of a lesser breed."
    "And what do you call the people around here?" McCoy
gestured in the direction of the cave warren and the feverish
workers within. "Cannon fodder?"
    The Vulcan might not have understood the archaic term,
but he certainly understood the point. "The Faithful will
receive their reward in the fullness of time. And so will you.
Come, there is a task you must perform for me."
    He held out McCoy's communicator. Hell, he practically
dangled it in front of McCoy's nose.
    "The storm has ended for now. You will communicate
with your captain"--disdain slimed the military title--
"Spock. You will be well paid for your words."
    "Go fish." If this madman pushed him, the next thing
McCoy said wasn't going to be a tenth as polite and would
probably break every privacy taboo on the planet.
    "There are no fish on Obsidian. Just fools and puppets
and my long-lost cousins. If you seek to force me into
ancient brutality, learn that my will is stronger than that of
any lesser being."
  "How nice for you."
     Not the faintest flicker of emotion crossed the cold,
 insane face. "We shall consolidate power here, eliminating
 the man your Federation has set up as puppet-master among
 slaves. He is a fool, but capable of causing damage just as a
 backward child playing with fire can burn down a house."

     "So, you insult my captain, threaten a brother officer, then
 expect me to sing for my supper?" McCoy asked. "That's
 hardly logical, let alone coin enough to buy me."
  Behind McCoy, the centurion stirred.
    "I believe I have your price, Doctor. "the Vulcan told him.
If he'd poured any more acid sarcasm on the word, it would
probably have disintegrated. "Let me demonstrate."
    His gesture of "after you, sir" was not convincing. The
gemmed blaster he pulled was. McCoy went. It beat being
dragged. Or burnt and dragged.
    He was guided back into the maze of caves, taking a sharp
turn away from where McCoy had first been brought. The
passage wound on for what McCoy guessed was a couple of
hundred meters, then opened into another chamber.
    McCoy looked up at its ceiling. Impressive. When this
range heaved itself up from the planet's core, gas bubbles
must have formed in the rock, which hardened about them,
forming huge natural caves. Or else this was one hell of a
lava tube.
    "These are my Faithful," the Vulcan told McCoy. "And I
am their Master. Observe."
    A few artificial lights set in the cave's roof glowed faintly.
But more light came from outside: the so-called Faithful had
opened a smaller, unornamented version of the massive
metal doors. Three nomads entered the cave, dragging a
fourth. None wore headcloths or protective robes; in fact,
they were ridiculously exposed for this climate, let alone for
sunlight as tricky as Loki's.
 "That man's collapsed," McCoy said.
    "A stunning demonstration of the obvious," the Master
replied. "Your deductive skills overwhelm me."
    "Heat prostration... no..." He watched while the sick
man's friends set his emaciated form down--laid him out,
rother--against the rock wall. McCoy drew in his breath

sharply at the sight of the multicolored blotches marring the
nomad's flesh, large, raised, unevenly shaped. Some bled
sluggishly.
    "God. Man's dying of metastatic melanoma if he's not
dead already."
    More nomads entered. McCoy looked about in growing
horror, seeing similar, if smaller tumors on many. One or
two sat quietly, their eyes blank--burnt out by the sun. A
thin woman coughed rackingly: silicosis or the equivalent,
from all the dust. Many more bore signs of malnutrition or
mistreatment in addition to the cancers that rose on their
skfn, birthmarks from Loki's treachery.
    "It's bad enough to make them go out there unprotected,"
McCoy exploded. "But you're working them to death and
starving them, too! Dammit, man--"
    "I am Vulcan, not 'man,'" the Master interrupted coolly.
"I make them do nothing: they have chosen to serve me of
their own free will. As will you, physician. Serve me, and I
will give you your price: permission to go among my Faithful
and help them. I will also give you this."
    He snapped his fingers. One of the Faithful ran up,
inflamed eyes wide. This loyal follower was scarcely more
than a child. McCoy's diagnostic instincts came alive:
squamous carcinoma, a bloated belly, and what looked like
trachoma or something else that would probably leave him
blind within the year, if he didn't die first of sunstroke or
overwork. Hungrily, McCoy eyed what the child presented
to his master as if it were a sacred relic--McCoy's satchel of
medical supplies.
    Let me help. It was one of the greatest phrases in the
language, and had won the off-Earth writer who had made it
the theme of his masterwork a Nobel Prize. McCoy's
Starfleet oath restrained him, but an older oath by far
overrode it. I swear by Apollo the Physician, and Aesculapius,
and Hygeia and Panacaea His daughters, and by all the other

Gods and Goddesses, and the One above Them Whose Name
we do not know...
    "Give me that!" He lunged forward at his medical kit. A
protoplaser used as a weapon could create a nasty burn.
That, too, violated his oath, but maybe he could buy enough
time to help someone.
    "Earn it," the Master told McCoy. Then, appallingly, he
smiled.
    McCoy's eyes watered. It's the damn sunlight, he told
himself. And knew he was lying.
    Spock, where are you? Get me out of this hell.t Let me get
them all out of it.t Spock.t
    But of course there was no answer other than the groans of
the dying.

North V co ver City L'e m/
                    j

        119

ELEVEN

   Vulcan, Deep Desert
Day 4, Eighth Week of Tasmeen,
Year 2247

Spock's faster metabolism woke him with a shock: He was
hungry. For a moment, he lay staring up at the barely light
sky of early morning, startled to find himself out in the
desert when he had been dreaming of home and bed.
    Desert, yes. A neat twist extricated him from the grit into
which both boys had dug for warmth the night before.
Exhausted from the brutal heat of Vulcan's Forge, David
still slept deeply, Curled in on himself like a child.
 "David, it is time."
    Two days into their trip across the Forge, and they had
already fallen into a routine. If they rose now, they could
travel until the sun hammered the Forge and David's
footsteps as well as his ready flow of speech faltered. Even a
Vulcan needed to seek shadow by midday, sleeping or
meditating through the worst of Vulcan's heat. Then, as the
sun waned, they would rise and hike on until the darkness

 and the predators--any predator surviving on the Forge was
 a highly eff~cient one--grew too dangerous.
     The fact that the headgear of their salvaged protective
 suits contained a visor allowing David to see in the dark as
 efficiently as a Vulcan had let them come farther than
 Spock's most optimistic estimate. That estimate, he real-
 ized, had been predicated on bigoted observations from the
 likes of Stonn.
    Illogical. I shouM have drawn my data from closer to home.
After all, Mother has proven herself able to adapt to this
world.
    Could she, he wondered, have survived kahs-wan? Specu-
lation was fruitless. So was idling in the coolness of the
waking desert to watch the dawn, beautiful though it prom-
ised to be.
  "David," Spock repeated more loudly, "it is time."
    The human stirred. "Another scenic day in hell," David
muttered. He coughed, then shook himself free of the grit
and stretched. "I don't suppose you'd let me call school and
say I'm sick."
"Are you ill?" If so, their chances of survival plunged.
"It was a joke, Spock. I'm fine, honest. Grubs for break-
fast again today? The ones in the Negev tasted better. And I
got to grill them."
    "Half a ration bar for you," Spock said. Perhaps he should
allot the survival rations entirely to David rather than
letting the human risk eating off the land.
    "Hogging all the good stuff, are you?" David's grin turned
into a yawn.
 "Hogging?"
    The human groaned. "I was kidding. And they say Vul-
cans have no sense of humor."
    He could, Spock thought, chart the passage of the day by
the type and quantity of his companion's observations. But
the idea of David ill, David delirious and dying, David

buried in the desert with flat rocks heaped over a lonely part
of Vulcan that would henceforward be human territory--
Spock drew a deep breath, summoned his control, and
decided he preferred the ready babble of speech even this
early in the morning.
  Together, they reached for their water bottles.
    "L'chaim!" David toasted. "In Hebrew that means 'to
life.'"
    "Highly appropriate," Spock nodded. He drank, scanning
the desert, then, as David munched the tasteless rations,
face wrinkled in disgust, began a morning hunt. A flat rock
flipped over produced several grubs, which he passed over to
David, who neatly nipped off their heads with a fingernail,
then resolutely ate them.
  "Better than ration bars. What isn't?"
    Meanwhile, Spock stripped several stalks from a hardy
khara bush to reach its moisture-laden core, carefully leav-
ing most of the plant to regenerate, then nibbled the soft,
slightly salty pulp. This, too, was better than ration bars!
 "Are you ready, David?"
    "Just a minute." The human boy searched in his make-
shift pack for a spray hypo and one of the precious vials of
tri-ox. He injected himself, breathed deeply, then paused,
looking at the empty vial.
    "Spock," he said slowly, "I've been thinking this over.
And the tri-ox won't let me ignore this. I've got tri-ox to help
me. But what about the others, back there with that religious
fanatic? True, they're not as active as I'm being, and that
should buy them a little more time. But still... even if we
do manage to walk out of the deep desert, maybe reach one
of those science outposts on the Perimeter, there's no way
we're going to make it before people--maybe all the
hostages--start to die."
 "I... have considered that."

     "Right, and what odds do you give on that madman
 getting them proper medical care?"
  "Approximately--" Spock began.
     "I know you're some sort of math genius!" David inter-
 rupted. "It was one thing to raid the--the shuttle as long as
 we thought we could find communication gear. But it all got
 fried by the crash. So, where are the closest communica-
 tors?"
  "Either at the research stations--"
     "Or back at Sered's hideout. Spock, I think we ought to
 turn back."
     Spock fought down a wince. He had been thinking the
 same thing. But logic insisted that he point out, "Two youths
 against armed Romulans and an adult Vulcan male, David.
 The odds against--"
    "I'm not saying we go in like the cavalry, lasers blasting.
We haven't got any, at any rate. But, Spock, if we got out, we
can sneak back in."
"If Sered finds us, he will put us under heavy guard."
"Wanna bet? He despises us. I'm a human, and you--you
heard what he called you. To him, we're kids, Spock. We
can't do anything. Even if he found us, he'd just say we were
so scared we came back. If we picked our moment, we could
steal a communicator--"
    "Logically, he would have them watched," Spock said.
"Our safest plan--"
    "Are the hostages safe?" David countered. "Listen, my
mother's Starfleet, and that means she'll do everything in
her power to help people. Maybe we can run interference for
her and the other adults--if we get there in time. If they
haven't all collapsed from oxygen deprivation or the heat.
Now calculate your math," he challenged fiercely. "What's
the odds on either of these plans working out?"
    Spock paused, mind turned inward, calculating strengths,
weaknesses. "Odds are approximately equal," he admitted

after a moment. "And equally bad. David, is this an
example of what humans call 'a dirty job, but someone has
to do it'?"
    "Spock, my friend, this is about as rotten an example as
we'll ever find. So, we're agreed? Back the way we came?"
    "No," said Spock. He knelt and smoothed a patch of
sand. "Let us say that here is Sered's cave, here is the shuttle,
and here is our relative position." He drew lines joining each
position. "We actually gain time not by retracing our
footsteps, but by charting our course along the hypotenuse
of this triangle."
    "You think you can find Sered's hideout again? What if
there's a lava pool or something lying across our path?"
    "There are no open lava pools on the Forge," Spock told
him patiently. "And even if we must detour around obsta-
cles, we are hardly likely to go astray. Surely you remember
that there are some notable rock formations near the
hideout."
    "None of which we can see from here. What do we do till
we can?"
 "We navigate by the stars."
    "Right! Clear desert nights, no light pollution, and all
that. I should have remembered that." David packed up his
scanty gear. "Okay, Spock, this devil's advocate is all out of
objections. Ready when you are."
    Devil's advocate? Spock made a mental note to ask his
mother for a definition of David's latest exotic terminology.
    They started back the way they had come, up some hills
crumpled up from Vulcan's crust, and out onto the slick,
wrinkled black surface of an ancient lava flow. Here and
there, earthquakes had shattered the surface, allowing
scrawny plants with vicious-looking thorns to gain root-
holds.
    "Walk warily," Spock warned. "The lava looks thick, but
there may be gas bubbles hiding just beneath the surface. If

 you break through the crust, you risk a broken or badly
 lacerated ankle."
     David was actually silent as they picked their way across
 the glossy, treacherous plain.
 "Watch out for the plants as well," Spock continued.
 "Boots ought to be all right," David grunted. He raised his
 protective visor and studied the horizon, squinting against
 the brightness.
     "It is not your boots that concern me," Spock replied. "It
 is the plant life. Merely brushing against some of these
 shrubs will dislodge toxic spines."
     "Meat-eaters?" David asked, eyeing them. "Fas-
 cinating-no, that's your line, isn't it? What about these
 lichen-looking things?"
    Spock followed David's gaze. "Those? They are, indeed,
true lichen. You cannot get a rash from touching them, but if
ingested, they are a powerful hallucinogen, even for Vul-
cans."
    "And what do Vulcans hallucinate? Talking theorems?"
David laughed for the first time that morning.
    Spock blinked. Was this odd placing of laughter a human
defense against stress? Curious, he said, "I fail to see how
humans can display such illogical levity in a crisis."
    David lowered his visor with the finality of a Terran
knight going into battle. "One more time: It's a dirty job,
but someone's got to do it."
 He strode boldly forward, Spock at his side.
    Amazing. I know that I am keeping David going--but I
think that DavM is keeping me going, too!
    He had never sensed in another such a fierce desire not
just to survive but to keep observing as well, even when false
logic might dictate giving up. It was highly commendable in
a Vulcan. In a human, it was... highly commendable as
well.
 "Hey, snake!" David yelped suddenly, twisting aside. His

feet slipped out from under him and he went down with a
thud and another yell, this time adding what Spock sus-
pected were highly improper expressions in the invective
mode of several human languages. "David! Are you badly hurt?"
    "Nothing's broken but that damn bush I landed on. You
weren't kidding about those thorns. Look at this! They
shredded my sleeve. Ow, and me."
    Both boys stared down in dismay at the long black thorn
embedded in his forearm.
"At least I'm right-handed," David observed weakly.
"No! Don't try to pull it out. Such thorns are barbed."
"Great," David said. "Just great. I'll be the only one-
handed first-year student in the Academy." He reached for
his knife, but Spock forestailed him.
    "We have been using our knives to pry up rocks and slash
vegetation. Not only would they be difficult to sterilize
properly, by now, neither has a fine enough point or edge for
this type of work."
    "Yeah, right, kids don't get the good stuff, do they? It's a
shame none of those lasers in the shuttle were functional,
huh, Spock? Otherwise we could use one of them on low
power to vaporize the thorn."
    "And possibly your arm as well. Neither of us are trained
in laser surgery." Spock rummaged through the medical
supplies they had taken from the shuttle... yes. He took
out a small, thin scalpel and a tiny vial of a sterilizing
solution.
    David grimaced. "You sure you can use that? Too bad you
can't just use an obsidian blade, all the shards lying around
here."
 "I could not achieve a sharp enough point."
    "Right, right, and the stuff's brittle as glass--it is glass.
Volcanic glass. They used to use obsidian for trephining,
Aztecs or someone, performed brain surgery with it four

 thousand years ago. No, wait, it was the Egyptians who did
 the surgeries. The Aztecs used obsidian to cut out people's
 hearts. And I'm babbling, right?"
     "You are on the edge of shock." While he spoke, Spock
 carefully cleaned the scalpel. Trying to keep the human from
 sliding further into shock, he asked, "Were these Egyptians
 of Terra noted surgeons?"
     "For their time, they were. And the Aztecs were pretty
 clever, too. Bloodthirsty lot, though. Thought their gods
 would die if they weren't fed human blood. Heh, hope Sered
 isn't that far gone!"
  Spock froze. "I trust not."
     David, struggling one-handed, managed to tear a strip of
 cloth from his tunic. "Bandage. Reasonably clean. You think
 we need to worry about infection out here in the desert?"
     "The desert is clean," Spock assured him. "But that thorn
 has to come out. Even the slightest piece left in your arm
 could create a highly unpleasant condition."
    David grimaced. "Good thing I've had my shots." Then
he grit his teeth and gestured for Spock to proceed. Spock
clamped his hand down upon David's wrist with Vulcan
strength, immobilizing it and, he hoped, numbing it as well.
He made a careful incision. David flinched, then held still
with quite commendable control. The small wound bled
more than Spock had expected, not dangerously so, but the
red of it staining his fingers and the scent of it, clear to his
keen Vulcan senses, were almost shocking. He shut his eyes
for a moment, trying to thrust memories of the ruined
bodies in the downed shuttle from his thoughts.
    A shadow crossed David's arm and both boys glanced up.
High overhead, a shavokh circled, drawn by the sight of a
prone body. The human glared up at the bird. "You can just
wait till hell freezes over."
    "At least," Spock tried to distract David as he worked, "it
fills its ecological niche by seeking carrion..."

    "Thanks a lot, Spock--hey, any deeper and you'll need a
search warrant!"
    "... rather than souls. On Vulcan, we have a tale of the
Eater of Souls... a night creature which stalks and destroys
the spiritual essence of its sapient prey. My mother says that
belief in such a creature is common to all sentient beings.
Have you ever encountered such stories?"
    David continued to glare up at the circling shavokh. "I
can't believe we're having--ouch!--this conversation right
now. Aren't you finished yet?"
    "One more spine ... there. I believe we did include an
antiseptic with the other medical supplies... ah."
    He sprayed the antiseptic over the wound, then bandaged
it. David sagged back against the rock in relief, his eyes
closed, arm cradled against his body and face greenish
beneath its tan.
  "Do you wish to rest?" Spock asked.
 "How long until midday?"
"Approximately one point five three of your hours."
David forced himself to his feet. "Stop this early? We
don't dare. You're the one with the built-in range finder,
Spock. Lead on."
    "This is, I believe, an example of what humans call
'macho behavior.' And it is not logical. David, one point five
three of your hours is hardly a long time, and you will do
neither us nor thehostages much good if you collapse."
    "I'm not going to..." David sat down suddenly. "Well, I
guess we can spare one point five three hours," he said with a
shaky grin, and closed his eyes.

    David, relatively recovered after the heat of the day, had
not objected when Spock had pushed their pace, but by the
time they stopped for the night, the human youth dropped
to the ground. He was spent and breathing hard, but he still
managed to exclaim over the beauty of the sunset. The light

 bathed the desert floor like a flood of molten bronze. Even
 the ancient lava flows seemed to ripple, liquid once again.
     "My son, you indulge in metaphorical thinking." Spock
 could almost hear Sarek saying that, and he retorted silently,
 If you saw the Womb of Fire at sunset, you too would use
 metaphor. My description is exceedingly logical.
     Since the human boy was still favoring his left arm, Spock
 took on himself the task of digging shallow sleeping trenches
 in the loose ground for the night.
    "Don't you think it's still too early to stop, Spock?" David
asked, looking wistfully at the sky. "You did say we'd have to
steer by the stars. We could get in a couple of hours of travel
before the hunters came out."
    "I observed that you have been somewhat unsteady on
your feet for the past three point two kilometers. We will
both be more effective after a meal and a night's rest."
    However effective the two of them could be against armed
Romulans and Sered ....
    David had set out provisions: two ration bars, one dried-
out root. Now, he sat twisting straps of some supple fiber
about his good hand. "You know, Spock, you wouldn't
believe how much I hate being taken care of. You really
wouldn't believe it. Back home, I'm considered pretty
competent. Had to be, or I wouldn't have gotten into
Starfleet Academy." He reached down for a small chunk of
lava, then whispered, "Freeze!"
    Another metaphor? Fascinating. Spock's sensitive ears
picked out the sound of some small creature, perhaps a
hayafit too far from its burrow. David's eyes were very
bright. Fever? No, that was the alertness of a hunter.
    The hayalit stopped for an instant against a rock, its
carapace taking on the rock's color. David quickly slipped
the lava chunk into his makeshift sling, whirled it over his
head, then sent the chunk flying. The hayalii had time for
one desperate leap, then crumpled.

    "I will retrieve it." Somehow that came out in a casual
voice. Spock, determinedly hiding his reaction, needed the
brief walk to give him time to compose himself. Were all
Terrans such efficient predators? Only that morning, he had
shed David Rabin's blood, felt the other youth flinch under
an improvised obsidian blade, mortally vulnerable. Now,
the victim had turned into a hunter.
    "You said we needed a decent meal," David called after
him. "I've had my immunizations, remember, or those
grubs you fed me would have killed me already. I need the
protein. And, if you'll excuse my saying it, you do too."
    "I can obtain sufficient protein from the desert legumes. I
have no need or desire to eat meat. But you are human."
    "Heh. You sound almost like Sered." David skinned,
cleaned, and disjointed the creature with rapid efficiency.
"I... don't suppose there's anything around here that will
burn?"
    The thought of David devouring his kill raw was more
unpleasant than the risk of their fire being seen. Spock
reluctantly gathered bits of dead vegetation, which David
set alight with a spark from his firestarter. At least, Spock
told himself, the hayalit was low enough on the scale of
evolutionary being to barely qualify as animal.
    "Tastes just like chicken," the human observed between
bites, clearly intending it as a jest.
    Looking for a safe subject, Spock said, "You build a
commendable sling."
    David grinned. "It kind of comes with the name. King
David was a hero of my people. As a boy, he had to face a
giant, Goliath. Everyone expected the kid to be pulverized,
but David wouldn't listen to the odds. He slew the giant with
nothing more than a stone from his slingshot. I guess he's a
good role model about right now, don't you, Spock?"
  "Indeed."

    The small fire quickly burned out. The two boys raked the
ashes aside, lying side by side on the warmed ground,
looking up into the vast dome of the night sky. By unspoken
consent, they said nothing of the trials ahead.
    "If you seek Captain Rabin's ship," Spock observed, "its
disk is so small that parallax is insufficient for observation.
However, you can observe one hundred and sixty-eight first-
magnitude stars and--"
  "As my mother would say, at ease! We're not in class right
now."
    Silence fell. Spock let himself slowly relax, muscle by
muscle, and was almost asleep when David asked suddenly,
"Do you ever think of... well... girls?"
  Spock frowned in confusion. "In what context?"
    "Well, as girls. Different from us, but... attractive. As,
uh, mates. One of these days. When we're grown, of course."
    Spock felt one eyebrow shoot up. David could not know
how gravely his question violated Vulcan codes of privacy.
"For me, the topic is academic. I am already bonded."
    "You're married?" David's voice shot up an octave. "But
you're just a kid!"
    "It is our custom. I was bonded to T'Pring when we were
both seven."
    "T'Pring... wasn't she at the ceremony? Tall, slim, wear-
ing silver? Very alert?"
    "Yes," Spock said, bemused that David should have seen
and remembered her.
    "Hey, she's really something! Really... beautiful." From
the hesitation in David's usual flow of talk, Spock inferred
that the Terran had meant to add something, then decided
against it. "But, Spock, the two of you didn't even talk to
each other."
    "Talk about what? She will meet me at the appointed
time. There will be time enough for speech thereafter." He

could feel his face heating. Control, he told himself. It was a
perfectly normal psychological and physiological process.
And he had years before he must confront it.
    "I thought you people were advanced," David protested.
"Look at your parents... I mean..."
    Yes, and look at me. Half-caste, so that the first madman to
disgrace Vulcan in hundreds of years can denounce me before
the Adepts of Gol.
    No. Control. "My father's parents left him unbonded,"
Spock replied. "My father and mother chose otherwise for
me."
    David snorted. "I'd say they did." He fell silent for a long
time. "Spock," he asked, "are you scared?"
    Spock, too, paused. "The unknown," he conceded, "is
always disturbing." Then, because David seemed to expect
more, he added, "So is the thought of facing something
overwhelming."
    "Overwhelming" was the word for it. For two boys to go
up against Romulans and an adult Vulcan in full training
went beyond illogical all the way to what a human might
well call "preposterous."
    But then, a human might, like his friend David's name-
sake, try to beat the odds. Try and succeed. David had
taught him a word from David's people's history: "chutz-
pah." Yes. The chutzpah of that was almost reassuring.
    "David," Spock began tentatively. "May I ask you a
personal question?"
 "Go right ahead."
    "Why did you choose Starfleet Academy? I see no logic in
enthusiasm for a military career."
    "It's not military, not entirely. It's... well, at the Acade-
my, you can study anything you want, ask any question you
need to ask--in fact, you're supposed to. You get to go
anywhere in the galaxy and maybe even somewhere no one
has ever, ever gone--can you imagine anything more excit-

ing than discovering a new intelligent race? And while
you're traveling and studying, you sometimes get to help
people, too."
    Spock bit back a totally human sigh. Starfleet sounded like
precisely the sort of institution to hold the answers to his
inner questions. "But the weapons," he insisted. "Your ships
are armed."
    "My mother says that only a fool goes into a situation
with lasers firing. Our people--not the Federation, but the
people of the very small nation I call home on Terra--have
been scientists and artists and teachers--" "And warriors."
    "Yes, sometimes warriors too, when we had to be... for
more than six thousand years. We are very old, almost as old
as Vulcan civilization, perhaps. There were times when, like
Vulcans, we turned away from the path of the warrior. But
when we left ourselves unprotected, evil men tried to wipe
us out so that we said 'never again.' My mother says that
'never again' is optimistic. But she also says that 'not this
time' as a motto is something you can build your life
around. They won't kill the weak. Not this time. They won't
destroy the city. Not this time. They won't launch a sneak
attack on a weaker civilization. Not this time. Not while
Starfleet's there.
    "Not while I'm there," David added, and he was clearly
speaking a vow. "Not here, either."
    "It seems," Spock had to force the words past his lips, and
his hands had turned very cold, "extremely logical."
    "It is for me," said David. "I know it is. I only hope I can
measure up. Maybe, if I get through this all right, if we get
back... Spock..." He drew breath for what Spock knew
was going to be an explosion of enthusiastic tactlessness.
"Why don't you apply to Starfleet too? Tlxere'd be no
question of you getting in; they've been hoping to get some
Vulcans, and it sounds like--"

    "My parents have other plans for me," Spock told him in
exactly the same tone that Sarek used in reprimanding him.
The Bonding. Kahs-wan. The Science /~cademy. A distin-
guished, peaceful career for the next two hundred years. His
path was set.
    "That's such a waste." David sighed, but the sigh turned
into a yawn.
    "If we are to be strong enough to face the desert tomor-
row," Spock said, "we had both better sleep."
  "Right," muttered David. "G'night, Spock."
    Spock could hear the human's breathing stow and deepen
as he slid into sleep. It was a long time, however, before his
meditations could bring him to a point where he could even
think of rest. He pictured Sered's proud, elegant, counte-
nance. Thought of his treachery. David and his mother were
right, Spock decided. Not this time. Not. This. Time.
    David claimed that the Academy set him a standard he
must strive to match. Spock must now try to match a
human's dedication. Perhaps he and David could discuss
the entire issue at some later time.
 Assuming, of course, that they survived.

TWELVE

       Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 2, First Week, Month ot the Shining Clara,
Year 2296

The crew of the ill-fated shuttle woke to silence and clear
skies. Rabin and Spock moved to the cave entrance, flanked
by the others, everyone eager to see exactly where they were.
    Someone swore, very softly. Someone else whistled in
shock. Their cave sanctuary looked out on a perilously
narrow strip of flat ledge, scored and blackened where the
shuttlecraft had made its crash landing and almost deadly
slide.
    "One meter of error," Ensign Kavousi murmured, "that's
all it would have taken. One meter of error in landing and
we'd be dead."
    Captain Rabin shook his head in wonder. "Ensign Prince,
I think I speak for all of us when I tell you that was one hell
of a piloting job you did."
    The ensign shrugged, olive skin flushing slightly. "Ah well,
it was written that we not crash, but thank you, sir."

     Spock stepped carefully to the edge of the cliff, wary of
 crumbling soil, studying the formation. Yes... it would be
 a difficult climb down without mountaineering gear, but it
 could be done. Indeed, if his suspicions were correct, it had
 already been done ....
     He prowled the narrow rim of the ledge, hunting, a wary
 Rabin in his wake.
  "You don't suppose..." Rabin began tentatively.
  "You speak of McCoy?"
  "If he was out here, walking blind . .. I mean..."
  "He is not dead."
     "Then where is he? Not too many places for a man to be
 hiding."
     Spock acknowledged that with the slightest of nods, then
 stopped sharply, going to one knee. There at the very lip of
 the cliff, boldly placed so that it could not possibly be
 missed, lay a tricorder bearing the insignia of Starfleet
 Medical Corps. And it was shattered beyond repair.
    "The storm must have smashed it," Rabin said in the tone
of someone who'didn't quite believe what he was saying.
    "Hardly. If you will observe the damage closely, you will
see that it has been quite deliberately done by a suddenly
applied force."
  "Like the force from someone's boot."
    "Precisely. Someone also made quite certain that we
should find the tricorder and, presumably, assume that the
doctor had fallen'to his death. That, I assure you, is not the
case."
    Spock straightened, looking out across the desert. A vast,
rocky plain stretched out before him, glinting here and there
with fresh-strewn shards of black glass over a layer of tan soil
and pale sand. But he did note some hints of green; there
was, therefore, at least some water. The far horizon was
rimmed by a dark, jagged ridge of mountains, clearly
igneous and possibly still seismically active. They seemed

no more than a few days' walking away, but Spock knew
from experience with the deceptive light of other deserts
that they were much farther away than they appeared.
    And in all that vastness, he saw not the smallest sign of
habitation. "Either Dr. McCoy's captors are truly skilled in
covering this terrain, or they had a small, swift craft. Either
way, the doctor is surely a captive."
    That, he added to himself, wouM explain why he is so very
furious. But where is he? And who has captured him?
    The "why" was simple enough: a Federation medical
officer would make a valuable hostage, indeed. Someone
obviously knew about Starfleet, presumably the same some-
one who knew enough to convince a native spy that a Vulcan
was the Fiery One. "Do you recognize this region?" Spock
asked Rabin.
    "I'm not sure." Rabin studied the desert, hand shading
his eyes. "That's due west... then that must be the Taragi-
shar Range. At least I think it is; never saw it from this angle
before. If we bear north-northwest, we should be only..."
His voice faltered. "Only unbelievably far from the Federa-
tion base. With a hell of a lot of uncharted desert in
between."
    "There is no need for alarm. You are as much an experi-
enced desert inhabitant as I."
    "Spock, it's been a good many years since our last outing.
Maybe time doesn't mean as much to you Vulcans, but it
sure does to humans."  Spock waited.
    "True," Rabin continued, as Spock had expected, "I
haven't tied myself down to a desk job, and I try to keep
myself fit, but still... all that..."
    Spock only raised an eyebrow. Rabin hesitated, then gave
Spock a lopsided grin. "You read me all too well, don't you?
What can I say? The boy's still part of the man, and the

 boy's still got the taste--logical or not--for adventure. At
 least I don't need tri-ox here. Ah, what are you looking at
 down--oh."
     The shuttle was an alarmingly small mass of shiny metal
 there at the base of the cliff. Rabin winced and turned away,
 to find himself being watched by the crew. "Ensign Kavousi,
 Captain Spock worked long and hard on that transmitter.
 Stop gawking and see if you can raise our base or the
 Intrepid. Ensign Prince, go help him."
     "Aye-aye. I still wish you'd let me go with you and Captain
 Spock, though, sir."
    "Ensign Prince, we've gone over this already. Three or
four times already, for that matter. One last time: Only you
have the experience these people need. You have the respon-
sibility for insuring their well-being." Rabin set a hand on
the young man's shoulder, adding too softly for the others to
hear, "I need you here, Faisal."
    Ensign Prince blinked and clasped a hand to his belt, only
to brush his phaser and frown as though surprised. Rabin
grinned.
    "You were expecting a Meccan dagger, weren't you.9
Wrong desert."
    "Shalom, Captain." The ensign touched heart, lips, and
brow.
    "Aleikum salaam," Captain Rabin replied, returning the
salute. "Go with God."
    Spock nodded at Lieutenant Diver and Rabin's crew, who
all looked somewhat--he sought for a word and settled on
"forlorn." "I have every confidence in you," he told them,
"and in those at the base. When we return to that base, we
will speak again. I am certain your experiences will be highly
instructive."
 Now, why did that make them smile?
 "Well," Rabin said with clearly forced cheer, "the day's

not getting any younger. Think we can get down that cliff
safely, Spock?"
 "Others did."
 "Then--let's trek, Spock."
    With a reluctance that surprised him, Spock turned his
back on the sheltering cave. Overhead, Loki glared, an angry
eye in a quiescent sky. Spock frowned ever so slightly,
sensing the first new perturbations in the air. Was there to be
another storm? Worse, was he sensing the first air pressure
changes signaling a solar flare? If so, it might well occur
while he and Rabin were out on the open desert, forcing him
to find shelter for Rabin and himself, just as he had on
Vulcan.
    Until then, however, Rabin knew this world better than
did he, and so Rabin would lead.

    The struggle down the steep, nearly sheer slope of the cliff
took a good part of the morning and brought Spock and
Rabin unnervingly near--unnervingly for the human, at
least--the wrecked shuttlecraft.
    Rabin whistled soundlessly. "Looks even worse up close.
That isn't going anywhere, ever. Nothing worth salvaging,
either."
 "Indeed not."
    Rabin glanced at Spock. "You're remembering, too, aren't
you? That other wrecked craft, back on Vulcan?"
    "Yes." And another, earlier, wreck of a Galileo craft. "But
there is nothing in that memory or this wreck that can help
us, and we surely have a considerable journey ahead."
    "So don't waste time in reminiscing," Rabin finished
dryly. "Got it." He looked about, getting his bearings. "We
really couldn't have picked a less convenient place for a
crash if we'd planned it. Nothing nearby, not even an oasis
town."

    "The land cannot be totally lifeless if the nomads cross it.
And I did see signs of vegetation, indicating moisture."
 "Then: Onward."

    Spock paused, glancing about the open wilderness with a
desert-dweller's instinctive caution. Rabin stopped with
him, warily silent.
    They had been walking with a steady, ground-eating,
energy-saving stride, taking advantage of the morning's
relative coolness, and by now they could no longer see the
cave in which the rest of their party sheltered. All about
them stretched the rocky plain with its glittering black
coating of bits of obsidian over the tan, hard-packed soil.
The wind whispered harmlessly, stirring the hot, dry, dusty
air, tugging at Spock's hood.
    There. His keen Vulcan hearing had caught the clear,
steady chirping of some desert fowl. Where there was
wildlife, there was water. The wind shifted slightly, and
Spock sniffed the air, analyzing.
 "Water," he said after a moment. "This way."
    It was a bare seepage from between two rocks, but it was
clean. No desert-dweller passed up the chance for moisture,
particularly when it meant precious supplies could be con-
served, so Spock and Rabin took advantage of the chance to
drink, then sat back, resting for a moment.
    "I admit," Rabit~ began, "I was a little leery about taking
only the two small canteens with us."
    "Had I not seen vegetation, I never would have proposed
bringing so small an amount," Spock agreed. "But the crew
needed the water more than did we."
    "Right. 'The needs of the many,' and all that. And I'd
forgotten how you really can smell out water if you know
what you're hunting. That funny not-quite-wet rock smell.
Almost like hot metal."

 "Exactly."
    "Ha, look at this," Rabin said, studying the relatively lush
plants growing along the line of seepage. "Liak root." He
pulled one free with some effort, then brushed the soil away
from the tuberous roots. "See?" Breaking off a piece. he
crunched it happily. "You usually find these near water," the
man said around his mouthful. "Nice flavor, crunchy tex-
ture, and it's got vitamins human and presumably Vulcan
metabolisms can use."
    Spock, curious, sampled a piece. "Yes," he said, swallow-
ing. "Quite palatable. Will it store well?"
 "Easily. For days, maybe even a week."
    "Excellent. Then let us supplement our rations with fresh
food while we may."
    They added several of the [iak roots to their packs, leaving
the majority of the plants behind to replenish themselves,
then set out again. The walking so far had not been
particularly difficult, Spock mused, hearing gravel crunch
under his feet. Aside from such local variations in the
sparse. thorny vegetation as the liak, this seemed little
different from many another desert plain he had crossed in
his life; there were, after all, only so many ways for similar
ecological systems to be formed.
    Of course, as with all deserts, there were perils. Obsidian
could be treacherously fragile and slick underfoot. And one
needed to keep a keen eye for such predators as whatever
cold-blooded species might need to warm themselves on
sun-heated surfaces.
    "You still aren't a meat-eater, I take it?" Rabin asked
suddenly.
 "That has not changed."
    "A pity. Some tasty wild critters about, such as..." He
pounced swift as a predator himself, and came up with a
good-sized lizardlike something, wriggling frantically in his

grip as Rabin held it firmly just behind the head. "Bok-
tarik. That's what the good folks of Kalara call them,
anyhow. But if you aren't going to join me..." He put the
boktarik down again with careful gentleness, watching it
scuttle away. "'Sorry, sir, but we can't kill a whole bok-
tarik for just one steak.'"
    "That," Spock commented, "is a jest, originally from
Earth, originally told about a man desiring to eat elephant
and being rebuffed by the cheil It is older, my friend, than
both of our ages added together."
  "Aha! He has learned something of human ways!"
    "It would be illogical, to say nothing of highly improb-
able, of me not to have done just that. And you," Spock
added without the slightest trace of expression, "have not
lost your gift for, I believe the proper word for it is,
'wisecracking.'"
    That forced a genuine laugh out of Rabin. "God, Spock, it
has been a long time. I never meant to drop out of sight like
that."
  "Lives often diverge, whether one wills it or not."
    "And isn't that the truth! I've heard bits and pieces about
your career, of course; hard to avoid hearing about the first
Enterprise and its heroic mission. Missions. Enterprises--
ah, you know what I mean."
 "Yes. The sun is rapidly approaching its zenith."
    "I've noticed. And smart desert critters should rest in
whatever shade they can find."
    There was none. This, Spock knew, was hardly a problem.
He and Rabin sat, if not totally comfortably, at least
tolerably well, under the makeshift canopies that flowing
desert robes could create. For a long while they said nothing,
sharing a canteen between them, both too desert-wise to
move more than was absolutely necessary or take more than
a mouth-wetting swallow at a time, or to stint themselves on

water, either. Spock watched to be sure that the human,
more water-dependent than he, took the larger share.
    Then Rabin stirred slightly. "So, what have you been
doing? Besides rising through Starfleet ranks, that is?"
    Spock hesitated. I have lost my captain... and myJ~iend.
But all he said was "Experienced much. Learned what I
could."
    Rabin snorted. "Such as how to field unwanted questions.
Don't worry; I've had some experience in that myself."
    Time passed and the desert grew utterly still with heat,
too warm for even the human's innate cockiness. He napped
sitting up, and Spock used the desert quiet to slip into
meditation. It would be far too simple to let worry intrude,
about the crew, back in their rock shelter, about himself and
Rabin and the desert about them. But worry was emotion,
emotion was insignificant... logic was the cornerstone,
logic and control...
    He roused suddenly, feeling refreshed. The sun had slid
almost to the horizon, and a cooler breeze was already
sweeping over the desert as he got to his feet, brushing off his
robes. With a companionable nod to Rabin, who was doing
the same, Spock set out again, the human keeping pace but
moving a bit stiffly.
    "Don't worry about me," he told Spock, who was watch-
ing him warily. "Nothing wrong. I just haven't been doing as
much long-range hiking as I should."
    Spock glanced at the sky, the horizon. "We should be able
to go on for a bit longer before nightfall."
 "I can do it, if that's what's bothering you."
    "I am not bothered. Merely speculative. I trust you are not
being what is generally termed, I believe, 'macho.'"
    Rabin, mouth full of something he had just snatched from
a thorny plant, nearly spit it out, choking on laughter.
Chewing frantically, he said, "No. I'm not being 'macho,'
honest." He bent over one of the thorny desert plants, then

plucked a second object and straightened. "Here, try this.
Challik fruit, nice and ripe. Watch it! Knock the spines off
first."
    "I am well acquainted with the typical characteristics of
desert succulents." Spock neatly broke the spines off against
a convenient rock, then sampled the challik. Agreeable, if a
touch too sweet for his tastes. "Odd how few intelligent
beings realize that a desert is rarely totally barren. There is
generally food to be found."
    "If one isn't too fussy," Rabin added. "And has an eye
that truly sees. What always amazes me is how few intelli-
gent beings realize how beautiful it all is!"
    Spock paused, considering the starkness about him. A
younger Spock would have agreed stiffly that there was
an esthetic correctness to the arrangement of plain and
mesa and mountains. Now he could say simply, "Yes. I, too,
find it beautiful." Which was, after all, just as logically
truthful.
    They camped for the night on a level stretch of land
slightly higher than the surrounding area; both of them
knew the danger of flash floods. The desert floor was far too
parched to absorb water quickly, which meant that any rain
in the high mountains would come surging down dry gullies
or even slight depressions with quick, deadly force.
    "Not much in the way of tinder," Rabin commented. He
shivered suddenly, drawing his robes about him as the
desert rapidly cooled after sunset.
    "No matter." Spock had already found three good-sized
rocks, checking them for fractures or other dangerous weak-
nesses. Piling the rocks together, he heated them to a steady,
baking warmth with a quick, efficient phaser blast. "They
will stay hot, I would estimate, for perhaps five point nine
Obsidian hours."
    "Long enough. Won't betray our presence with any nasty
firelight or smoke, either." Rabin held a liak root over one,

then sampled the roasted result. "Not bad. Could use some
pepper, though. This is how the nomad women cook; a good
cooking stone--one that's not going to explode on you from
trapped air--is passed down, mother to daughter."
    "A similar ritual was performed by women in Vulcan's
nomad past."
    "Clever, those women." Rabin paused, eyeing Spock
slyly. "Speaking of which, my pointed-eared friend, what
have you been doing in all those years? Married your
T'Pring and--" "No."
    The flatness of it made Rabin stare. "No? I thought
there... ah... wasn't a choice about it."
    "There was. T'Pring chose otherwise." Memory, still
surprisingly sharp after so long, told him: I chose not to be
the consort of a legend. "As," Spock said in deliberate
understatement, "did I." "Ah."
    Spock raised a brow. "Now, if I am not mistaken, you are
about to perform that human ritual of 'I told you so.'"
    "I wouldn't! But..." Rabin grinned. "I did tell you so,
didn't IT' The grin faded. "Not that I've done so well on the
home front. I... was married for a time, 'a nice Jewish girl'
and all that. But..." He shrugged. "It turned out that I'd
wed a wife who didn't like deserts."
 "That hardly seems like a logical choice."
    Rabin snorted. "Believe me, Spock, logic had nothing to
do with it!" He shrugged again. "No kids, no complications,
no hard feelings. It happens. My mother, of course, still
wants grandchildren, but she's hardly going to nag me across
the galaxy! Besides," he added with the return of his grin,
"she has her own life. She retired from Starfleet some time
ago, went into politics back on Earth and is now both
happily remarried and a member of the Israeli government,
the Knesset."

    Rabin paused as though he'd been slapped. "Hell, Spock,
I forgot," he said awkwardly. "The Lady Amanda. I heard
about... please do accept my condolences." In shaky Old
High Vulcan, he added, "I grieve with thee."
    "There is no need for embarrassment. One cannot alter
what has already passed. But," he added, voice carefully
controlled, "thank you. Now I do believe we should rest. I
will take the first watch,"
      Rabin settled himself on the ground, wrapped in his
bedroll. Silence fell for a time. Then:
 "Spock..."
 "Yes?"
    "Can't help wondering. The crew... think they'll make
it?"
    "If you wish me to 'guess,' you are mistaken, my friend.
And as for a rational reply, the chances of the makeshift
transmitter working with sufficient strength and sufficient
length of time to let the Federation base find the crew are,
given fair weather and no solar flares, approximately twenty-
four point five to--"
 "Not statistics again."
    "I cannot predict what the crew will do. But I can remind
you of this fact: they are well trained and intelligent, both
your party and mine. They will not make foolish mistakes."
 "And what about us? Think we'll make it?"
    Spock started to reply, then stopped, realizing that there
had been the faintest tinge of humor to Rabin's voice; the
human was hiding his worries as humans tended to do by
pretending he was only joking. Rabin was also deliberately
evoking their long-ago struggle for survival.
    "Only," Spock said as though he hadn't seen through the
subterfuge, "if we achieve sufficient rest."
    There was a sound suspiciously like a chuckle from
Rabin. "Good night, Spock." It was a parody of a little boy's
voice.

    "Good night," Spock said and, secure in darkness too
thick for human vision, permitted himself the smallest
upward crook of his mouth.

    Rabin stretched, yawning. "God, what I wouldn't give for
a good old-fashioned genuine Earth-grown-bean cup of
coffee! It's been far too long since I've slept on the ground,
Spock. Getting too old for this."
    Spock raised an eyebrow. "I would not believe that to be
the truth if you were twice your age."
    "Saying I'm still a child at heart?" The human stretched
again, wincing. "Wish I could get the rest of the body to
agree! Ah well, at least nothing bothered us in the night.
I... only hope the crew had as peaceful a rest."
 "It is illogical to worry about what cannot be affected."
    "Easy for you to say! You don't have to answer to Starfleet
for the loss of a shuttlecraft."
    "Judging from the age of that craft," Spock said in a
carefully neutral voice, "I do not believe the bill would be
substantial."
    "Never underestimate the power of bureaucracy. Well, my
friend," Rabin added with a wryly melodramatic bow, "the
desert waits."
    They walked on into the morning, and on again, the only
sounds the soft stirring of wind, the crunch of grit under-
foot, and the occasional distant call of what Spock assumed
from the incautious shrillness was a hunting bird. The day
quickly grew warm, then hot. Not unpleasantly so, Spock
thought, at least not for a Vulcan, though Rabin did not
seem unduly uncomfortable, either. The terrain remained
relatively level, and it was not at all difficult to fall into the
mindlessness of step after step after...
    "Remember the last time we did this?" Rabin said sud-
denly. "Having to be heroes when we both were nothing but
scared kids--oh, don't look at me like that, Spock. You and

I both know that underneath that Mr. Cool Logic face you
were wearing, you were every bit as scared as me and--look
at those Indians on the horizon!"
    At first, the reference escaped Spock completely. Then a
memory with Jim Kirk's voice whispered, "John Ford West-
erns, movies," as he saw the line of desert nomads sitting
their chuchaki on the ridge above them.
    "Wild nomads," Rabin murmured. "Look at those chuch-
aki. Lean as greyhounds and pure white, every one of them.
Desert breed. Deep desert, these guys."
  "I do not believe it would be wise for us to move."
  "I'm not moving."
    The nomads sat absolutely still, keeping even their
chuchaki from fidgeting, making a dramatic point. Then the
line rode smoothly down the ridge as one to block the way,
still without a sound other than the jingling of harness and a
grunt from a chuchaki.
    At first glance, the nomads seemed identical as clones,
shrouded in the same deeply hooded flowing robes, tan as
the desert floor. But Spock noted subtle changes in the
weaving of each robe and less subtle lines of color, red or
blue: ritual markings, no doubt, that indicated different
clans or rankings.
    One thing the nomads all had in common: They were
blatantly not happy at finding strangers in their territory. In
a movement so smooth that it could only have been re-
hearsed, the nomads, as one, drew and aimed archaic--but,
Spock didn't doubt, still quite deadly--projectile rifles at
Rabin and him.
    "What the hell's going on?" Rabin whispered. "Why are
they calling us the Faithful?"
    Spock's translator was picking up the same cryptic words.
He also saw fingers beginning to tighten on triggers. Taking a
logical chance out of desperation, he raised his hand in the

split-fingered Vulcan greeting and said, "Live long and
prosper."
    This calm, ritual greeting was clearly not what the nomads
had been expecting. For the first time Spock saw them stir
uneasily, glancing at each other. He followed up on their
hesitation by telling them, still in his best calm, logical
voice, "We are not of the Faithful--but we do wish to speak
of them." He added softly to Rabin, suddenly inspired,
"Push back the hood of your cloak. Let them see you."
    Rabin warily pushed back the hood. As Spock had hoped,
the nomads reacted to his clearly non-native features; this
was plainly not one of the mysterious Faithful. More, they
were actually pleased.
 "The Kindly Fool!"
    "The Kindly Fool has finally gained the wisdom to find
US!"
    Rabin raised an eyebrow at that "Kindly Fool" epithet,
but Spock cut in before he could say anything, "Yes. This is
the good man who seeks to save your children and make the
desert bloom."
    That started a storm of murmurings among the nomads.
At last the one who seemed to be their leader, his robe
marked with red and blue zigzag weavings, said, "Come."
    They were escorted--surrounded, rather--by the
mounted nomads, towering over them, to a rocky outcrop-
ping. "There," said the nomad's leader. "In there."
 Rabin groaned. "Another cave."
    "More than that," Spock murmured, entering. "Note the
size of the cavern, its height and depth. Yes," he added, "and
notice that the nomads have painted pictographs all over the
walls. This is a true refuge, not merely a chance conve-
nience, presumably one in which the nomads take shelter
during a solar flare."
 "I just hope it isn't going to be turned into a prison."

  "I do not think that will be the case. Look."
    One of the nomads was approaching, the hood of his robe
pulled back to reveal dark eyes in a lean, sharp-edged face
lacking any surplus flesh--the face, Spock thought, of a true
desert-dweller. This uncovering was, he suspected, a sign of
respect, as was the earthen cup of precious water he bore.
    "The Water Ritual," Rabin muttered. "Never saw it
outside of street theater in Kalara. You're right; we are being
honored."
    The nomad made a great ceremony out of offering the
cup. With a sideways glance at Rabin, who was gesturing
subtly, go on, take it, Spock bowed to the nomad, accepted
the cup, sipped, then passed it on to Rabin. He, too, sipped,
then passed it back to the nomad, who drank in turn. The
cup made its rounds three times, then the nomad bowed and
left. Rabin whistled under his breath.
    "You're in the wrong business, my friend," he murmured
to Spock.
 "What do you mean?"
    "Took me a while to place those tribal weavings. But these
are the Benak Haran--they almost always do that 'shoot
first, ask questions later' routine! Nice job of diplomacy you
did."
 Does he take me for my father?
    Illogical to feel even quickly suppressed anger at the
comparison. "I did what was needed," Spock said flatly.
    Time enough to ponder such issues when he and Rabin
and all the crew--yes, and Dr. McCoy as well--were safe.
 Whenever that might be.

THIRTEEN

   Vulcan, Deep Desert
Day 6, Eighth Week of Tasmeen,
Year 2247

Spock and David stopped to get their bearings, both boys
staring at the far horizon, where a jagged mass of blackened
rock hunched up from the reddish desert floor.
 "No easy way to get around that," David said.
 "No need to get around it. We must, instead, get over it."
 "That... wasn't a joke, is it?"
     "A play on words, I believe you call it? No. I only mean
that we must climb over it, quite literally." "Oh, now you've got to be joking!"
    "The ascent is not as difficult as it seems. Others have
climbed the ridge, and indeed the al-Stakna Mountains
beyond, without mountaineering gear." That those others
had been scientists trained in mountaineering was a fact
he saw no reason to mention to David. "And once we
have crossed it, we will be on the edge of the Womb of
Fire."

     "Now, that really makes me feel cheerful." David shaded
 his eyes with a hand. "I know distances in the desert are
 deceiving, but it looks like we could reach that thing in
 about an hour or so of quick hiking. How far away do you
 think it really is?"
  "If my calculations are correct..." Spock began.
     "If they're not correct, I'm dead and so are the rest of the
 hostages. I'm assuming that if I stick my head into the
 hypotenuse of this navigational triangle of yours, we won't
 both hang."
    Spock flicked the human a sharp glance, letting him know
what he thought of people who punned on mathematics.
David's grin made his lips crack. "Once we cross the ridge,"
the human continued, giving them a perfunctory swipe with
his tongue, "will we be able to see where Sered's got the
hostages?"
    "We should." Spock studied the rugged landscape, trying
to pick out the easiest route: impossible at this range, even
for sharp Vulcan vision. "As to your first question, barring
unforeseen storms or other hazards, we should reach the
ridge in time to rest overnight and start our ascent at first
light."
    "You think there's water up there?" David asked. "Not
that I'm worried or anything, but we're pretty low on liquid
supplies."
    Spock glanced'up. A shavokh circled high overhead, but it
was clearly watching something other than the boys, and
hunting other than dead prey. "The shavokh senses water,"
Spock said, then looked directly at David. "So will every
other creature in the range."
    "All of which are likely to be fanged, taloned, or toxic.
Warning taken."
    They started forward, heads clown against a sudden sand-
laden gust. Ahead, a shower of phantom rain quickly

formed, tantalized them for a few moments, then just as
swiftly disappeared. David stopped, blinking.
 "Spock, what does a Vulcan mirage look like?"
    "First I must know what mirages look like on your
world."
    "Oh... pools of water, swaying palm trees, happy cam-
els, that sort of thing. Even buildings, sometimes. On
Vulcan, a mirage wouldn't look like a dried-up streambed,
would it?"
    "Not unless you assume that the planet has turned mali-
cious. Vulcan already possesses significant hazards without
such fanciful concepts. And that," he added, following
David's glance, "is hardly a mirage." "Water?"
 "Possibly just below the surface. Come, we shall see."
    It was a long, shallow channel, faintly darker than the
surrounding land, its smoothness broken by a rumble of
rocks that had clearly been swept down from higher ground.
It was even remotely possible, Spock thought, that this
seemingly dried-up watercourse was part of the aquifer that
supplied Sered's fortress. He cautiously studied the sky,
then gestured to David to fan out some distance to the left.
    "We may find water below the surface, but we must be
wary."
    "Gotcha. Whatever the odds are against a cloudburst
anywhere in the vicinity--ha, or even miles away--I don't
want to be anywhere near a water channel in a flash flood."
    There was mud below the dried surface, and yet more
mud below that, and after a time of fruitless digging, both
boys gave up.
 "Not worth it," David gasped.
    "The energy expended in digging would far exceed the
energy replaced by whatever water we reached," Spock
agreed.

    "But there's got to be water somewhere nearby if there's
mud under this."
    "The shavokh would not be hunting if there was not.
Come, David, we shall follow its lead."
    "And," David said, glaring up at the bird and rubbing his
thorn-wounded arm reminiscently, "hope it's not going to
be hunting us."

    The land grew steadily rougher as the boys hiked toward
the ridge, forcing them to pick their way among larger and
larger chunks of basalt. By the time Vulcan's fierce sun had
slipped behind the horizon, they had reached the sharp
slope that was the true base of the ridge.
    "You were right about how long it would take," David
said, plopping down on a convenient rock, then added a
wry, "Not going to say 'I told you so'?"
    Spock glanced at him in genuine surprise. "Why? I did tell
you so."
  "Agh. Save me from literal-minded Vulcans."
    "That, I take it, is a rhetorical remark." Recognizing one
of the thorny plants clinging to the rough ground, Spock
carefully broke off two stalks. "This contains sufficient
moisture to keep us at least relatively comfortable."
    "Food." David ironically held up one of the nearly
inedible ration bars in one hand. "Moisture." He held up
the stalk in the other. "And a nice, firm bed. Servants, wake
me when it's morning."
    "Before morning," Spock corrected. "We cannot waste
the precious hours before the day's heat."
 "Before," David agreed with a groan, and went flat.

    By the time the sun had risen, the boys had been climbing
for several hours.
    "You're right," David panted. "Don't need special gear.
Climbed worse at home. Climbing into a whole new set of

hazards, though," he added, stopping to catch his breath.
"Who'd have guessed there'd be so many blasted crystals in
the rocks?"
 "It is an unusual formation," Spock agreed.
    "Why do I not feel privileged? And yes, that was another
rhetorical question."
    As the sun continued to rise, its rays beat down on
boulders and rock spurs with ever-increasing force, the flare
of sunlight on the crystals dazzling the boys despite David's
protective visor and the veils of Spock's eyes. The narrow
trail they were following blazed as though filled with melted
stone, and they climbed slowly, afraid of pitfalls they might
not see in time.
    "If our path were easy," Spock said, trying to reassure the
human and himself both, "predators native to this range
would find it so as well."
 "Gee, now that's comforting."
    This low in the foothills, the temperature was not appreci-
ably cooler. Nevertheless, the smallest increase in humidity
brought Spock's head up; he could almost feel the skin of his
face, taut against his planet's dryness, relax in proximity
to...
    He sniffed deliberately. The powdery, alkaline scent of a
recent rockfall, but something else... He sniffed again.
Yes! Unmistakably water! There was also the spoor of some
animal, acrid enough to be a carnivore, vaguely familiar, but
possible threats were overpowered by his survival instincts
clamoring at him that here was water, here was life, he must
hurry.t
    No. Haste was fatal in the desert, particularly when
something had its lair nearby. David had scented it, too,
reaching for the sling at his belt and checking his sidepouch
for suitable ammunition.
 Let David hunt. Fresh meat will keep him healthy.
 As for himself, Spock thought, where there was water,

 there would surely be edible plants. That would extend how
 long they could survive out here--
     Until David runs out of tri-ox compound. If that happens,
 what then?
     Spock had already worked it out. To save David's life, he
 would have to be turned over to Sered, even if that put
 Spock's own chances at risk. He would have to be careful
 that David, jumping to one of his intuitive conclusions, did
 not anticipate this line of reasoning.
     "Spock," David called softly, "there's something around
 here. I've spotted tufts of something that looks like fur,
 camouflaged against the rocks."  "Be careful."
  "I will. But I don't see anything around."
    Neither do I. A predator prefers not to be seen. Until it
springs.
    David was already scrambling up over a heap of rocks,
and Spock hurried after. Yes, there was the pool, tiny, a deep
indigo amid the black rocks, and infinitely welcome to his
sight. Beyond the water lay a jumble of immense basalt
boulders. Some long-ago earthquake must have sent them
tumbling down to end up slanting against each other,
forming a wilderness of caves.
    How very curious: Although birds circled overhead, no
animals came to drink.
    "Something's wrong," David whispered. "Think the
water's bad?"
    Spock shook his head, pointing at animal tracks in the
mud at the water's edge; creatures clearly used this pool
regularly. "Our presence could be frightening them away."
 "Or it could be some nasty predator lurking about."
    "Exactly," Spock said softly. "! will stand guard while you
fill the water bottles."
 The human warily knelt at the water's edge. "Hey," he

whispered, "here's another tuft of that fur. Not too pretty:
orange with greenish tinges."
    Spock stiflened as memory belatedly processed and re-
turned data, all at once knowing exactly what he had
smelled, what had left that fur.
 "Le-matya," he murmured.
 "Heh?"
    "It is a felinoid predator, a deadly mountain hunter. I did
not think we had reached its range."
    David shrugged. "Predators don't read the guidebooks.
Now what?"
    But Spock held up a warning hand, listening. He heard a
faint mewling coming from the shadow of a rocky overhmxg.
That was hardly the scream of a le-matya. Was something
injured? Warily, he stalked forward, David following to
guard his back.
    So. Here were more tufts of fur, orange with green
markings, teased by the wind. The mewling grew louder as
the boys approached. Moving with exaggerated care, Spock
peered into the darkness. Inside was a nest of dried plants
and more fur. And within it squirmed six tiny le-matyas.
 Full memory flashed to life:
    A scream offeral rage, a scrabble in the rock dust, and the
le-matya all but cornering him until I-Chaya rose up, growl-
ing, the sehlat's shabby coat fluffing upward in a feeble threat
display as he showed his broken fangs. I-Chaya hurled
himself between the le-matya and the child Spock, clearly
demanding that his Vulcan "cub" take himself off and hide.
Spock heard I-Chaya ~ yelp of agony as the le-matya swiped
at him with those poisoned claws, knew his sehlat had just
given him life at I-Chaya~ own expense--
    These babies, so young that the poison sacs at the base of
jaws and claws had not had time to fill, would grow into
predators such as had killed I-Chaya. His hand clenching
around a rock, Spock bent over the nest.

     But then he hesitated. Warily, hardly understanding the
 urge, he reached out to touch one small creature, hearing it
 hiss in childish defiance. Why, le-matya fur was soft, softer
 than he would have imagined! How tiny the babies were--
 and how foolishly, marvelously brave, all but helpless yet
 trying to defend themselves, raising plump little paws that
 were only a fraction of the size they would one day be. The
 needle-thin talons that tipped them were more of a promise
 than a menace. One baby opened its mouth and yowled,
 showing what would one day be formidable fangs but were
 now little more than milk teeth. How could he--
  "Spock, look out?
    With a shriek, the outraged adult le-matya lunged toward
its nest--her nest--to protect her young. Spock flung him-
self away from the nest, falling, rolling, scrambling into the
cover of a projecting rock, staring at the sheer size of the
predator. The ones around Shikahr were big, but this was a
creature of the Womb of Fire, perhaps even a successful
mutation. He swung up onto the rock, fighting for the
advantage of height.
    But the creature had clearly caught his scent--and the
smell of fear. Once again, Spock was seven years old and
paralyzed at the approach of a deadly enemy. Once again,
his control slipped as the le-matya screamed, exposing
discolored fangs that were lethal enough of themselves but
that carried a deadly nerve poison.
    David/The thought stabbed through his paralysis. If he
moves, the le-matya will turn on him/
    Spock's hand fell to a sharp rock. He was no longer a
child; he had most of the strength that an adult Vulcan male
was supposed to have, and if he hit the le-matya just right,
he would crush its skull.
    But if he killed the creature, what happened to the kits?
Ridiculous, illogical, maybe even fatal to hesitate, and yet--
 "Move it, Spock!"

    Spock had an instant's confused thought that David's
shouts put him at risk. Then a rock bounced off the le-
matya's head. The creature howled and whirled, just in time
for another to hit it on a sensitive ear, drawing green blood.
A third rock struck near its eye. The le-matya screamed with
rage and charged. But David was nowhere in sight.
    Oh, clever/Spock thought, and threw a stone at the le-
matya. The creature whirled, shrieking, and David launched
a fusillade of tiny stones from his sling, peppering the le-
matya's tawny hide. As the predator spun and spun again,
trying to find this enemy that could attack from all sides,
Spock saw David gesture frantically, Let~ get out of here!
 Indeed/
    He leaped from rock to rock, jumping down as David
came running up, water bottles sloshing at his side. The two
boys ran together until Spock brought them to a stop,
listening.
"We are safe. She will have returned to her nest by now."
"Are you all right?" David was grabbing at him, wildly
looking for wounds. "Did that thing claw you? And what in
hell was it?"
    The contact was not unpleasant, but it was a breach of
control. As tactfully as he might, Spock freed himself.
"That," he said, "was a le-matya."
    "The top predator? Well, it looks like about the top of the
food chain to me, and I bet it thinks so too. Still," the
human added, "to be fair, if I had a litter to protect, I guess
I'd be furious, too."
    "All le-matyas are like that," Spock corrected. "Perpetu-
ally raging. Alone of Vulcan's predators, they kill more than
they need."
    David's eyes widened. "Then why didn't you kill it? Or
the kits? Those cute little critters are only going to grow up
into monsters like that thing."
 "It is wrong to kill an entire litter of even these babies.

 And killing their mother would bring about their deaths as
 well."
  "Well, yes, but... well..."
     "Besides, this is her land, not ours; and she was merely
 defending her young."
     "Well," David said again, "at least we got the water. Let's
 put some distance between us and Mrs. Le-matya."
     He appointed himself--and his sling--as rear guard.
 Moving as quickly as they dared while keeping a watch for
 more le-matyas, they clambered up to the crest of the ridge.
 Spock pointed, not sure if he was satisfied with his naviga-
 tional skills or--most illogical to feel this--alarmed at their
 accuracy.
  "That," he said, "is the Womb of Fire."
    Before them lay a twisted wilderness of black rock and
gray cinder. Steam swirled up from fumaroles and pools of
superheated water or boiling mud. Crusts of yellow sulfur
and patches of blazingly green lichen were the only color in
all that vast, tormented landscape, and the air shimmered
with heat.
      "Oh my God," David said with genuine reverence. "And
we're going to cross that?"  "It can be done."
 "You don't sound too sure about that."
    "It can be done," Spock repeated. "We must merely be
careful where we step."
 "And breathe. Hey, no problem!"
 "That, I assume, is sarcasm?"
    "It most certainly is." David sank to his haunches with a
sigh. "But we're on the right track, right? We're almost at
Sered's hideout." "We are."
    "God. Never thought I'd be glad to see anything that looks
like a burned-out hell," David said, then straightened,

looking out over the waste. "Or maybe not burned-out at
that. Still smoking down there somewhere. I just hope
whatever's brewing doesn't boil up at us."
"It is illogical to worry about what cannot be helped."
"That's me, good old illogical human that I am." David
produced a water bottle and held it out to Spock. "How long
since you've had a drink?"
    "Twenty-four point eight three six of your hours," Spock
replied. He took the bottle and drank, then added, "You
must surely know by now that it is a mistake to ask a Vulcan
a 'rhetorical question.'"
    "As long as you're alive to answer," David said. He looked
out at the Womb of Fire. "That thing looks like it really is
going to give birth."
    "There," Spock said, suddenly realizing where he was and
pointing. "We do not need to cross the entire Womb of Fire
after all, merely one corner. That is what we seek, at the
right edge of the Womb of Fire."
    "That mountain? No... not a mountain. Bet it's what's
left of a caldera all fallen in on itselfi"
    "It is. And Sered's fortress lies within it. I recognize the
rock formations."
    David shuddered. "They're all in there. My mother, the
students in the compound, half the diplomatic community
resident on Vulcan. I... just hope they're all still alive."
    A human, Spock suspected, would have put his hand on
David's shoulder, trying to reassure him by touch. He raised
a hand, let it fall. For a Vulcan, touch provided no reassur-
ance; and the simple need for contact was a breach of
control.
    David opened his pouch, looking inside. "I've got three
tri-ox shots left," he told Spock. "Maybe I should space
them further apart?"
 "On the contrary," Spock said, "I would suggest that you

 inject yourself all the more regularly because of the sulfur
 fumes we will encounter as we proceed. Anoxia leads to bad
 judgment."
     "Do they have tri-ox?" David demanded. "Do you think
 that Sered even cares if their hearts or lungs give out?"
     "They have us," Spock said. "Such as we are. And such
 plans as we can contrive."
     David settled himself more comfortably, clearly battling
 with himself for calmness. "We need a communicator. Once
 we get one, we can signal my mother's ship, Shikahr, oh,
 anything..."
     "Including search teams. The authorities have surely been
 conducting overfights."
     "Oh, right. With all this desert to be searched, I don't
 think we can count on the cavalry to come riding to the
 rescue."
    Spock looked at him blankly. Cavalry? Was that not an
archaic form of---ah. Another of David's movie references.
One he had made before, equally illogically. "Perhaps not,"
Spock agreed. "But one of them might be able to provide
reinforcements."
    "First, we need that communicator. But... Spock, who
were those people with Sered? Not Vulcans, and yet ... l
heard Sered speak of 'sundered cousins.'"
    Spock met David's eyes unfiinchingly. He owed the hu-
man his life, but privacy guarded the story of the "sundered
cousins," one of the most tragic chapters of the calamitous
time just before Surak's teachings and the saving transfor-
mation of Vulcan society.
    David was the first to glance away. "I get it. 'I could tell
you, but then I'd have to kill you.'"
Spoek stared at him in startled horror. "I would never--"
"No, no, it was just an idiom! You meant it's classified
stuff, right? Well, then we can assume a news blackout on

material going out of this system. Time enough to worry
about that when we get back." He whistled softly. "What a
mess security's going to be!"
"As you say, time enough to worry when we are back."
"Still," David mused, "it's obvious those guys are Vul-
canoid, so we know that what affects Vulcans affects them. I
wish they didn't have all the Vulcan strengths."
    Spock shook his head. "They may not," he said softly. "I
have not heard that they preserved all of our ancient arts.
This much I may tell you: Of the kindred who left Vulcan,
not one came from Mount Seleya. Not one was an Adept of
Gol."
    "And wouldn't Psyops love that information! Never
mind, never mind. Spock, we've survived on a wing and a
prayer this 1ong--yeah, another movie quote--so here's my
plan. We get down there as quickly and safely as we can, and
we seize any opportunity we get, just like we did when we
escaped. We're bound to find time to set up a rockfall or
something, or signal someone."
 "You make it sound very simple."
    "Well, yes, but remember that we'll have help. I know that
the Starfleet folks will be doing everything they can to
escape."
 "And if they are too ill for that?"
 "Oh. Well. We'll just have to... well..."
 "Create a distraction?"
 "Yes!"
    "One strong enough to confuse an entire troop of armed
and well-trained warriors?"
    "We'll think of something," David said with a bold sweep
of an arm. "After all, it's up to us."
    Granted, Spock thought, his experience with humans was
limited. But from what he had seen so far, it seemed that
when humans made such sweeping statements, they usually

did "think of something." Yes, and David was living proof
of human resourcefulness--and the sheer will to survive. It
might be only logical to trust both one more time.
    In any event, Spock thought, looking out on the deadly
waste before them, there was hardly a choice. Human wit
and Vulcan logic were just about all that they had.
 Will it be enough?
    As David would say, he answered himself, it will. It has to
be.

FOURTEEN

       Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 3, First Week, Month ef the Shining Cbara,
Year 2296

The good thing about a nightmare, McCoy thought, was that
you got to wake up from it. Unfortunately, he was already
wide awake and wished he weren't, so he could pinch
himself, then go back to sleep.
    Someone in the cave hurt. Someone was crying hope-
lessly, helplessly, and McCoy couldn't find him. Her. What-
ever. He couldn't find his communicator either. Dammit,
this "Master" and his pet fanatics had smashed his tricoro
der. They'd stolen his medical bag, and that traitor of a
Vulcan--a paranoid schizophrenic, assuming McCoy could
even apply that diagnosis to Vulcans--had offered it back to
him as a bribe.
    All he had to do was sell out his friends. Little thing like
that, and he'd be allowed to treat the sick and dying here in
what looked and smelled like one of those filthy hospital
wards back in the Dark Ages on Earth before they learned

 about sanitation or anything else. Maybe if he threw his soul
 into the bargain, this pointy-eared false prophet would give
 him back his communicator, too.
 What keeps you from trying, boy? he asked himselfi
 Simple. It was one thing to, well, bend the Prime Directive
 a bit. Hell, he and Jim had sprained it pretty severely a few
 times in the past! But if he betrayed folks no.v, he could very
 well be leading them right into a deadly trap. Even, Romu-
 lans and all that, a war.
     His guts rolled. Ha, look, here came something edible at
 last, brought by a contemptuous-looking Romulan who all
 but hurled it at McCoy.
  Lousy waiter, my friend. No tip for you.
     The rations consisted of a watersack and some withered
 roots and the like, but at least it was food.
    Yes, but there were others who needed it even more than
he did. McCoy wisely took a good drink of the water--he
wouldn't do anyone any good if he collapsed from
dehydration--and munched on one of the roots--ditto for
collapsing from starvation--then got to his feet.
    "Here." With hand gestures, he urged the sick folks
nearest him to take the rest of the rations, sharing the food
and water out as far as he could.
    A shadow loomed over him. McCoy, who'd been knecling
beside a moaning woman, trying to get her to drink, turned
to find one of the Romulans standing over him: that young
centurion, Ruanek, face carefully impassive, body language
not quite threatening him.
    Aside from his politics, he looks like a fairly decent fellow.
And I already know he has a sense of humor. Too bad he has a
madman as a commanding officer.
    For a time, McCoy tried to ignore the centurion. But
Ruanek was standing so close that at last the doctor turned
and snapped, "Go right ahead and try."
 The Master, madman or no, had to have taken him

prisoner for a reason, which meant, logically enough, that he
would want to keep the captive in relatively undamaged
condition. The centurion hesitated a moment, then
shrugged and turned away: if McCoy wanted to starve
himself, the gesture clearly said, it was his own stupidity.
    Water dripped down the black rock somewhere in the
distance. The sound was driving McCoy almost as crazy as
his helplessness to aid these people. Clouds of dust rose
from one corner: some idiot smoothing away at the cave
wall. Some of it already shone, reflecting the cave's interior,
doubling the number of sick and dying. That was hardly an
improvement. At least, air was circulating somehow, which
meant there was probably a way out, if he could only find it.
As a Star fleet officer, he had an obligation to keep trying to
escape. But as a physician, his obligation lay here. And
without a communicator, he might as well just walk into the
desert till it swallowed him, and he wasn't about to do that.
    One of the fools hammering away at the rock broke off a
huge chunk that crashed down. The slick black stone shat-
tered. So did McCoy's temper.
    "You all stop that right now, y'hear!" he shouted. "Some
of these people already have pneumonia. Do you want to
make it worse?" Might even be a new disease. Desert
silicosis, he could call it when he wrote it up--assuming he
ever got out of here.
    One of the natives looked up at him, shrugged, then
struggled up. The man wasn't just emaciated, McCoy real-
ized. That was cachexia, as if he'd been wasting away for
months. It was a wonder the poor man could stand, much
less begin to undress--not that he had much on as it was.
He peeled off all but a single undergarment and started
toward what looked like an exit; leastways, that's what it had
to be if armed men--Romulans--stood guarding it. McCoy
could pick out each bone and individual tumor on the
dying man's dark-tanned body. The metastases going on

 inside were probably beyond even a Starfleet medical cen-
 ter's facilities to treat.
     When he almost toppled over at the third step, someone
 who merely looked like he was at death's hallway, not
 death's door, rose, too, and went over to him. Wedging what
 looked like the walking skeleton's left shoulder blade under
 his arm, he kept him going. The Romulan'stood aside, one
 hand moving in a warding-off gesture.
     For a blessed moment, McCoy could smell the clean, hot
 fragrance of the desert. He even welcomed his brief glimpse
 of Loki's light, poisonous as it was.
    "Where's he going?" McCoy demanded. The only answer
he got was a shrug. The nomads understood as much of his
language as he did of theirs: none at all. He pointed and got
another shrug. That wasn't a lack of understanding, McCoy
realized. That was resignation. No one in the cave expected
to see those two again, at least not in this life. What their
Master told them about the next was another subject en-
tirely. McCoy looked down at the pile of rags the man had
left behind. Why, he'd even left his worn-out desert boots.
Why'd he gone and done that?
    The answer made him shiver. The dying man--and his
companion--had up and gone out into the desert the way
an old Eskimo used to go out onto an ice floe rather than
squander his people's few precious resources on a useless
mouth.
 "Stop!" McCoy shouted and ran after the two men.
    He decided almost immediately that he didn't like look-
ing down into the business end of a laser rifle. Not. One. Bit.
    He glared at the people carving away in the corner and
shouted again. The pounding, grinding, and polishing
stopped. After a while, it started up once more. If anything,
the rock dust grew worse. Three or four people doubled over
in paroxysms of coughing. One spat up blood. McCoy
dodged his usual Romulan to try what sips of his own small

water supply, shifts in position, a gentle voice--even speak-
ing an unfamiliar language--might do to relieve the pain.
    "It's contagious," he told the Romulan. "No cure. Espe-
cially not without my medical bag."
    The Romulan grinned at him and walked away. He might
know there wasn't even a myth that humans couldn't lie, but
it seemed as if he didn't care.
    Spock, McCoy called out silently. Spock, where are you?
All those months he'd hosted Spock's katra had grown the
bond between them. Even if he felt as dizzy as he had before
the lexorin he'd taken to relieve the psychic burden had
kicked in, he fought toward contact. He'd know, he reas-
sured himself, if Spock were dead or dying. Dammit, if only
he knew more, maybe he could use what remained of the
link that had united them to contact Spock, and the hell
with the damn communicator anyhow!
    Stop cussing and calm down, he told himself. You'll only
wear yourself out. In what felt like happier centuries ago,
Spock would have steepled his hands and meditated while
Jim paced and McCoy fumed. Then Jim would either have
slugged or seduced someone and they'd get to break out and
go back home.
     God, how he wished he could! This time, McCoy didn't
have the option. Or his captain. Or his favorite Vulcan.
 Spock, you damn well better be all right.
    Spock hadn't been himself long before Jim's death. He'd
taken Lady Amanda's passing hard, harder than it looked on
the surface, and McCoy knew he'd quarreled in that deadly
silent, courteous Vulcan way with his father once again.
Amanda had been the glue that held those two together.
    McCoy had to admit that one reason he'd re-upped was to
accompany Spock on the shakedown cruise on Intrepid II.
With Jim... gone, Spock had no reason--logical or
otherwise--to continue to refuse independent command;
nevertheless, McCoy knew that the Vulcan fretted, in some

 deep recess of that incredibly brilliant, convoluted mind,
 about his ability to lead.
     So, instead of a nice shakedown cruise, what would have
 to go and happen to Spock? A psychotic Vulcan and a planet
 at risk. Right on the edge of the Neutral Zone. If Spock
 failed, he not only lost the planet, he jeopardized the fragile
 entente between the Federation and Vulcan: not that the
 madman wasn't doing a perfectly wonderful job of that!
     Spock needs me with him. All he~ got is that Captain
 Rabin. Captain? He~ a standup comic, not a captain/
     In his mind's eye, he could see Spock raise an eyebrow at
 that. Why, Doctor, I did not know you were a theater critic.
     He wasn't, of course. He was a doctor. And too good a
 psychiatrist not to know what else he was: angry. Oh, not at
 Rabin directly, and yet...
    Dammit, there was just too much time to think. To
analyze. McCoy admitted reluctantly that somehow, deep
inside, he was feeling, stupidly, irrationally angry, that
Spock was somehow betraying Jim's memory by reviving a
friendship with another human friend.
    Now isn't that a poison-mean nonsense? Just because
Spock doesn't weep all over the place doesn't mean he can't
feel grief And just because beg glad to see someone from his
childhood, it doesn't mean he's forgotten Jim.
    McCoy sank down onto the floor beside one of his
patients--ha! now that was a rotten joke--and sank his
head in his hands.
 Physician, heal thyself
    Hell of it was that he kind of liked Rabin's irreverent
cheerfulness. Yes, and the man made one fine officer, too,
wisecracking joker or no.
    Ah well, McCoy thought wryly, at least he knew one thing.
He'd finally found where Spock had learned how to reply,
deadpan, to human jokes. Rabin must have been quite a
friend, or Spock wouldn't have been so pleased--oh, the

fellow could put on his best Vulcan face, but McCoy knew
when he was happy--to see him. And he wouldn't have
been so willing to accept other humans as friends.
    Itg not like any of us have much else, McCoy thought. He
himself had joined Starfleet after his divorce as a way of
stopping the hurt. And what did gallivanting around the
galaxy get me? Just more people to hurt about/Jim had lost
most of his family. Spock was estranged from his father,
while Rabin, for all his talk of a mother, a home back on
Earth, was as much a rolling stone as the rest of them.
    And then Jim Kirk just had to leave them and go on all by
himselfi Leading the way, not that death was a place McCoy
wanted to head out for any time soon. He dashed his hand
over his eyes and dared anyone to notice.
    "Communicator's got to be around here somewhere," he
growled, taking his frustration out on the air. "Where'd it
go?"
    A tug on his sleeve made him whirl around so fast that the
woman who'd tried to attract his attention gasped and
backed away. Her hands went to her mouth, and McCoy saw
the blotches that disfigured them.
    "It's all right." He made his voice gentle and extended his
open hands, trying to reassure her. "I won't hurt you."
    She glanced over at the Romulan, who had been rein-
forced by one of his companions. Both of them stood turned
away from McCoy; both seemed heartily bored.
    She gestured at McCoy, then pointed at a small pallet
against the wall.
    "Is that your child?" he asked, still in that gentle, patient
voice, pointing from the pallet to the woman and back
again. "Yours?"
    She nodded--that being one gesture his folks and hers
seemed to have in common--then bowed three times.
McCoy imitated the gesture, much to her shock. She must
not be used to much respect. Giving a little gasp of relief, she

 led him to the child, so wrapped up even here against Loki's
 deadly sun that McCoy couldn't tell from looking whether it
 was a boy or a girl. Whatever: the child was feverish.
     "Water," McCoy ordered. When the mother blinked at
 him, he pantomimed drinking. She scurried off. Dammit,
 these people are parched, and it looks like I get to have all the
 water I want./Well, the Romulans had never signed the New
 Geneva Conventions, and the Master certainly hadn't given
 McCoy a clue that he respected anything beside his own
 delusions.
    The woman returned with a water bottle. McCoy looked
about for a bowl or even a deep dish. Pulling the swathings
off the child--a boy, after all--he used them to sponge the
child and took the opportunity to examine him. Not a single
blemish on him--at least not yet.
    He held out his hand for the woman's, marred as it was by
large moles, uneven in shape, of colors strange even among
aliens. One had cracked and was bleeding. She let him bind
it.
    "Ought to get you to the outpost med center," he mut-
tered. "I wish there were more I could do. You've still got a
chance, but..."
    She pulled her hand back. He pointed at it, then at her
child's body, and shook his head: no blemishes. A wide
smile spread over her drawn face.
    There must be something else I can do! McCoy thought,
continuing to inspect the child. His eyes were almost cov-
ered by black crawling things that McCoy cleaned tenderly
away.
    "Look," he said. "See these? Bad! Watch me wash them
away." The woman nodded. "Next time they come back,
you do it." She nodded again. McCoy hoped she'd gotten
the message.
    He looked down. Sure enough, there was the cause of the
trouble--a swollen foot. McCoy held it up, despite the

child's feeble kicks. The boy had stepped on something that
had broken off and gotten the foot infected, for certain.
    And me without my kit, McCoy thought, longing for his
laser scalpels and antibiotics. Scalpels. That reminded him.
Here he was on a planet called Obsidian: why, the place was
made of scalpels! He picked up a rock shard, one of the
thousands that lay underfoot, and tapped it against the wall
until he achieved a sharp edge.
    An unpleasant few moments later, the bit of thorn causing
the trouble had been removed, the child's foot was purged of
the blood and matter that had collected in it, and McCoy
was tying off as clean a bandage as the child's mother had
managed to scrounge for him. Tears poured down her face.
    So. Hadn't done all that badly after all, had he? Here was
one child who wouldn't die. At least, not this time. Not
today.
    McCoy let himself grin at the woman: another gesture his
and her races had in common. He realized that his stomach
had stopped aching for the first time since he'd been brought
here.
    He poured more water over his hands (that was precau-
tion, not waste) and dried them on a rag--not one of the
ones belonging to the man he'd seen walk into the sun, he
hoped! The woman seized his hand, kissed it with her
cracked lips, and then tugged as if beckoning him to follow
her.
    Because she had no reason to wish him ill--Other than
that no good deed goes unpunished, of course.t McCoy
thought dryly--he followed. Maybe she knew of other
people he could help, even with the crude tools he could
improvise. Maybe he could get her to show him some of the
local herbs; there had to be herbs somewhere on this
benighted planet, and from there...
    She darted over to the rock wall, then glanced fearfully at
the Romulans. They were so used to fear they didn't even

 notice. She's small, sick, no threat to them, McCoy realized.
 So she's a nonperson.
    Long practice had taught McCoy not to make any such
dumb mistakes. Or assumptions of any kind, as the woman
returned, something hidden in her hands. She smiled at him
again, a mother about to present a child with what it wanted
most, and showed him what she held--his communicator.
    "Where'd you find this?" he demanded. She shook her
head, her eyes fearful. Better not push too far, he warned
himself. But it was difficult to stay calm. He gave her the
triple bow that meant respect. He would have given her the
world if he'd had title to it. His communicator! Why, he was
halfway home already!
    Concealing the precious gift, he retreated to a distant
corner of the cave. He even reassured the Romulans from a
distance by eating, genuinely hungry and thirsty for the first
time in days. Then, he curled up, his back to his guards,
against a nice, cozy boulder as if he were sleepy.
    The Romulans nodded at each other and knelt, occupied
by something on the bare rock of the cave's floor. Probably
shooting craps, McCoy thought. He knew damn well they
weren't playing fizzbin.
    When he was certain they were totally distracted, he
pulled out the communicator.
    "McCoy to Intrepid," he whispered into it. "McCoy to
Intrepid. Come in, Uhura. Come in!"
    Only the frying-bacon sound of heavy static replied.
Hastily, McCoy turned down the volume. That had to be a
sound the Romulans would recognize. He'd been stupid.
Uhura had probably shifted course for safety to put the
planet-between the ship and Loki. He could try to raise the
ship until his communicator's duotronic circuits rusted and
not hear a peep. Besides, he realized from the intensity of
the static that the ionization was still too strong for Intrepid

to beam anyone up or down without scattering his atoms all
over the star system.
 So much for the ship.
    McCoy shut his eyes, reaching within as he'd learned how
in the days he carried Spock's katra in his own conscious-
ness. Spock, are you there?
    He could gain only what he had before: Spock wasn't
dead.
     Sighing, McCoy again risked activating his communica-
tor. "Spock... MeCoy to Spock... are you there, Spock?"
 More static, but alarmingly faint this time.
    No, oh no. The power can't be fading. The circuits can't be
scrambled or--or whatever else it is could go wrong with
these things. McCoy quickly shut it off, glared at it help-
lessly, wishing he'd had more than basic training in commu-
nicator maintenance. But no, why would a doctor need a
more intensive course? Besides, it~ not as though I could get
spare parts around here.
    Defiantly, McCoy activated the communitor again, trying
to ignore the alarmingly faint crackling. No use conserving
power. for all he knew, energy would keep draining even if
the communicator wasn't on. He'd try again, and keep
trying. And if the power died, well, at least he'd go down
fighting!

FIFTEEN:

  Vulcan, The Womb of Fire
Day 6, Eighth Week of Tasmeen,
Year 2247

David, a half-unwrapped ration bar in one hand, glanced
uneasily around the Womb of Fire. Spock and he had taken
temporary sanctuary in one of the few spots that did not
seem actively dangerous, although that meant that they were
still surrounded by waves of heat and pools of bubbling
water.
    "Are you sure this place isn't radioactive?" he asked yet
again. "It really does look like someone nuked it--maybe
not long enough ago."
    "The temperature here is not abnormal for Vulcan,"
Spock assured him patiently, "and we have had no nuclear
wars nor major nuclear accidents. This is nothing more than
a typically volcanic terrain."
 "Typical in hell, maybe," David muttered.
    Ignoring what was clearly an emotional reference to
human religion, Spock scanned the crazed, cinder-covered

ground, plotting their next move. As with the rest of the
Womb of Fire, nothing grew here but the bright green
hallucinogenic lichen and the bright yellow crusts of sulfur,
garish against the black rock and gray cinders. Tiny plumes
of steam puffed steadily up from the maze of fumaroles,
warning of the even greater heat not far below the surface.
    Without warning, those plumes wavered and the earth
began to shake. A rumbling growl filled the air.
    "Volcano!" David yelped, and fumbled the ration bar,
which went flying.
 "Geyser?' Spock snapped. "Get down!"
    Not ten meters from them, an immense geyser spurted out
of the blasted land, spraying them with hot, salty water.
Spock dropped instantly, covering his hands and face. His
desert gear should protect the rest of him from the live
steam.
    Nothing, however, could protect the ration bar, which
sailed right into a shallow, steaming pool. David, peeking
out from behind interlaced bands, muttered something in a
language that Spock was certain was not Terran standard.
    "There goes dinner, such as it was. Spock, if I poisoned
your well, I'm sorry."
    The geyser slowly subsided. Spock uncurled and peered
warily over the edge of the pool. "It is not too deep. We can
still retrieve the bar."
    "And save the local ecology. Do you still have that
collapsing rod?"
    Spock passed it over. David extended the rod, then bound
it to a pair of pincers also salvaged from the wrecked
shuttle's emergency gear and dunked his makeshift device
into the water, fishing about till he had hooked the ration
bar and pulled it out.
    "Would you look at this? The thing hasn't even started to
dissolve!" David snorted. "Not that I'm surprised. I wonder
if parboiling improves the taste." He waved the bar about to

 cool it, then saluted Spock with it. "What I do for science."
 Biting into the bar, he grimaced.
     "Does that taste 'just like chicken,' too?" Spock asked
 without any inflection at all.
     "Ha. And ha again. And they say Vulcans have no sense of
 humor. And no, to satisfy your curiosity, nothing helps this
 stuff."
    David resolutely gnawed his way through the rest of his
unpalatable meal. "I don't have to remind you this is almost
the last of our rations. Either we add food to the growing
checklist of things to steal from Sered, or we'll both be
considerably hungrier before long. If we survive."
    Spock knew that this was not merely human hyperbole.
The Womb, contrary to its name, was so infertile a region
that only the lichen could thrive. "We must continue. It will
not grow more pleasant for the delay."
    David and he edged past a roiling pool that reeked of
sulfur and past a vent that belched fumes so vile it doubled
David over gagging and Spock came close to coughing
himself hoarse. The boys staggered away until they could
sink down, hidden by a cluster of rocks like rotted fangs
covered by a colorful white and yellow coating of dried salts.
    "'In the land of Mordor,'" David muttered. "If they
could make it, so can I."
    Spock raised an eyebrow, but did not question further.
This was clearly yet another in David's never-ending string
of literary or motion-picture quotes, and if obscure refer-
ences helped the human, then obscure references were
welcome. He lay flat, glad for the rest, grateful that the fitful
play of fire and steam would camouflage their bodies' heat
from any infrared sensors. Ahead, he could see the top of
Sered's fortress, the small, partially collapsed caldera,
roofed over with its own crumbled rock. A fortress--and yet
Spock remembered from his escape how riddled it was with
vents and lava tubes. Not an adequate fortress at all--more

proof, if any were needed, of Sered's madness. Climbers
skilled and foolhardy enough could slip into it and retreat
without being noticed.
    "Perhaps the hostages are not in quite as great discomfort
as we anticipated," he said. "There are enough openings to
provide adequate air circulation."
    "This air's hardly worth circulating," David said. "Stinks
of sulfur and who knows what else."
 "Yes... but air shafts can carry information as well."
    "Hey, right! All we have to do is find the way we got out,
or some other way in."
    "I strongly doubt it will be quite that simple. If we
separate," Spock began, "we can cover twice as much
ground and double our chances of finding a vantage point.
However--"
 "What if you fall and break a leg?" David asked.
    Spock started to remind the human just who it was had
fallen, had to have a thorn cut out, and soaked his rations in
scalding water--no. Instead, he contented himself with a
more controlled, "That is precisely the point I was about to
make. The land is too perilous. Particularly," he couldn't
resist adding, "for an outsider. We must stay together.
Besides, I will welcome your expertise with a sling."
    What David called "all night later" but Spock knew was
actually 6.235 hours Terran standard, the two boys had slid,
clambered, or climbed over what felt, even to Spock, like
half of the Womb of Fire. They had found plenty of
openings down into the fortress, but none that led to any
area they remembered or weren't outright dead ends.
    Slumping on the rocks, the boys drank sparingly from
their half-empty water bottles. One could fast a great deal
longer than one could remain thirsty.
 "We can wait no longer," Spock said at last.
 "No, I guess not."
 David got wearily to his feet, swaying a little. Spock

 reached out to steady him, but the human suddenly tensed.
 "Do you hear that?"
     Spock tilted his head. His hearing was more sensitive than
 David's, yet the human clearly was listening to something
 that he had heard and Spock had not.  Fascinating.
     "That's my mother," David whispered, his eyes glowing.
 "I'd know her voice anywhere!" Eagerly, he started forward.
     This was going beyond fascinating to astonishing. Hu-
 mans were not supposed to possess the talents of the Adepts
 of Gol. Was David hallucinating?
     Or... am I? Spock glanced down at the rocks and their
 coating of lichen. Crushing the lichen--and possibly merely
 stepping on it might constitute crushing--could produce
 nausea, even vertigo in a Vulcan. He had not told David all:
 Ingesting it or breathing the fumes caused by its burning not
 only created hallucinations, it sometimes deranged the
 victim.
  Permanently.
    David! The human had nearly reached a vent in the rocks,
and Spock hurried forward to block his path. "Careful! The
rocks are coated with that lichen of yours"
    David grimaced. His hands were covered with not yet
healed cuts and scrapes, an ideal situation for infection. "I
don't think I've touched any. If I have, it doesn't seem to
work on humans. Besides," he added hotly, "right now I
don't care. I have to hear what's going on down there."
 "If you can hear them, they can hear you."
    "I want Mother to hear me, let her know I'm alive and
well. I have to see, Spock. I just have to." David's voice was
rising alarmingly. "What if it were your mother?"
    "Let me go first," Spock said in surrender. "I move more
quietly. And my hands are less scratched than yours."
    David's mouth opened on a protest, then shut again. Was
this Starfleet discipline? If it could force the irrepressible

human to control himself, it had much to recommend it.
"Go on," David whispered.
    Careful not to touch any lichen, Spock crawled forward
into what turned out to be a rock tunnel wide enough for
even an adult. It dropped off precariously, and he whispered
back over his shoulder, "Secure me."
    David clasped his ankles. Did the human have sufficient
strength to hold him if he slipped? Illogical, Spock told
himself, to worry about what could not be helped. As he
stretched himself down carefully, heat washed his face,
growing ever stronger. Ahead, a flaring, uncertain reddish
light was reflected in the slick stone surface. A fire? Spock
strained out over the lip of the rock to see--then recoiled in
shock, nearly banging his head against the side of the tunnel,
and scrambled back up with David's help.
    "Fortunate," Spock panted. "Fortunate you did not slide
down that chute. You would have landed right in a very
active pool of lava."
    "Great," David groaned. "Did you see my mother any-
where nearby?"
    "It is difficult to see or hear when lava is bubbling below
you," Spock pointed out. "We must try another spot."
    He rose, trying not to look as tired and stiff as he felt. Pain
was only pain. He could, Spock told himself, master it. They
moved perhaps ten meters, David pausing to listen at every
promising crack or crater.
    Spock hissed a sudden warning. "I hear them." Ignoring
David's small sigh of relief, he investigated the new lava
tube. "Less steep," he whispered up to David, "less slippery,
and wide enough for both of us."
    David wriggled down next to him. "That's my mother,"
the human whispered anxiously. "She sounds so hoarse!
And she's coughing--Spock, we have to do something now."
    The two boys crept down the tube as far as they could,
then lay flat, staring out and down. The lava pool was to the

 left, seething and bubbling restlessly, the air above it waver-
 ing with heat. By the pool stood a circular, rough-hewn stone
 altar, half-coated by hardened splashes of lava that didn't
 quite hide the worn carvings, sigils that made Spock gasp at
 their antiquity: they must date from centuries before the
 time of Surak. Crystals set into the stone gleamed a sullen
 red, reflecting the lava pool. On the altar, adding incense to
 the injury of burning sulfur, stood ancient bronze braziers
 with ranged handles, incised with glyphs too worn to he
 deciphered.
    Then a figure stepped to the altar, and the ancient altar
and even the seething, steaming lava pool faded from
importance. This was Sered: a much-changed Sered. No
longer was he the quiet scholar or the daring warrior. Now
his robe shone crimson and bronze, embossed with metallic
sigils. About his waist hung a heavy, jewel-encrusted belt
supporting an energy weapon with a gem-bright hilt and an
ancient steel knife, its curved blade marked with the ripples
of water, folded and refolded a million times. In the ancient,
terrible days of Vulcan history, such blades were neither
drawn nor sheathed without a sacrifice.
Is there blood on this blade? Sered~ blood? Or human?
As Sered moved, gems gleamed on a massive pectoral, and
the sigils on his robe reflected the lava's uneasy fire. Spock
struggled to read them. "Mastership of a Great House": that
was easy enough to. translate, but that other, with the infix
that signified sacral mode?
    Priest and king. A little shiver raced up Spock's spine as he
realized what he saw. Save for the headdress, which presum-
ably he would don later, Sered had dressed himself as
befitted one of the ancient rulers of the te-Vikram caves.
    Why? They were one of the most warlike and unstable of
Vulcan cultures.t If we had not turned to Surak's teachings,
they would have done their best to destroy Vulcan.

    David whispered, "Who's his tailor? And what's all that
fancy stuff mean?"
    The human's voice was almost cracking with the effort to
remain light, flippant, even. His glance kept darting back to
his mother, who now knelt beside the children lying against
the wall. One coughed feebly. Two more simply lay there,
their chests heaving as they fought for breath in the thin,
noisome air.
    Spock said softly, "He wears the robe of an ancient priest-
king of a particularly warlike culture. I think you would call
their spiritual leaders ecstatics. They drugged themselves,
then went out and performed... certain crimes, claiming
that they had been... guided."
    "Hashashiyun," David whispered. "Our very own
Vulcan-style Old Man of the Mountain. We couldn't have
gotten into worse trouble if we'd planned it." "Look at the altar."
    "What? Chinesey-looking braziers, and... ha, that looks
like a Mark Eight tricorder. Communicators. And some-
one's torn-up medical kit--hey, that's tri-ox compound!"
    "Evidently this is part of the offworld 'pollution' Sered
wants removed from Vulcan."
    "Damn him," David hissed. "All that tri-ox compound
just lying there doing no one any good. Doesn't he know this
air could kill someone? Can't he hear those coughs? Even if
Sered thinks this is war, there are still conventions govern-
ing prisoners! Doesn't he know that?"
    Spock hesitated, trying to find the way to say what he
must. "If he truly believes himself a te-Vikram priest-king,
he may not think them prisoners, but... sacrifices."
    David drew his breath in sharply. "No," he said softly to
Sered, his voice cold and hard. "Oh no, you don't."
    He started blindly down the tube. Spock caught him just
in time, holding the human with all his Vulcan strength.
"David, wait. Listen."

  "That madman has nothing I wish to hear."
    "Are our lives worth nothing? Are the captain's words
worth nothing? Listen!"
    "Your captives are ill," Captain Nechama Rabin was
saying to Sered, as if continuing a conversation that had
been interrupted only moments ago. "You have not taken
proper care of us. Some of us are sick."
    "Those are weaklings," Sered returned, "unfit for rebirth
from the Womb of Fire. None but the strong, the masters,
must survive."
    David growled. Spock saw Captain Rabin's face go rigid.
"That has been said before," she told Sered with cold
precision, "by people who thought themselves a Master
Race. People who nevertheless fall and whose memory is
still accursed."
  "It is nonetheless true."
    "Is it? Is it true, no, is it right that the strong do what they
will, while the weak suffer what they must? Have you
discarded Surak's morality along with his logic?"
    Sered never moved. "It is the way of the Womb of Fire.
One must value what is. All else is illusion."
    "Then let us treat this... illusion as valid," the captain
countered. "Let us say your way is truth. That you are the
thing whose guise you wear. You seek the expulsion of
offworlders and our ways from your world. How? Do you
need a hostage to exchange?"
    "I have many prisoners, and it may be that I shall not
choose to exchange them."
    "What, then? Are you going all the way back to the Bad
Old Days? Ah, that's just what you're thinking, isn't it? Well,
then, if you seek a sacrifice, who will serve you best?
Those"--Captain Rabin gestured at the sickly hostages--
"or one who is strong and gives herself of her own free will?"
 "No," David gasped. "God, no!"
 "David, quiet!" Spock whispered fiercely.

    Fortunately, Sered, lost in his own world, did not seem to
hear either of them. "What logic do you see in suicide?"
    Captain Rabin studied him with cool contempt. "Is it not
truly said that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of
the few? Or of the one?"
    "And you offer that as a reason for me to release so many
weaklings?"
 "Not an offer. A demand."
    A fit of coughing cut into her words, racking her body, and
Sered... laughed, a cold, eerie sound. "How do you pre-
sume to demand anything? There is no logic in negotiating
from a point of weakness."
    Captain Rabin straightened slowly, face drawn but eyes
blazing. "I trained to serve and to endure. It is my purpose
to make that demand. It is my right. I do not bargain from
weakness, but from my sense of purpose--and therefore
from my greatest strength."
    "Mother... no," David whispered, only Spock's grip
keeping him from rushing down to her.
    Sered studied the woman for a silent moment. "I must
concede that you are a warrior born and trained," he
observed at last. "But as a warrior, you must understand
that it would be imprudent for me to release hostages able to
reveal the location of the fortress from which..." Sered
broke off.
    "From which?" Captain Rabin prompted. Her voice was
breathy; clearly she was having trouble putting enough air
behind it. "The fortress from which you will betray your
own people? From which you will lay waste a planet that has
known nothing but peace for thousands of years? And you
regard sick chiMren as security risks?"
    Sered lowered his hand to the blade at his belt. "That
peace," he said the word bitterly, "has weakened Vulcan. It
is time and past time to restore our heritage of battle, the
beauty of blades quenched in blood, the blaze of energy that

 consumes a rival power, the oath of kinship renewed with
 those from whom this world has too long held itself aloof--
 too long held itself aloof from victory!"
     David gestured at his temple. Spock understood easily
 enough. The human was right: Sered had deteriorated into
 total, hopeless madness.
     Incongruously, David's stomach took this moment to
 rumble. Could Sered hear that? The human glanced wildly
 at Spock, biting his lip against laughter that could all too
 easily burst free and kill them both.
    Hastily, both boys scrambled back up out of the tube.
David collapsed in a fit of giggles, frantically trying to stop.
"I wish I could eat that lichen!" he gasped. "Get something
in my stomach, stop its complaining. The thought of being
betrayed by my own stupid innards!" He sat up. "Maybe the
lichens wouldn't hit me as hard because I'm human. What
do you think? Worth a chance?"
    Spock stared at him. "What do I think, David? I think you
may have just saved your mother's life and those of the
others. Quick, help me scrape up as much of the lichen as we
can. Be careful not to crush it! And do not let any touch any
open cuts."
    It was a delicate, dangerous job, made worse because they
both were trying to hurry. "Now what?" David asked.
    Spock gestured. "That vent. The one over the lava pool.
No, wait, this one is more level. It still will overlook the pool
without threatening to pitch us in."
    They hurried down the vent. David's mother, caught in a
fit of coughing, straightened just in time to glance up and
spot them. Her eyes widened, but she continued hastily,
covering for the boys, "You othersrathe ones this renegade
calls 'cousins'--you seem to be warriors aS well, bred to
arms and to honor. Does that honor demand warfare against
sick children?"

    "When they are hostages for their rulers' word," one of
the strangers said uneasily. Another shook his head.
    "You seem to have some doubts..." Coughs exploded
from her, and she bent double.
    "Mother could keep this up for hours," David whispered,
"if she could only breathe!"
    "We should have tri-ox for her in the next few moments."
Either that, Spock thought, or we shall be in worse trouble
than we are already. "Drop the lichen!"
 "Releasing photon torpedoes," David muttered.
    They hurled the lichen down the rocky tube--right into
the lava pit. A cloud of incinerated dust swirled up, a wild,
sickly green haze, caught in the draughts of hot air, dizzying,
dangerous.
    And in that moment, Spock, feeling the edge of the
hallucinogenic peril, knew with an eerie, not quite drugged
certainty that all reality was about to be destroyed.

SIXTEEN

       Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 4, First Week, Month ef the Shining Cbara,
Year 2296

It was cool in the rock shelter, a touch too cool for Vulcan
tastes, though Spock refused to acknowledge anything as
petty as mild discomfort. Outside, the nomads were quickly
and efficiently setting up camp. Their tents were ingenious,
he thought, both quickly assembled and lightweight for easy
transport: over a framework of springy poles of precious
wood went coverings of woven chuchaki hair, dyed the exact
brownish tan of the desert floor. A flap of hide formed a
door, another flap in the arched hide roof could be pulled
aside to form a smoke hole, and the coverings could be
raised during the day's heat to let air circulate or lowered
during the night's chill to hold in warmth. Quite ingenious, indeed.
    The tents were laid out with what seemed a casual lack of
organization but, judging from the way no one got in anyone
else's way, was probably a planned arrangement of family

groupings. The entire encampment, uniform desert-color as
all the tents were, would be virtually invisible to outsiders.
    Or, Spock suspected, seeing hands never straying too far
from weapons, to rival clans.
    It would be interesting to investigate the camp, he de-
cided, to see what further adaptations these people had
made to their envirOnment. But until the nomads actually
offered an invitation, logic insisted that he and Rabin stay
where they had been directed. Logical, too, for the nomads
to put them here; not only was the cool shelter a compliment
to the two unexpected "guests," its solid walls were also a
casual way of insuring that those "guests" could not wander
away.
    Fair enough. Ignoring Rabin, who was pacing about
uneasily, Spock turned to study the pictographs painted on
the rock shelter's walls: they were of some natural red
pigment, ocher, perhaps, outlined with charcoal. The re-
peated designs were almost certainly sun spirals, the same
symbols used by many sentient desert peoples; with each
spiral were lines that looked very much like warding-off
signs. He had been correct, then. This deep, thick-walled
cave was one of the emergency shelters used by the nomads
to protect themselves from minor solar flares. They must
have some deeper shelters for the more perilous flares.
    "Low-tech, "after all, does not necessarily mean low intelli-
gence.
    The faintest of whispers alerted him. He turned to find
himself confronted by a solemn, wide-eyed line of nomad
children, boys and girls together. They were, he guessed
from their gawkiness and lack of adult proportionings, still
somewhere in preadolescence, dark-haired and olive-
skinned like their parents. All were a little too thin, perhaps,
for youngsters their age--these were, after all, the children
of desert hardship--but they showed no signs of illnesses

 and were scruffy not from neglect but in the way of healthy,
 active youngsters everywhere.
    They were also... Neoteny, Spock told himself, is merely
a species' logical way of insuring its continuance. But his
mind added in McCoy's voice, Go ahead, $pock, admit it:
They're cute.
    He was obviously meant to say something. "Greetings,"
Spock began tentatively.
    No answer. The children continued to watch him in
solemn wonder.
    Of course I intrigue them. The young of all sentient species
are curious. And I can hardly resemble anyone these young
ones have ever seen.
    Since he had no idea what else was expected of him,
Spock nodded to his audience with equal solemnity and
raised his hand in the split-fingered Vulcan salute.
    Aha, this seemed to be the right course of action. The
children tried to imitate him, bursting into giggles when
their small hands wouldn't hold the proper finger positions.
Spock kept his face properly impassive, but the smallest
spark of enjoyment flicked within him at their cheerfulness.
The children kept glancing from their hands to him, grin-
ning openly at him by now, some of them, like human or
Vulcan children, showing gaps where milk teeth had fallen
away and adult teeth not yet grown.
    "No doubt about it," Rabin murmured in amusement
from behind him, "you're a hit."
    Spock bit back a reflexive but I have not struck anyone,
recognizing the idiom just in time. And it did seem to be
accurate. The children had clearly accepted him as a friend,
a fact that he found rather pleasant. Not an illogical reac-
tion, he told himself, not at all. On the contrary, it was quite
logical to be pleased that a younger generation of rational
beings should be in such good mental and physical shape
despite their harsh surroundings.

    "It is also a good sign that the nomads trust their children
near us. And that they have children with them."
    "You got it. Not a raiding party, then, with warriors with
quick trigger fingers, just a clan hunting fresh pasture or
whatever it is nomads like this need."
    The children were growing impatient. They didn't want
these amusing strangers to ignore them! One boy daringly
darted forward to tug at Spock's robe, chattering something
about "Again, do it again."
    Without warning, Spock's communicator beeped. The
boy yelped in alarm, and he and the other children scattered
like so many frightened wild things. Even Captain Rabin
started, stammering, "What--who--"
    But Spock was already thumbing the communicator open.
He and Rabin exchanged quick glances, the human with
hope beaming on his face, Spock refusing to allow himself
more than a raised eyebrow. They heard a faint whisper:
McCoy!
 "Spock... are you there?"
 "Dr. McCoy, yes. It is Spock."
 "Well, thank God for that! You okay?"
    "Quite. What of you, Doctor? Your signal is faint. Are you
injured?"
    "Only in my pride. And in this blasted communicator,
which is losing power rapidly." A pause, and then, voice not
quite steady, "We've got a lot of injured people here."
 "Do you know where 'here' is, Doctor?"
    The faintest of sighs. "Good question. Can't give you any
definite coordinates, but I'm in some blasted big cavern with
the most incredible metal doors, huge things, barring it from
the outside." A pause, as though McCoy was trying to boost
the communicator's power. "The cavern's linked by what
looks like a network of shiny black lava tubes, so it's got to
be somewhere in the mountains. They got me here without
using any transporter, and it's been ... mmm ... I think

 only a couple of days, so whatever mountains they are can't
 be too far from where we crashed."
  "The Taragi-shar. They are the nearest igneous range."
     "Maybe. I haven't exactly had a chance to do any sight-
 seeing."
    There was a sudden long silence. McCoy, Spock thought,
must be hiding his transmission from some passerby, proba-
bly a guard, and waited patiently for the doctor to continue.
    At last McCoy said, very softly, "Can't talk much longer.
Too many eavesdroppers. And the damn communicator's
almost dead. Listen, Spook, I'm stuck in the middle of some
fanatical group that calls itself the Faithful. They're locals.
But the big boys, the guys with the guns, are definitely
Romulans."
    "Romulans," Spock echoed thoughtfully. There had been
the mystery of the spy calling him the Fiery One... yes.
Romulan Intelligence would certainly have placed him on
the planet.
    "Yeah, I know," McCoy continued, "not good. But there's
worse. Their leader... well, brace yourself, Spock. The
leader is a Vulcan."
    "A Vulcan!" That was Rabin, listening over Spock's
shoulder. "You're sure?"
    "That has got to be Captain Rabin's voice." Sarcasm
dripped from McCoy's own. "Think I can't recognize a
Vulcan after all these years of serving with one, Captain?
Mind you, this guy, whoever he is, isn't young, but he's
straight-backed and haughty as they come. Crazy as they
come, too, in flowing white robes like something out of
ancient Vulcan history. Coldest eyes I've ever seen on
anyone, Vulcan or human. Calls himself only the Master."
    "Spock," Rabin said in alarm, "do you know who that
sounds like? Our old friend Sered!"
 Spock glanced over his shoulder at the human, not quite

frowning. "The odds are greatly against that. In fact, I would
estimate them at--"
    "I haven't got time for a lecture on statistics!" McCoy
snapped. "Listen, I can't prove it, I never saw the man
before, but I'd take a good guess that he--damn! Company's
coming. Have to sign off. Ignore any other word from me;
never know if they might force me to talk. If they can get this
cursed thing to work."
    "Be careful, Bones," Spock heard himself say, rather to
his suprise, in Kirk's tone of voice.
    "Now he tells me!" McCoy retorted, and broke off com-
munications.
    Rabin straightened, then scrambled to his feet. "Uh-oh.
Here comes a committee. Looks like I'm wanted out there.
The Master or whoever he is will have to wait."
    Spock followed, still mulling over the question of the
mysterious Vulcan. But as Rabin said, that matter would
have to wait. He watched, curious, as the human, sur-
rounded by the nomads, debated with them.
    Or at least Spock assumed this was merely a debate. If so,
it was one that sounded only a shade less excited than an
argument and that seemed to require a great deal of gestur-
ing on all sides and exchanges so rapid that Spock's transla-
tor could barely keep pace.
    David tom me once that when his people grow excited while
debating, their words and gestures accelerate. It wouM seem
true of the nomads as well.
    One of the nomads was drawing back, deliberately break-
ing off the rapid-fire debate, and saying with casual con-
tempt, "You would compare us to them? The people of the
city, the Tamed Ones trapped behind their own walls?
Tchah, they lack the sense to come in out of the sun!"
    "Worse," another nomad added, "they have isolated
themselves from the true desert, the desert which brings
wisdom."

    "As my people have not," Rabin retorted, and suddenly
his mobile face was quite serious. "On both our worlds we
have kept the desert; on both our worlds we know that it
brings revelations."
    That struck home. The nomads drew back in what could
only be surprised respect, and Spock heard one murmur,
"Perhaps he is not a Kindly Fool, not a Fool, at that."
    Rabin glanced at Spock, saying clearly without words:
Help me out here; I'm out of my league. Spock moved quietly
to the human's side, adding, "On my world, as well, we keep
the desert. And we, too, respect it and know of similar
revelations. But it would seem," he continued with Vulcan
calm, "that there are some within your land who have
chosen to follow a most unusual path to enlightenment."
    "The Faithful!" someone muttered, and the others stirred
uneasily.
    "The Faithful," Spock agreed. "So we have heard them
named. It is of those people we would speak."
    But suddenly the nomads were murmuring among them-
selves, all out of proportion to what he'd said. They stepped
reverentially aside to let a small, slender, hooded figure pass.
So-o. I was wondering when we would meet their leader.
The figure's robes were solid tan, totally without adorn-
ment, but Spock heard the faintest jingling of ornaments.
Judging from the obvious respect the others were showing,
these were probably amulets or religious objects.
    The nomad stopped before Spock and Rabin, and an aged
hand pushed back its hood slightly. Spock felt a sharp,
irrational pang stab through him at the face revealed, and a
quick, equally irrational thought of T'Pau.
    No. Illogical. Control. Of course this wasn't the long-
deceased Vulcan elder. But the sudden shock of memory
was understandable, since this small woman bore a good
deal of the same quiet pride, the same calm authority and

dignity. Wisdom and a hint of cynical wit shone in her
ancient face and dark eyes.
    A leader, indeed. But T'Pau had turned down a seat on the
Federation Council after the massacre on Mount Seleya:
"We keep ourselves to ourselves," as McCoy had voiced it.
Will this leader, too, turn from the Federation--but take her
people with her?
    Spock bowed in respect and felt the woman's hand, light
as a leaf, touch his head in brief blessing. He straightened,
aware of Rabin glancing sharply from him to her and back
again. The human, no fool, bowed and was blessed in turn.
Then the woman said, her voice not old at all, "I am the
Elder of the White Stone Clan of the Benak Haran. You,"
her gesture took in Rabin, "are the outlander known to us as
the Kindly Fool."
    "So I've learned," he said wryly. "MY... uh... clan
name is Rabin, Elder, and my...uh...use name is
David."
    "So. And you, O outlander who is quite clearly from far
distant realms?"
    Spock straightened. "I am Spock of Vulcan, son of Sarek
and Amanda, and now Captain Spock of Federation Star-
fleet. I regret that I have no clan name to offer you; such
subdivisions are no longer my people's custom."
    How much of that was translated correctly, with the
proper nuances, was uncertain. The Elder's lined face re-
vealed nothing, but her eyes widened ever so slightly. "Yet
you know the proper ways of respect."
 "Wisdom is always to be respected."
    "So," the Elder said again. "This is a good thing." She
turned in a swirl of robes. "Come, you of no clan and you of
Clan Rabin. We must, I think, talk together."
    She led them straight into the center of the encampment,
a cleared circle ringed by tents. At her wordless gesture,

nomads hurried to erect a chuckaki-hair canopy, unroll a
carpet under it, place cushions upon the carpet. The Elder
sat with careful dignity, robes gracefully arranged about her,
then gestured for Spock and Rabin to sit as well. Beyond,
squatting with casual ease, was a ring of nomads.
    A nervous girl brought water. Once more, the intricate
water ritual was carried out. No one spoke until the girl had
scurried off into one of the tents. And then the Elder said
calmly, "Why are you here?"
    It was directed at Rabin. He hesitated a thoughtful
moment, then told her, "Why we have come into the deep
desert is a matter resting on the backs of other matters. Why
we have come to the desert at all..."
"Why?" she insisted, face as tranquil as that of a Vulcan.
"Elder, we have come to help. My people, the Federation,
that is, we are a union of many peoples. As you can guess,
that has not been an easy achievement."
    "Impossible," a man muttered, then fell silent at the
Elder's autocratic wave.
    "Not impossible," Rabin countered. "Yes, we've had our
problems, yes, we always will. All sentient beings do. But
one thing we learned over the years is that there's no reason
to hate someone else just because that someone else doesn't
look like you or follow your customs. When that someone is
in trouble, the only right thing to do is help."
    "Yes," the Elder said. "I know that you have been doing
all you can." The faintest hint of amusement tinged the
calm voice, as though she were speaking to a child trying to
be an adult. "But you," she added, glancing at Spock, "why
are you here? You, too, are of this same 'Federation,' yes?"
    "Indeed, Elder. Elder, I shall not speak of what has
already been attempted. I suspect you know perfectly well of
those attempts and failures that have befallen the Federation
mission this far."
 "The affairs of the Tamed Ones behind their city walls do

not concern us. The Kindly Fool means well, but his efforts
have not been enough. My people have been speaking
with... other friends."
 "Indeed? Might I ask which?"
 "They look like you!" someone blurted.
    Both Vulcan and human eyebrows shot up. These
"friends" could hardly be Vulcans; other than the rare
exceptions such as Sered and this unknown Master, Vulcans
did not behave in such illogical, militaristic fashion.
    "Romulans," Rabin whispered. "Has to be. McCoy was
right."
    And what of the Master? Spock seized upon the scanty
data, quickly analyzed it.
    Fact: McCoy was experienced enough to tell the two races
apart. And his description had been quite distinct.
    Fact, therefore: The Master could only be a Vulcan. His
identity could not yet be proven: insufficient data.
    Fact: The Romulans would not have all disavowed loyalty
to their homeworld to follow a Vulcan leader. They were
here, therefore, on orders. And from that followed, logically,
that the Master~ whether he realized it or not, could only be
one thing: a Romutan puppet.
They wouM seem to have decided they want this world.
But Spock could not hope to explain that offworld peril to
nomads who knew only the desert and referred to anyone
else as either Tamed Ones or outlanders. Instead, with a
warning glance at Rabin, he asked calmly, "What promises
have your friends made to you?"
    His totally unemotional approach seemed to impress the
nomads more than any hyperbole. The Elder sat back on her
cushions, face impassive, signaling them to speak freely,
watching as they answered the expected:
 "Sweet water."
 "Strong children."
 "Abundant food."

     "I find this fascinating," Spock noted, and meant it.
 "Have you not already received such things from the Federa-
 tion? Have you not learned to create them for yourselves?"
    There were some stirrings, some uneasy mutterings, and
Spock continued, relentlessly calm, "Have the men and
women of the Federation not shown you how to build better
shelters?" He quickly altered the next logical step, that of
Planting sturdier crops; nomads who frowned on cities as
traps would hardly be interested in agriculture. "How to
grow sturdier chuchaki and find better pasture for them?
Have they not shown you the ways of healing your children
from the sun's evil?"
  "They've begun..." a woman said hesitantly.
    It was what Spock had been waiting to hear. With the air
of a true scientist, he countered, "Then is it wise to tamper
with something so well begun?"
"Clever," the Elder murmured, but said no more.
"When the Romulans make promises," Spock asked the
by-now-sizable crowd, "how do they make you feel? Are you
hopeful or afraid? Do you feel they can be truly trusted?"
    Now the mutterings were definitely doubtful. Excellent,
Spock thought, and pressed the advantage. "Is there honesty
behind their bargaining? Or is there, perhaps, a threat?" The
mutterings grew to a roar. Spock held up both hands, the
smooth, elegant movement after his calm stillness deliber-
ately calculated. The crowd fell silent, and he continued into
the sudden quiet, a scientist merely stating facts: "The
Romulans. The Federation. Promises. Threats. Which? I
invite you to investigate the possibilities."
    Enough. He sat back to let the nomads decide, watching
them arguing with each other, very well aware that his words
had sparked the storm.
    So this was the sense of mastery that his father felt in
negotiations. Fascinating. Decidedly fascinating.

    But "fascinating," Spock reminded himself, was not the
same as "successful," while pride was a most insidious,
most perilous emotion, one that even humans listed as a
"deadly sin." And at any rate, there was still the Elder and
her decision to be considered.
    I have done what I can, Spock told himself. Now all there is
to do is: simply wait.

SEVENTEEN

  Vulcan, The Womb of Fire
Day 6, Eighth Week ef Tasmeen,
Year 2247

Spock drew the last breaths he feared he might ever draw as
a rational entity.
  Fear, Spock? Where is your control?
  Quiet, Father. He had longed to say that all his life.
    The fumes released by the burning lichen rasped down his
throat and seeped into his lungs. He imagined he could see
fire roiling in the fumes. They were fire. His eyes were fire. If
he opened his mouth to shout, his words would be fire.
    Control, $pock. He choked off his memory of his father's
usual rebuke, reminding himself as best he could, You are
Amanda's son, not just SarekT Trust your human heritage.
    Sudden wild coughing and shouts erupted from below; the
fumes were working!
 "Everybody down! Cover your noses and mouths!"
    That was--David's mother's--Captain Rabin's hoarse
shout. Spock could not see her or Sered or anything but the

roiling fumes from the haltucinogenic lichen. The humans
should survive this. Perhaps the most severely affected
would black out; unconscious, one's oxygen consumption
decreased, did it not? He could not quite seem to
remember ....
    "Come on, Spock!" David rasped, eyes fierce above his
improvised filter of cloth doused in some of their precious
water. "Come on/"
    Yes... David would have to be his guide, the control in
this... this experiment in applied pharmacology. That
very logical thought almost made him giggle. Giggle?
    Odd. As the fumes thickened, he found himself actually
afraid, not just of the action, but of the hallucinogenic
fumes. Fear and laughter were human things. Maybe his
human side really would protect his reason.
    "To me, my brothers!" That was surely Sered's voice,
screaming in Old High Vulcan. (A Vulcan, screaming? The
lichen really must be working.) "We will seize their wells
and hold them against all the nations!"
    "To the fires!" his followers roared. "The sword, the
forge!"
    This savage response brought a hoarse, approving shout
from Sered, which in turn brought more shouts from the
warriors.
    "Sounds like their goose is cooked," David muttered.
"When do we eat?"
    Spock blinked, blinked again, trying to clear his vision.
"We cannot simply rush down there into that war party and
grab a communicator."
    He fought a growing urge to shout with the warriors, to
cry out battle cries of his own--no! Control! But the fumes
were eating into his lungs. Their poisons were leaching into
his blood, into his brain. They would eat his reason.

  They would eat his soul.
  "Eat my soul! Yes!"
David stared at him. "Boy, you really are on a weird trip."
"No, no, you do not understand! The Eater of Souls--
remember? It is an archetype so powerful it makes even my
people flinch!" Fighting the fumes, forcing his thoughts to
order, Spock continued, "What would its effects be on
Sered?"
    "Who is already nuts," David added. "Yes, as well as on
those vicious 'cousins' of his!"
  "One can oniy see what happens--"
  "Especially if that's all the plan one has!:"
      "Can you make an eerie noise?" Spock asked. "No, not
now; when I signal."  "Heh. Trust me."
    The two boys edged down into the cavern. Spock gestured
David to follow him down into the cavern--into chaos! The
warriors were chanting, dancing, a wild, primal group. Some
of them were fighting each other, hand to hand. A knife
flashed; someone staggered and fell, nearly landing in the
seething lava. The human hostages huddled against the
walls, some of them alarmingly limp. At least, Spock
thought, they were out of the line of danger.
    "Now!" he whispered to David. "Wait. And keep wail-
ing!" David set both hands over his throat as if he planned
to choke himself, and produced a high-pitched, barbaric
shriek that wavered between two notes and echoed most
satisfactorily throughout the cavern. Sered cried out in
alarm, waving wildly at this eerie wail that seemed to be
coming from all sides. The warriors whirled, whirled again.
Spock drew a deep breath, ignoring his burning lungs,
burning eyes, ignoring the madness eating out his brain,
seeking out the choicest morsel. His essence. His soul. I know this is not true. They do not.
 "The Eater of Souls? he screamed with all the will within

him, leaping down to the cavern floor. "The Eater of Souls is
here!"
    His shout rose above the turmoil, silencing everything for
an instant. Then, as David's weird ulutations started up
again, the warriors erupted anew into wild panic, shooting
at each other, screaming war cries, fighting enemies only
they could see.
    And Sered--Sered stood before the altar, arms outspread,
shouting, "Come to me, Eater of Souls, come if you dare! I
embrace you, demon, I welcome your strength! Come to
me!"
    The raw emotion thrilled through Spock (no, no, emotion,
control!), its power horrifying him (no, another emotion).
Am I, too, going mad? The terrifying power was building,
building... in another instant, he too would scream--
    "To me, my brothers!" Sered's voice rang out in new fury.
"I have the strength of the Eater of Souls within me! This is
the dawn of our victory or our death!" Drawing his ritual
knife, the patterned blade blazing red, he charged blindly
forward. "May they die, screaming in plak-tow! May their
issue wither!"
     But the hostages weren't totally helpless. Spock heard a
tangle of voices, mostly human, shouting:
 "The children! Protect the children!"
 "Get him! That murdering--"
 "They've gone mad! Now's our chance!"
    The hostages fought with whatever came to hand: rocks,
even pebbles and handfuls of cinders. But Sered's allies were
too maddened to know who attacked. One warrior fired
wildly at a man in a torn red Starfleet tunic, who disap-
peared in a blaze of red. The warrior turned with a savage
laugh to where an Andorian woman shielded three human
children with her body.
    "No!" Spock shouted, and threw a rock at the warrior
with all his strength. The warrior easily dodged--and then

 he actually giggled, hurled his weapon away from him, and
 flung himself down, beating his head against the stone until
 he lay limp.
     David raced for the altar and the communicators. Spock
 ran toward the hostages, fighting his dizzy senses, trying to
 make himself clear. "Back... niches, shadows... hide!"
 Many were too weak to move quickly. Some could barely
 move at all.
     Suddenly Captain Rabin was there, rushing toward the
 altar and her son. Spock saw David's teeth flash in a grin.
 The captain's face was grimy, weary, but in that moment it
 shone more brightly than Vulcan's sun.
    I shall bring my mother spoils worthy of a High King,
Spock found himself thinking, confused at himself, spoils so
even T'Pau will envy her... "Spider silk and gems as green
as heart's blood shall I heap at her feet. . ." ."
    No, those weren't his thoughts, that was a quote from...
from some ancient play, he could not remember which.
    Where is your control? No, that wasn't right... Where is
your humanity? Yes, that was better. Humanity. His human
mother did not want green gems. But if I offered her a Terran
evergreen, perhaps then she wouM smile at me as Captain
Rabin smiles at David.
    No, no, and no again, this was as David had said, a "weird
trip." It was said that humans deliberately took hallucino-
gens, that they enjoyed this madness. It must be madness.
There was no other explanation for his seeing, for a mo-
ment, the captain wave not a weapon but a harp. And was
that really David, wearing not the battered desert gear but a
plain hide tunic, brandishing his sling?
    Illusion. Atavism. Memories of things David has said of his
people ~ past.
    Spock blinked, rubbed his eyes. Reality returned. David
had dashed from the altar, clutching a communicator.
Captain Rabin had a laser pistol.

"Get moving, people!" she shouted. "Follow Spock!"
Me? Where can I lead them? Ah, there, there, the entrance.t
Sered screamed in rage and charged.
Illogical, Spock thought with the distorted clarity of his
still-drugged mind. If he had attacked silently, he might have
had a chance. But discretion was never the te- Vikram way.
Captain Rabin whirled and kicked in one smooth motion,
sending Sered's blade flying into the seething lava.
"No!" Sered shrieked in white-hot fury. "The holy knife!
No!"
He lunged at the captain, hands outstretched: the proper
positioning for tal-shaya. Maddened, Sered was, but he
could still snap a human's neck. Captain Rabin dropped,
rolled, started to rise--but a glancing blow, struck faster
than human reflexes, grazed her head. She fell back to her
knees, losing her grip on the pistol, which Sered snatched up
with a sharp laugh.
"Mother!" David yelped, and blindly raced to defend
her--only to be straight-armed by Sered with a force that
sent him staggering toward the lava. Captain Rabin
screamed in sudden despair, "David!"
But the boy, twisting frantically about, somehow managed
to land on solid rock, hastily rolling away from the heat,
struggling to free his sling at the same time.
  Slingshot... Spock thought vaguely,    five smooth
stones... courage against all odds... yes.
     He stepped into Sered's path, suddenly seeing only this
 one foe, the rest of the chaotic scene fading from his
 awareness. As Sered stopped short just before trampling
 him, Spock challenged somberly in Old High Vulcan, "Is it
 only humans that you dare to fight?" The archaic language
 held no word for "traitor." Or "madman." "Lunikkh ta-
 Vik.t" he added. "Thou Poisoner of Wells!"
  Sered stared, straightened, seemed to...
  ... rear up five times his size, his outstretched hands

 turned to talons. his mouth open to suck the liJe and soulj~om
 Spock.
  The Eater of Souls! It has Taken him--
     Impossible. Illogical. David would say... would say...
 what? Something boldly mocking. Maybe, "Would you look
 at that thing?" Yes, and then he would joke about... about
 "dancing theorems." Illusion, that's all this was. Sered was
 no more than mortal.
     No less dangerous! "Half-breed," Sered jeered, raising the
 pistol.
     "I can tell truth from illusion," Spock countered. "Can
 you?"
     "Bah, child. "Sered's hands shot up: the position of deadly
 tal-shaya. "Your spine will snap as easily as a human's
 neck."
     I cannot take a grown, trained foe, not hand-to-hand. A
 weapon--
     Yes! A shard of rock like a basalt lirpa! He snatched it up,
 heedless of its weight--
    And the battle engulfed him. Suddenly Sered was gone in
the crush and a mad-eyed warrior, screaming something
about "My life for yours, my chiefi" was charging Spock,
knife aimed at him in the quick, deadly underhand thrust
that was all but impossible to stop. The will to live took
over, and Spock blindly swung his improvised lirpa with all
his might. It cracked into the maddened warrior's head, and
hot green blood splattered Spock's weapon, hands, face. The
warrior crumpled, twitched once, then lay still, skull
crushed.
    The shielding haze of hallucination vanished. Standing
over the body, Spock could think only, I never knew how
easy it is to kill. He had refused to slay a le-matya. Now, in
an instant, he had brought death to an intelligent being.
    Suddenly his legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees,
retching dryly, wishing himself a thousand miles away, not

caring that the very concept of wishing was illogical. Why
had it been so easy? He had brought death without thought.
And it had been easy.
    Energy whined right by his ear, one bolt, followed by
others. Spock scrambled to one side, suddenly reminded
that he was still in the middle of a battle. Sered! Where was
Sered?
    But with the speed of madness, Sered hurled one of his
warriors directly into the line of fire, and fled, glancing
wildly about as though hunting a hostage. Somewhere in the
struggle, Captain Rabin had regained her laser pistol.
Steadying the weapon with both hands, she fired over his
head.~
 "Surrender, Sered! You're outmatched!"
    True or not, Sered seemed to believe it. Instead of turning
to fight, he raced off into the folds of stone. Spock started
after him. He had killed once; why not again, this time in
full knowledge of what he did. Sered was a madman; Sered
was a criminal; Sered had cost him...
    "Spock, get back here!" the captain commanded sharply.
Involuntarily, Spock obeyed.
    "Rabin to Shikahr, come in, come in!" David was bab-
bling into the communicator. "No, I don't know the coordi-
nates. We're on the Forge, the Womb of Fire, Spock says you
call it. Can you lock on to my position? Yes? Then hurry/"
     'Tll take over now, son," said Captain Rabin, only to be
 hit by a sudden attack of coughing that nearly toppled her to
 her knees. Pulling away from David's panicky grip with a
 quick, reassuring grin, she spoke into the communicator,
 "Rabin to Farragu/. Yes, I'm alive, never mind that. Lock on
 to my bioreading. We've got the hostages. We have injured.
 Beam down medical and security. And as my son said,
 hurry! There's a bunch of very confused hostiles who aren't
 going to stay confused much longer!"
  Within only a few moments, the air shimmered, stirred

 wildly as Federation Security beamed in. But there was only
 the briefest of struggles. The hallucinogenic fumes were all
 but gone now, leaving some very dazed warriors who would
 hardly have been an even match for the children, let alone
 the furious adult hostages who were quite willing to kill all
 of their former captors. The Federation troops quickly
 overwhelmed those warriors who maintained enough
 strength to struggle, doing their best to pacify the former
 hostages at the same time. Spock overheard bits of"Whoa,
 enough," and "Yes, I know you want revenge, but hey, we're
 civilized!"
     More quickly than he would have thought possible--or
 maybe, Spock mused, his time sense was still distorted--the
 newcomers had removed the madmen and the dead. Shouts
 echoed down the tunnels and pipes as men and women with
 the intent gaze of hunters searched for Sered.
     "No one," someone said in disgust. "Not even a footprint
 or heat trace."
    "He's gone to ground," Spock heard Captain Rabin say.
"Do the best you can. But I think we're going to have to turn
the problem, with our recommendations, over to the Vul-
cans. They've lost a lot of face; you can bet they won't let
up."
    T'Pau, Spock thought, never forgot and never forgave.
There was some bleak reassurance in that.
    Within the cavern, the Federation personnel were busy
stringing up lights; measuring distances, taking reports in
the intervals when outraged physicians and, within a short
while, cool Vulcan healers were not driving them away.
From time to time, a party beamed in with supplies or out
with injured who had been stabilized and could now be
transported back to better medical facilities on board Cap-
tain Rabin's ship. The communicators beeped and crackled
with news bulletins from Shikahr, from the Farragut. and
the shuttles on their way from the city.

    And all the while, Spock did what he could to help,
watching his hands deliver medications or assist a healer, yel;
throughout felt... nothing.
    David was handling the emotional aftershock in exactly
the opposite fashion. "We got here in time, didn't we?" he
asked over and over, his voice rising, "Spock said those
lichen released hallucinogenic vapor, so we gathered a
bunch and dumped them into the lava. He knew what to say
to stampede people, and now look at him! I'm ready to pass
out, and he's off helping people. He saved my life, Mother. I
told him about Starfleet, and how the Academy's looking for
Vulcan cadets. I think he's interested, he has to be, he'd be
so great--"
    "Take it easy, David. We'll talk about this later, I
promise."
    She paused, catching Spock's gaze. Looking T'Pau--or
his father--in the eye might have been easier right then, but
he could hardly be rude enough to turn away.
    "Are you all right?" the woman asked 5~ ~-~i'~y~ on tmr face
the look that he'd seen on his moths, ~'s ~hcc when he had
fallen ill or injured himself as ~i chib,!.
     After a moment, Spock shook iris head. "i ~,~m quite
 unharmed, Captain Rabin."
  "That's not what I asked, Spock."
     "There... are children still needing help," he said eva-
 sively, and hurried off to where a healer trying to inject a
 terrified little boy with tri-ox gladly let him help hold the
 child still. The way the boy's color returned almost instantly
 and his breath steadied eased the ache in Spock's heart to
 some degree.
  He knew the rest would never heal. Not wholly.

EIGHTEEN

A

          Intrepid II, Obsidian Orbit
          Year 2296

The amber lights signaling yellow alert had been sweeping
the bridge--on and off, on and off--for hours, with the
warning alarm, that cursedly calm computerized voice, a
constant, monotonous wail in the background. Uhura
straightened ever so slightly in the command chair, trying to
get more comfortable, refusing to squirm.
    A beep from the chair's console nearly made her start. No,
nothing alarming. Merely Medical's update. She acknowl-
edged this most recent quarter-hourly report--hull radia-
tion about what could be expected; interior radiation
nominal.
    "Lieutenant Duchamps," Uhura asked, just as she had
every quarter of an hour, "any luck raising the captain?"
    The stiffness of Duchamps' shoulders was answer enough,
but he reported, "We've still got major static from the flare,
Commander."

 "Tighten your beam."
 "I've been trying.. ?'
"Trying is not good enough, mister. Do it!"
Uhura--none better--knew all of the techniques a comm
ott:icer might employ to separate static from signal. She
itched to leap from the central chair she had taken such
pride in occupying, shove poor Duchamps from my duty
station, and pull a communications rabbit out of the hat just
as she'd always done for Jim Kirk. Spock, l'm Ji~iling you.
 Worse yet, she was failing the ship.
    No. She mustn't think like that; believeyou were defeated,
and you were halfway there. Uhura made herself sit rigidly
still, almost at attention, pretending to review the Intrepid's
weapons specs, which she had called up hours ago, when it
had finally sunk in that she, Uhura of the United States of
Africa, a communications officer, not a fighting eaptain at
all, might actually have to fight. Well, the weapons officer
would actually do the firing, but she had to know more
about ship-to-ship action than "lock on phasers," "shields
up," and "release photon torpedoes." Yes, and (God, she
didn't want to hear this one) "Damage control, report!"
    Damreit, Intrepid H was a science vessel--good legs,
she'd heard a captain of her acquaintance once describe the
class, but with no real "guns" to speak off Her captain had
been a connoisseur of both elegant ships and armaments.
When Jim Kirk had sat in the center chair and had taken his
ship into combat, Uhura had watched him out of the corner
of her eye, knowing she was seeing a true professional at
work. And, as she had told him once when she thought they
were both going to die, she'd never been really afraid,
because he was in command.  She was afraid now.
     Well, at least I've got Duchamps to hound. Right, and
 medical of/~cers to dodge.

     By now, McCoy would have stalked onto the bridge with a
 tray of sandwiches, insistences that watch relieve watch
 including the commanding officer, thank you, ma'am, and,
 likely as not, some joke that would have put everyone more
 at ease, or an observation that would have helped the
 captain make up his mind. Her mind. Damn.
    Yellow alert continued to flash over the bridge. The
warning continued to sound. Uhura stared at the view-
screen, its filters partialIy occluding her view of Obsidian's
disk and Loki's deadly light. She listened to the undercur-
rent of whispers from helm to weapons, weapons to science,
science to weapons, where Lieutenant Richards, bless him
for trying to defuse things, added a calm briefing on how to
divert impulse power into the phasers, boosting their pathet-
ic armament. Too many murmurings. The crew, especially
the new ones, untried in battle, were edgy, and everyone was
getting pretty tired of "hurry up and wait."
    The truth was, it had been far too long without word from
Spock or the rest of his people. Too long having to cower on
Obsidian's far side, keeping it between themselves and the
damnedly unstable Loki.
    Too long, too, without a clear fix on the double-damned
Romulan ship she knew was out there.
    Damn, this chair is uncomfortable. In every sense. Ironic
to recall how she had beamed when she'd first sat down in it
and heard Spock tell her he had every confidence in her. Ah
well, that good oM quote: You knew the job was dangerous
when you took it.
 "Mr. Richards!"
 "Commander?"
    "Romulan Warbirds register on our sensors the instant
they drop cloaking. Any sign?"
 "I've checked the normal spectrographic bands, ma'am."
 "Then check some abnormal ones!"
 "Aye-aye, ma'am."

    You don't have to snap, Uhura warned herself, and added
more gently, "I have every confidence in you, Lieutenant."
    If not in the safety of the planetary team. But there's
nothing I can do about that, so, as Spock would pitt it, "It is
illogical to worry about what cannol be changed."
    And maybe sehlats or whatever they had instead of pigs on
Vulcan could fly.
    Wonder if Vulcans worry, deep down under that unemo-
tional.front. Maybe they've all got ulcers. Bet they do. Sure
they do. Wonder if Spock is worrying right now--stop that.t
    "Helm," she ordered suddenly. "Shift course. Two-zero-
five mark three. On my order."
 "Course laid in, Commander."
 "Proceed."
    Maybe altering orbit just a trifle would lure the Romulans
into thinking Intrepid was retreating. Prod those boys into
doing something, too. Of course, if the Warbird emerged,
they would probably have to fight it, but at least the crew did
seem to brighten at the thought of any action at all.
    Except that there wasn't any. Nothing happened, save that
the whispering started up again. Just **'hal I wanted, Uhura
thought, a morale problem.
     All right, go on the offensive. Stop the murmurings before
they undermined her authority. Undermined it any worse.
 "Lieutenant Duchamps!"
    Uhura's voice was as sharp as the crack of a whip, and
Duchamps almost shot straight up out of his chair. "Com-
mander. Ma'am. I, uh, I--"
    "Lieutenant, you've been doing a fair amount of commu-
nicating that has nothing to do with the planet or our people
down there. Let's get what you were saying out in the open.
Spit it out, mister." And thank you, Ms. Yemada, Public
School Twenty-Nine, Nairobi.
    What had worked for Ms. Yemada worked for Uhura too.
Reddening like a boy (quite a weird effect under the sallow

 lighting of yellow alert, Uhura noted absently), Duchamps
 muttered, "Begging the commander's pardon. It's just...
 well... we're getting a bit edgy waiting and not doing
 anything. Captain Spock..."
     "Would tell you your worry is illogical. He can take care
 of himself, mister."
 "Uh, no one's saying he can't, ma'am. It's just--"
 "Lieutenant." Uhura stressed the man's title. "What,
 exactly, would you have me do? Move the Intrepid into
 danger? Would you like to find out what solar flares like that
 could do to this ship and, more to the point, to its crew?"
  "No, ma'am."
    "Excellent. Now, try to raise that base again. This time,
why not switch circuit couplings AF and DX, then.. 2' The
jargon that tumbled from her mouth turned Duchamps
wide-eyed, as she intended.
    "As for the rest of you," she raised her voice again, "you
hate this delay, and I can't blame you. But I can keep you
busy. While the lieutenant here tries to raise Captain Spock
or Captain Rabin, the rest of you are going to stop staring at
me and start hunting for that Romulan ship. And I won't
take 'nothing out there, ma'am' for an answer!"
    A ragged chorus of "aye-aye"s trailed off as the bridge
crew bent over their consoles. A beep erupted from her own
console, and Uhura just managed not to jump.
    "Commander," came Lieutenant Commander Atherton's
crisp voice, "I must protest."
    Wouldn't you just? "Did we throw off your training
program again, Commander?" Uhura asked sweetly. "You
should have had time by now to do a hundred dilithium
remounts."
    "It's not the remounts, Commander," Atherton fretted.
"It's the radiation."
 "Medical says that radiation levels in-ship are nominal."

    "Yes, Commander, of course. But I am worried about the
weapons systems."
    She definitely did not need to hear that! "So are we,
mister. What suggestions do you have?"
    "Withdraw beyond system limits. Let systems cool. Suit
up and investigate."
    "You mean let that Warbird think it can swoop down on
the planet--and our people down there? Get back to me
with a workable--" The quick, contemptuous emphasis on
"workable" would make Atherton's stiff neck flush,
wouldn't it? "--plan. Until then, bridge out."
    "Commander Uhura!" It was Ensign Chang, for once too
excited to remember to be shy. "I've found it again, or..."
He added uncertainly, "I did, just for a moment. Their
captain must have been trying to watch the planet while
keeping clear of Loki. He took the direct impact of one of
those flares, and his cloaking device glitched. I got a fix on
his position." Chang turned and actually grinned at her.
"He got careless. Edged over into the Neutral Zone. Cloak-
ing device is back up, but I'm getting some feedback from
it."
    Damnation. Entry into the Romulan Neutral Zone by
Federation or Romulan ships constituted an act of war. "No
Romutan ever 'gets careless,' Mr. Chang," Uhura said.
"Lieutenant Duchamps."
  "No luck raising the base, Commander."
    "Belay that. Send a message to Starfleet Command. Use
cipher level D."
 "Level D's been cracked for six months, Commander!"
 Duchamps, Uhura thought wryly, sounded as if he
 thought she were cracked too. She grinned at him. "The
 Romulans know that. But they may not know that we know
 it. A little trick I learned from Captain Kirk." This was
 communications, Uhura thought. This was what she under-
 stood. This was pure heaven.

?

    Even if, in the next moment, she might have to fight from
a research ship with "great legs and no guns."
    "Make it sound a little frantic," she added. "By the time
Starfleet gets it, things will be resolved. Always easier to get
forgiveness than permission."
    Light dawned on Duchamps' face. He grinned back at
her. "Aye-aye, ma'am!"
    Medical signaled. Uhura hit the override. She had more
important things to worry about than hull radiation. She'd
probably have an angry physician on her bridge in two
minutes flat, too. Just like old times.
    "Message ready for you to review, ma'am," Duchamps
said, all spit and polish now.
    "I'm not done yet, Lieutenant. Now, encrypt a message
into that one. Pick cipher level F; it's still so secure they
won't know it's piggybacking our distress call. Tell them:
    "'Uhura, Commander and Acting Captain of the U.S.S.
Intrepid II, orbiting around Obsidian in the Loki system, to
Starfleet. We have just witnessed a clear and deliberate
violation of the Neutral Zone by a Romulan Warbird.'"
     She broke off to add, "Mr. Chang, transfer your coordi-
nates over to Lieutenant Duchamps for inclusion."
 "Aye-aye, ma'am."
    "And tell them," Uhura continued to Lieutenant Du-
champs, "'This substantiates our prior sighting. Judging
from sabotage reports and the evidence of our planetary
search team, I have reason to believe that this may be the
start of Romulan aggressive action against Obsidian. In
accordance with treaty provisions, a state of war now exists
between the Federation and the Romulan Empire. We will,
nevertheless, endeavor to resolve this situation without
hostilities.'"
    The message hit her station seconds later. She took a deep
breath. "Now," Uhura said, "go to broadband." Open a

hailing Jkequency. Yes/ "I want the name of every
Constitution-class starship included in your hail--"
 "There aren't any..."
    "Make sure you include the Excelsior as well. The Romu-
lans know another Enterprise veteran commands it." Good
old Sulu. Captain Sulu. "Add the following ships: Chaka
Zulu, Patrick O'Brian, John Paul Jones, and Exodus, cruis-
ing in convoy out in... oh... thataway," Uhura added in
tribute to Kirk's preferred choice of destination. "Request
their immediate assistance."
    "Commander..." Duchamps' voice was very small.
"There are no such ships."
    "Very good, Lieutenant. We know that--but can the
Romulans be sure of it? Message away!"
    She took a deep breath and stood. There were some things
for which you wanted to be on your feet. Like the first time
you opened your mouth and said:
 "Go to red alert."

NINETEEN

  Vulcan, The Womb of Fire
Day 6, Eighth Week of Tasmeen,
Year 2247

The last of the hostages had been removed. There was
nothing left now for Spock to do but to think. And remem-
ber. And neither was anything he really wanted to do just
now. The young Vulcan stood frozen, seeing nothing but
that sudden flow of green blood and that crumpled, lifeless
form at his feet, unable to force himself to move.
    David came up behind him, then paused awkwardly.
"You've got to cry it out," he said at last. "You're half
human, you can do it, I know you can."
    After another hesitation, he closed a reassuring hand on
Spock's shoulder, and Spock had all he could do not to
instinctively slam that hand away. He would not let his
instincts betray him again! The last time he had given them
free play, he had killed without thought or hesitation.
Knowing that David could not see his face, Spock closed
his eyes, longing for the serenity of logic the way he had

longed for cool water in the desert. I have poisoned my
well.
    David, of course, could not read his thoughts. "I know
what happened back there; I saw you have to kill that guy.
Hey, don't worry! You'd be as crazy as Sered if you didn't
feel bad about it! Remember how I cried at the wrecked
shuttle," the boy added, "when I thought Mother might
have died there..." David's voice cracked. "You've got to
let it out, Spock. You won't heal unless you do."
    "David, you know we don't touch Vulcans," Captain
Rabin said in the rasp seemed to be all the voice she had left
by now. She managed somehow to keep track of what was
going on in the entire cavern without losing sight of her son.
And if her tone seemed aimed at a much younger boy, that
was strangely comforting, too.
    Spock nodded his gratitude. Gently, as he would put a
child aside, he freed himself from David's grasp. "I am a
Vulcan," he reminded the human boy just as gently. "We do
not cry. I will recover. But I must be free to heal in my own
way."
 Such as it is.
    When no one seemed to have any further need of him, he
settled himself on a rock, his head in his hands, trying to
meditate. He tried for hours. But there was no peace, no
balance, in him.

    Spock looked up from his fruitless meditations, confused
for the briefest instant as to how long a time had passed. The
lights that the Starfleet Security officers had strung up were
the painful yellow most familiar to human eyes, but his
inner senses told him it was night.
    Fewer people were about, most of them still pointing
tricorders and asking questions. Captain Rabin had finally
listened to her medical officer, accepted medication, and

consented to sit down. Nearby, David slept, totally ex-
hausted, covered by a silvery thermal blanket. His part of
the battle over, he seemed, at least in sleep, to have returned
to a younger boy's innocence.
  Captain Rabin tilted her head at Spock: Come here.
    He warily obeyed, seating himself at a polite distance,
waiting in proper silence for an adult's words.
    "Have you heard from your parents yet?" the captain
asked after an awkward pause.
    He had to fight the impulse--Aftereffects from the lichen,
no doubt--to flinch and look away. Instead, one eyebrow
raised, the only reaction he dared allow himself, Spock
answered carefully with what was logical and true: "My
father and T'Pau will be occupied with contacting all of the
embassies. He would not permit my mother to come here
unescorted."
    That brought Captain Rabin's eyebrow up. Now Spock
did look aside. There had been times when he had dared
think his father was not right. Clearly, the captain shared
this view. But he could not allow her to think poorly of his
mother or, for that matter, his people.
    "My mother is not Starfleet," he said in an attempt to
explain. And then, because the woman who was both
captain and his friend's mother was owed more courtesy
than that, he added, "Ma'am."
    Not "lady," Spock, as you wouM speak to one of your
Vulcan friends' mothers?
    I have no Vulcan friends. honesty compelled him to admit.
Not in the sense that this human has become my friend. And
now he will leave, to go to this Academy of his. I will miss him.
 That was a statement his father must never hear.
    "Rabin to Spock," the captain said gently, pretending to
open her communicator. "Come in, Spock."

 He nearly started. "I ask forgiveness. Lady."
    Her smile widened into a grin very like that of David
when he thought he'd proved a point. "My son tells me he
has spoken to you about Starfleet. He considers you an
outstanding candidate, and he says you may be interested."
    She watched him carefully. When he just as carefully kept
his face blank of expression and said nothing, the captain
added, "Enthusiasm often makes David exaggerate, as you
must have noticed by now, but you must also know that he is
truthful to the extent of his knowledge. Is he right about this,
Spock?"
    Spock looked down at his hands. "My life's pattern is set.
I am to be a scientist, a servant of peace, as my father is.
But..." Before he could stop himself, Spock heard himself
add, "I killed."
    "I saw," Captain Rabin murmured. "I wish you had been
spared that, a boy your age. But... we can't always have
what we wish."
     "I killed without thought," Spock protested, struggling to
keep his voice properly calm. "It was... easy, too easy."
 "No."
 "But--"
    "Oh, the physical part's far too easy. But the whole act of
killing--it never does get easy, Spock. At least, I pray it
never does."
    "But I failed in control. Just as my father has admonished
me."
    "Ah." There was a world of understanding in the one
syllable. Captain Rabin started to put out a hand to soothe
him as she had her son, then let it fall. David, you know one
does not touch Vulcans. Frustration. He had seen that
expression often enough on his mother's face. He would see
it again when Sarek gave permission for Spock's return
home. At the most, the Lady Amanda would have the

.i

chance to say she was "gratified" to see her son before they
packed him off for medical observation. One could not be
too careful with a human/Vulcan half-breed, after all. No
doubt repairs were expensive.
    ~'SpOck?" the captain asked again after another long
pause.
    "Captain, there are weapons on board your ship, are there
not? At your Academy, will David learn to use them?"
    "When he must. Only when he must. Spock, there is a
quote from my people's writings: 'They shall beat their
swords into plowshares and their spears into pruninghooks.
Nations shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall
they learn war any more.'"
 Spock straightened. "That sounds like Surak."
    "Those words are about as old as his teachings. And as
true."
    "Then..." he began, feeling his way along, "there is no
conflict between them, the human way and the Vulcan?"
    Captain Rabin smiled faintly. "Not in terms of a desire
for peace. I know this is all overwhelming for a boy your
age--and don't give me that cool Vulcan stare. You are, like
it or not, more or less my son's age, and I am definitely old
enough to be your mother."
    That almost shocked a laugh out of him. Hastily forcing
his face back to the proper calm, he bowed his head in
respect, hearing the captain's chuckle.
    "As a mother as well as an officer, I'm going to ask again:
Is David right about your interest in Starfleet? If it helps you
decide, I'll say frankly that you're as likely a candidate as
I've seen, and I would be proud to nominate you."
    The captain's interest, even her unexpected maternal
impulses, were far preferable to the discomfort of his
thoughts. Cautiously, Spock asked, "Should the recommen-
dation not come from a dignitary of one's homeworld?"

v ~.,IJ;.,~,""~lN ~ l'%JlXJk. Jr.3

    Captain Rabin grinned at him, her face lighting up despite
its weariness. "Your mother is of Earth, Spock. And it is a
custom among my people that parentage follows the mother.
By that logic, you are as much of Earth as you are of Vulcan.
Don't be afraid of your Earth heritage. It has saved your
life--and that of my son."
    Spock stared at her but could find nothing to say. The
captain's grin softened to a gentle smile. "I'm here for you,
Spock. If you need me. If you want to talk. But I will tell you
frankly, my offer comes with conditions. I will not go behind
Ambassador Sarek's and Lady Amanda's backs. Think
about it. If you want to accept my offer, talk to them first
and tell me."
    "I killed." Spock returned to the almost unbearable truth.
"I was not in full control. I did not understand. I am
shamed. That is an emotion, yet it is one I believe I fully
merit. I... need more time to think."
     "As do we all. But not now. You, young man, have
undergone more than any boy should. You should sleep."
 "I do not need--"
    "Yes, you do. I know that Vulcans can go for longer than
we humans without rest, but you are not fully grown yet.
And," she added with a glance that really did remind him of
her son, "sleep will help you gain some perspective." She
thrust a thermal blanket into his arms. "I promise, I will
wake you when the ambassador calls. He will find you awake
and about your duties."
    Was it continuing weakness from the lichen's fumes or his
exhaustion that allowed him to accept hei' reassurances?
Or... could it be a childish need for maternal warmth?
    He was too weary to find an answer. Spock stretched out
near David as he had done every night since their escape
from this very cavern. There was comfort in that familiarity,
and he should not have felt that either. He had killed.

du~k,[./lltl Oll,~,.,l Illall glL dlU~.tlll ullllWttl L/-

Perhaps Starfleet could teach him how to deal with that,
with all his inner conflicts. The idea eased the sickness in his
soul.
 So, the Eater of Souls had not devoured it after all.
    Spock suspected that David would have called it a close
call.

TWENTY

,)

       Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 4, First Week, Month of the 6hining Chara,
Year 22U

Ensign Faisal ibn Saud ibn Turki--Ensign Prince--bit back
a shout of pure frustration. Bad enough that they were stuck
in this cave in the middle of nowhere. Bad enough that they
had such finite supplies that Captains Rabin and Spock had
gone off into the desert on what they said was an attempt to
find aid but could just as easily turn into a joint suicide. But
to put their only real hope for survival in the hands of a
muscle-bound idiot of a Farsi--
    "Try it again," Faisal said, and tried not to make it a
snarl.
    Unsuccessfully. It earned him a glare from Rustam Ka-
vousi, who was huddled uncomfortably over the makeshift
transmitter. "What," he muttered in Farsi, "do you think
I'm doing, you overbearing son of a desert thief?."
    Faisal understood Farsi well enough to get the point. For a
moment, pure atavistic hatred flashed between the two men

 as they were suddenly back in the ancient days of Arab
 against Iranian.
     Right, Faisal snapped at himself. And Captain Rabin is
 Israeli. You going to hate him, too?
     The moment passed. They were both Starfleet, and areha-
 le stuff like racial hatred just didn't belong to the modem
 age. Besides, Faisal reminded himself, Captain Rabin had
 left him in charge. Up to him to see that everyone survived.
     I'm a pilot. It was a plaintive thought..4 damned good one,
 too. I never asked for this.
     Who would? Fruitless to argue with what was written.
 Faisal sighed, patting the other ensign on a burly shoulder.
 "Sorry. I know you're doing everything you can."
      "And I didn't mean to snarl. I almost had them. I...
 wait... something's coming in."  "... Federation base.. 2'
     The signal faded. Swearing under his breath, Kavousi
 boosted the power again.
    "... calling Captain Rabin... shuttlecraft... come in,
Captain Rabin."
    ,That's Ensign Chase's voice, back at the base!" someone
whispered, and was hastily shushed by someone else before
they could drown out the fragile signal.
  "Go ahead," Faisal urged. "Answer her."
  "This is Ensign Kavousi. Do you read?"
  Static.
  "I said, do you read?"
  " Kavousi "
  "Yes! Yes! Do you read?"
    The static cut off abruptly. Kavousi looked up, stricken.
"It's dead. Power's drained."
    They were too well schooled to groan, but Faisal could feel
everyone's sudden despair and thought, I don't need this. I
really don't. "What if we tried readjusting the power cells?"

he asked warily. "They should be able to store energy in any
form, shouldn't they?"
 "Not that I've heard."
    "Well, not the ordinary configuration, no. But we've got a
real hybrid here," Faisal continued, warming to his argu-
ment. "And maybe we can't use all the cells, but at least that
one," pointing over Kavousi's shoulder, "lookstike a Thom-
as Adjustable Power Cell. Sure it is," he added, taking a
closer look, "good old Series Four One Two Four, maybe A
or A Prime."
    At Kavousi's startled glance, Faisal shrugged. "I use them
in my Beech Four Thousar~dmthat's my plane--back on
Earth: don't need anything fancier for an old-style turbo-
prop. The Series Four One Two Four adjusts from standard
system powering to solar power with more or less the flick of
a switch."
    Kavousi snorted. "Solar power, eh? We sure have enough
of that."
    Lieutenant Diver joined them. "At least we know the
home base is looking for us. I vote we give it a try."
    Kavousi shrugged. "Can't hurt anything. If we can get any
one of the cells working again, we might just have enough
power to let them know our coordinates."
    "Go to it," Faisal said. "In the meantime," he said to the
geologist, "how's your search going?"
    "Nothing yet. But there's definitely porous limestone
down there, and those stains in the folds of the cliff do look
like water."
    Faisal rather doubted it. Vulcans, he knew, had keener
senses than humans, and if Captain Spock hadn't com-
mented on nearby water, it either wasn't there in any real
amount or wasn't really drinkable. Still... anything that
kept morale high was a good thing. And hell, even Vulcans
could be wrong.

  "If I can just get down to it..." the lieutenant continued.
      "Ozmani," Faisal cut in, "you're a rock climber in your
free time, right?"  "I am, yes."
    "All right, then you're elected to help her. Be careful!
Having you two fall off the cliff would be a hell of a way to
save on rations."
    There was a ragged laugh at that, and Faisal gave them all
his most encouraging grin. Want me to be a leader, Captain
Rabin?All right, I'm leading. "You think this is rough?" he
asked. "No way! This is a joke! Remember all those double-
time exercise drills back in Starfleet Academy. Remember
all those thrice-cursed drill sergeants breathing down your
necks! Yes, and remember the cardboard masquerading as
food they served us after the drill sergeants had finished with
us? Nothing this desert can throw at us could be worse than
those bouncing gray meatballs!"
    That earned him a genuine laugh, and Faisal's grin
widened. Morale booster was never going to replace flying in
his list of favorite occupations, but: Well, what do you know?
Look at me: I am a leader.
    For now, a dour part of his mind answered him. For now.
Till the water runs out. or the food, or whatever got McCoy
gets us, too.
 Oh, shut up, he snapped.

    The nomads, Speck realized, were similar to other desert
peoples in that they must, before deciding anything short of
dealing with a immediate emergency, debate each and every
aspect of a situation. There was no way to hasten such a
process, so he merely sat and waited, sipping every so often
(one did not waste a chance to drink in the desert, whether
one thirsted or not) from the water cup he had been given.
Rabin, much to Spock's surprise, seemed to be showing

almost as much patience. Catching Spock's speculative
expression, he grinned and shrugged. "Reminds me of the
folks back home." But then the human leaned forward to
whisper in Spock's ear, "The only thing that's bothering me
is: What's happening to McCoy while we're waiting?"
    "One does not harm a valuable hostage. And he is, after
all, a Starfleet officer."
    "Meaning that he'll be doing his best to escape." Rabin
stopped short. "Sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it?"
    "It does. However, the doctor would not need the distrac-
tion of a tremor. Dr. McCoy is very much a distraction in
himselfi"
    The nomads' murmurings were growing louder, more
fervent. All at once their voices joined in outright cheering.
    "I believe," Speck said mildly, "that they have come to a
decision."
    There was the softest of chuckles from the Elder, who had
been in the midst of the debate. "We have," she said. "We
have decided that the men who look like our honored
visitor, Speck, son of Sarek, but are not his people are
enemies and must be driven from our lands."
    That, of course, sparked another series of excited shouts.
Rabin raised his cup in salute to Speck. Under cover of the
crowd's noise, he whispered, "Lawrence of Arabia!"
     Catching the reference precisely, Speck retorted, "It is
wrong to kill a tribe for the wrongs of one man." "Heh. Good quote."
    "It seemed only logical. Come, my friend. I suspect that
we have quite an interesting job ahead."

    Ruanek, centurion of the Romulan Empire, member of
House Minor Strevon, stood hidden behind a boulder,
unsure and full of doubts for one of the few times in his
young life. When first he had been given this assignment,

he'd been proud of the chance to serve his race and at the
same time possibly win glory for himself and his House. It
had seemed so simple then: Pretend to obey the Vulcan
traitor--who was, after all, merely Vulcan--and all the
while obey your own commander. Ignore the slights, the
insanities.
  Ignore the wrongs done to the savages.
    I am a warrior, not some fool of a sage. I should have no
doubts.
    And yet, and yet, it was not easy to see even savage
children suffer, savage children die.
    It was different in war. There, death was clean and quick.
Honest. Here...
    Ruanek spat. This ridiculous self-doubt was Makkhoi's
doing. Sly, ah sly, that one! Easy to believe the tales about
him, with his clever wit: Ruanek had to admit he'd actually
come to enjoy their word duels--which was probably all
part of Makkhoi's scheme.
    It was time for his report. Ruanek opened his communica-
tor with a brusque snap, impatiently adjusting the gain to
deal with the cursed, ever-present static ....
    Ah. The line was finally open. Ruanek whispered the
latest series of code words, implanted as had been the first
code, which had already faded from his mind (as would this
in turn). He waited, refusing to show the anxiety he felt.
What if, this time, there was no response? That would mean
Avrak somehow knew of his self-doubts, and that would
mean the end of his career and probably his life. But then: "Report."
    Fighting to keep his relief from his voice, Ruanek said,
"We continue to hold the hostage, Makkhoi. The traitor
Vulcan continues to preen and pose and suspect nothing."
  "Excellent."
 "Sir... one question, if it is permitted."

    A long, unnerving pause: What was Avrak thinking?
Would he praise or condemn curiosity?
  Why do I do this? Why risk everything?
 "One question," flatly.
    "Sir, if Makkhoi is so redoubtable a warrior, why was he
snared so easily? He did seem confused by the storm, as we,
protected by the proper gear, were not. But... could he
have wished to be captured? Sir, I do not presume to great
wisdom, but: Can this all be part of some devious Federa-
tion plot?"
    Another unnervingly long pause. Then: "You are not here
to deal with the Federation, Centurion. Obey orders. No
more than that."
    With that, the link was broken and the communicator
went dead. Ruanek stood swearing silently. Why had he
been such a fool? How could he have dared question his own
patron?
    It couM have been worse. I could have been stupid enough
to mention the dying children.
    He had been standing here far too long. Someone was
certain to stumble on him and ask awkward questions--
someone such as ambitious Kharik, Ruanek's age and
distant cousin yet half Ruanek's rank. Oh, Kharik would
love to find him dithering here like one of the Federation do-
gooders. And if Kharik should manage to worm his way into
Avrak's good graces...
    Ruanek marched on, pretending to be going somewhere.
As, he was beginning to suspect, he was not.

    It was just about time, McCoy thought, for his latest
interview with the Leader of the Faithful. Sure enough, here
came his armed escort.
 "So nice to see you folks again. Lead on."
 He gave them his full-force Southern Gentleman smile,

smooth and charming as they came, and grinned to himself
to see their eyes narrow warily. That magnolia-dripping
smile always seemed to take the Romulans aback, clearly
making them wonder what he knew that they didn't.
    Wonder away, boys, wonder away. Wish I did have a
scheme.
    At least he knew Spock was alive and well and on his trail.
That counted for a lot. Nothing like a Vulcan--a sane
Vulcanre for good old logical tenacity. Better than a blood-
hound.
    Ah look. There was the Mahdi Wannabe himself, in those
ridiculously theatrical white robes.
    And those cold, cold eyes. McCoy dropped every wise-
crack he'd been considering, recognizing hair-trigger psy-
chosis when he saw it. The Master was definitely not having
a good day.
    Don't want to do anything to set off someone on the edge of
violence. Particularly not someone with Vulcan strength. I
like my neck unbroken, thank you!
    The Master fixed him with that alien stare, flat as the gaze
of a lizard. "I have waited with patience," he said with cold,
unemotional menace. "I have granted you mercy, time in
which to consider the folly of silence. But the time of waiting
is over. Now I must insist that you talk."
    Oh joy. "I certainly will," McCoy said in as businesslike a
manner as he could manage. "Let's see now, where to begin.
Ah, I know: with a bargain. Tell you what. You let me treat
the ill, no restrictions, and I'll say anything you want to
hear."
    "No bargain." The Vulcan said the word as though he
found it distasteful. "I do not bargain, certainly not with
inferiors. You will talk. Now."
    Thought we'd get around to the ultimatum sooner or later.
Well, I'm ready for you, son. Don't say you didn't bring this
on yourself. But then, I bet you've never even heard of a good

old-fashioned Southern filibuster. And... we're off and run-
ning.
    Off and running. That prompted McCoy to begin, "First,
let me say something about the grand old Southern state of
Kentucky, the home of fine bourbon, pretty women, and fast
horses. Yes, fast as the wind, those horses."
    Now that he was warmed up, McCoy spoke as quickly and
smoothly as possible, trying not to interrupt the flow of
words with anything as unimportant as breath. "I've seen
those horses run, and man, you would not believe the sight.
The beauty, the speed, the sheer stunning power of them all.
Folks hold something called the Kentucky Derby to honor
those horses, and it's now... what... in maybe the Four
Hundred and Someteenth running. Then there's the Preak-
ness, the Belmontmhorse that wins all three, why he's
claimed the Triple Crown for himselfl The names of those
mighty horses of power have gone down in our history:
father of them all, Eclipse, so great they said of him 'Eclipse
first, the rest nowhere.'"
    The Romulans, tO his surprise, were gathering round as
though intrigued, Ruanek in their midst. "Are these war
beasts of which you speak?" the centurion asked, almost
respectfully.
    "Why, you could call them that, son. Yes, you could,
indeed. In fact, one of the greatest of the Thoroughbreds,
those wondrous beasts, was even named Man o' War, only
beaten once in all his life, and his son was War Admiral,
winner of the Triple Crown he was. Yes, and there were
other grand war steeds,.."
    Thank whoever watched over Kentucky horseflesh for
giving him the inspiration. McCoy couldn't exactly remem-
ber every equine pedigree, but that hardly mattered since no
one here was going to be able to contradict him. He could
make it up as he pleased. And the Romulans, bless their
vicious little hearts, were hanging on every word.

5

  Hell, they already think I'm a mighty warrior. Probably
believe all this malarkey is some sacred military epic. Give
'em power in battle.
      The Master was another matter. McCoy, keeping a wary
eye on him, saw the Vulcan's cold eyes begin to smolder.
 Oh, wonderful. What do I do if he erupts?
    Nothing to do but keep going with his running monologue
of horses. "Then there was Seabiscuit, named for the stuff
sailors eat--sea warriors, those are. And he was a true
warrior horse, ran like the--"
  "What nonsense is this?" the Master roared.
    But to McCoy's relief, Ruanek, a warrior not impressed
by noise, said, "Your pardon, Master, but this is the Cap-
tive's Right of Statement. Of honor, he may complete it. Of
honor, we cannot interrupt him."
    For a heart-stopping moment, McCoy was sure that the
Master was going to tear a rifle from someone's hands and
shoot him. But the Vulcan wasn't so far gone into madness
that he couldn't see the need for his Romulan allies. He
subsided, fuming, and McCoy continued, heart racing,
"And then there was Citation, like a citation for war heroics,
and a heroic horse he was..."
    And I'll place a bet in his honor on whatever it is they bet on
here, if only I get out of this alive and in one piece. Spock, I
don't know where you are, but hurry, you green-blooded
bloodhound, hurry.t

    The nomads shouted and shrieked, working themselves
up into a joyous, fierce frenzy.
 "We will charge the invaders!" they yelled.
 "We will hurl them from our lands!"
 "They will be destroyed!"
    This was not, Spock thought, exactly what he had in-
tended. Perhaps I was too convincing a speaker? Or perhaps
they merely welcomed any excuse for aright.

    Trapped in the middle of this wild extravagance, his keen
hearing assaulted by noise that was rapidly reaching the
threshold of pain, he only just managed to keep his face
impassive. Fortunate that he was already familiar with
explosive human emotions. Otherwise, the experience
would be totally overwhelming.
    But hysterical crowds too easily turned into mobs. Spock
held up a deliberately dramatic hand for silence. Curious,
the nomads subsided.
    "While your enthusiasm is quite ... thorough," he told
them, picking his words with care, "you must understand
that we cannot simply march against the Romulans as
though they were no more than another clan. They are..."
He quickly censored the perilous words better armed, since
it would hardly be desirable for these nomads to suddenly
gain weaponry superior to anything held by their neighbors.
"They do not follow any rules with which you are familiar."
    That sounded implausibly vague to him, but it served to
confuse the nomads for a few precious moments, long
enough for Spock to catch Rabin's attention, then ask the
Elder, "May we three talk together in private?" "I think it wise, yes."
    They strolled away from the camp in seeming calm, one
small, slight, powerful woman between two outlanders. As
soon as they were safely out of earshot of the others, the
Elder eyed Spock and Rabin slyly and said, "There is more
to this than the desire to aid us. I must ask myself what it is
you seek, you personally."
    Rabin let out his breath in a gusty sigh. "Elder, we won't
lie to you. The Romulans are holding a hostage, a physician
named McCoy, a colleague of ours. And," he added with a
glance at Spock, "a friend."
    The faintest of frowns creased the woman's brow. "And
yet I know you do not act from selfishness alone. You do
genuinely wish to aid us. No, Kindly Fool," she added with

if!'

the smallest of smiles, "I am not being either foolish or
mystical. Your deeds, successful or not, have always been
well meant. And they speak in your behalf."
    "Elder," Spock said, "I did not intend to rouse an army.
Please know that there will be danger for your people. Many
may well die."
    Her shoulders rose and fell in a slight, almost humanly
fatalistic shrug. "So it is, so it will be. At least our land will
be freed."
 "Yes, but--"
    "No. We are not children; we have chosen as named adults
what we shall do. Do you know where the enemy has their
lair?"
    "Dr. McCoy was unable to give us exact coordinates. He
did, however, indicate that he is being held in a cavern
blocked by two large metal doors."
    The Elder stiffened. "A cavern from which runs a network
of black tunnels formed from the hardened blood of the
world? Aie-ah, is it so? This can only be one place."
 "Which is that?"
    "I know the location well," the Elder said evasively. "It is
not more than a day's riding from this camp."
    "Why will you not name it?" Spock asked. "Is this,
perhaps, a sacred site?" When she would not answer, he
continued, "Please understand that we would not willingly
go against your customs or cause insult. But first we must
know of those customs."
    "Them is no insult given by you or intended by me," she
answered. "This is simply not the place to speak of such
things."
    It was said with finality. Satisfied that she had made her
point, the Elder turned away to watch her people. The
nomads, with the air of people with nothing more construc-
tive to do, were working themselves back up to a frenzy of
excited shouting. Someone pulled out a drum, starting up an

intricate beat. Someone else began tootling away on a bone
flute with more enthusiasm than talent, and an impromptu
war dance quickly sprang into being.
    "We shall all go," the Elder said. "All the warriors.
Indeed," she added, eyeing her wildly dancing people wryly,
"I do not think that I could stop them. We shall all go, and
your friend shall be rescued. We shall all go, and the
outlanders will be forever banished from our lands."
    Spock glanced at Rabin, who shrugged helplessly. "Aqa-
ba," the human murmured in Anglic, "by land."
    Spock recognized yet another quote from Lawrence of
Arabia. He thought with not quite properly unemotional
calm of the nomads with their foolish bravery and hope-
lessly antiquated weapons. The nomads he and Rabin were
leading into peril against those who were better armed,
higher-tech. "Let us only hope," he countered, one eyebrow
raised, "that all their guns are pointed at the sea."
    The quote raised both of Rabin's eyebrows. "Fascinat-
ing," he said.

TWENTY-ONE

Vulcan, Mount Seleya and Sarek'n Estate
Day 21, Tenth Week of Teeranch,
        Year 2247

It did not seem possible, Spock thought, that so short a time
had passed since he had last stood here on Mount Seleya
with his agemates. Less than a month... 15.6 days, no
more than that, since David and he had struggled across the
Womb of Fire, facing what had then seemed impossible
odds.
    And yet, and yet, at the same time how could so little have
changed? Surely the rocks, the altar itself, must show marks
of the maddened battle that had taken place here! Surely
there must be some sign that cousins and sundered cousins
had fought and, yes, died here!
    Yet the faint mist of early morning continued to rise over
Mount Seleya as it had every morning. A shavokh rode the
first thermals of dawn, the rising sun briefly touching the tip
of a wing with gold as the shavokh banked, just as it had
done before. Of course the altar, the entire site, had been

purified, Spock knew that. It was not, in the strictest sense of
the word, the same as it had been.
     And he--how could he still be the same after he had come
so far and done so much? And... killed?
    No. He was not the same. Captain Rabin had ruefully
mentioned something about "lost innocence," but that was
needlessly emotional. And yet...
    What was, Spock thought resolutely, was. It was illogical
to wish to change the past. Not even his parents knew
everything about... what had happened. Nor, he had al-
ready decided, would they ever know.
    When he had returned home... no, again. Spock drew a
veil over the memory of his mother, control utterly shat-
tered for the first time since he could remember, rushing
from the room lest she cause an awkwardness for her
husband and son by her unseemly burst of emotion. (But
surely, a treasonous little voice whispered in Captain
Rabin's voice, there was no shame here? Surely a human
mother was allowed to react to the shock of finding her son
not dead as she must have feared but alive and unharmed?)
    Sarek... had said little to him, other than a brief remark
that he was pleased to see his son returned unharmed and
with renewed proof of his ability to survive ordeals.
    Survive ordeals. Is that all he considers Seredg madness
and what.followed? An ordeal? A--test of my worthiness?
    No and no again. This was not the time or place for
unseemly behavior. Or dangerously emotional concepts.
    At least, Spock thought, allowing himself the smallest
touch of satisfaction, though he kept his face properly
impassive, one thing had changed: His agemates no longer
watched him as though waiting--hoping?--to see him fail.
Instead, there was almost a wariness to them, especially to
Stonn, as though they knew he had already passed beyond

boyhood without having needed any ceremony to confirm
his status. Or rather, that this ceremony merely reinforced
what he had already gained.
    There will never be friendship between us now, Spock
thought. But then again, he added honestly, there never has
been.
    Movement caught his eye, and with it a little jolt of
realization: He did have a friend, yes. David was there,
standing with Captain Rabin and the other Federation
guests. Not unusual that they had all returned here; to do
otherwise would have been a subtle snub to their Vulcan
hosts, a subtle loss of status for both sides.
    Captain Rabin stood with the dignity of a true Starfleet
officer, her uniform's insignia gleaming, although Spock
thought that he sensed the faintest edge of uneasiness to her,
as though she missed the security of a laser pistol at her side;
the same not-quite nervousness was shared by many of the
guests.
    Sered will not attack again, he assured them silently. Even
if we do not yet know where he is. Some postulated that,
alone and insane, Sered must have already perished in the
desert. Even if Sered lives, he is powerless. He has lost his
allies, our--our cousins. And even he is not insane enough to
try a lone attack.
 I... trust he is not that insane.
 No. Concentrate on something else.
    David? Yes. David was once more dressed as befitted a
Starfleet Academy cadet, his uniform spotless. He still
showed signs of his desert ordeal, his face a touch too thin,
his eyes a touch weary even now. But, being David, he
wasn't going to let anything stop him from giving Spock a
quick, mischievous, strangely reassuring wink.
    The Academy... Spock thought, glancing almost guiltily
at his father. I still do not know what...

    But then the sound of shaken bells brought him sharply
back to the present.
 The ceremony had begun. Anew.

    "And so it is," T'Pau's calm voice continued, filling the
reverent silence, "that we come together once more for the
cyclical ceremony, the same as ever--yet with one change."
    T'Lar continued, "Change is a logical progression and not
to be abhored. There would be no life without change. Yet
ceremony is essential and always will be; it serves the same
function in all times and places, here and beyond this world.
Ceremony is a force to bind a culture and those within that
culture together.
    "And so it is only just that we use ceremony to honor
those lost to us through change. Through madness.
Through," she said the word unflinchingly, "violence."
    There was the faintest stirring of murmuring, barely
audible from the Vulcans, more evident from the Federation
guests, but no one was so ill-mannered as to interrupt.
    "There were other than Vulcans among the fallen," the
Eldest continued, "and we make no claim to following their
families' ways, but understand that we honor them all."
    She began a quiet prayer, carefully worded and diplomat-
ically neutral, wishing peace or afterlife or rebirth as was
each culture's belief. When she had finished, there was a
long silence, broken only by a human voice's murmured
"Amen."
    "Now," T'Lar continued, and for all her totally unshaken
calm Spock could have sworn she was relieved, "we may
proceed to the celebration of more predictable and welcome
change. As the seasons turn, so youth grows to maturity. We
bring forth ancient ritual to honor those who represent the
ever-changing, never-changed continuance from past to
present, from present to future."

~z
~z

    She fell silent, and T'Pau picked up her words. "We honor
those so newly come to adult status."
    She and T'Lar bowed formally to the young Vulcans. The
smallest shock almost of alarm shot through Spock as he
remembered that as Eldest of his agemates, he would be the
one to lead them to the platform and these two formidable
figures. He would be the first to accept formal adulthood and
the ritual sword. Numbly he watched and listened as T'Lar,
elegant white and silver sleeves flowing like wings (as they
did the first time) began her formal chant:
  "As it was in the beginning, so shall it always be..."
    This time let her complete it, Spock thought, this time let
there be no interruption, no madman, no violence.
    There was none. Like one in a dream, Spock led his
agemates forward. He heard his name spoken: "Spock, son
of Sarek and Amanda," saw himself step to the edge of
the platform, heard himself proclaimed this day an adult
capable of adult reasoning and logic, felt the weight of
the ceremonial sword in his arms. Still dazed, he bowed,
began to turn away to make room for the next of his age-
mates--
    "Spock." T'Pau's voice was quiet but firm. As he turned
back to her, puzzled and fighting down an illogical spark of
alarm, she asked, "Why hast thee been gifted with a sword?"
    Spock hesitated. There was surely a ritual response, but if
there was, he could not remember it. "In memory of our
past?" he hazarded.
    "That is but part of the whole." Her wise old eyes were
cool as a sheltered pool, studying him as though aware of his
every thought without needing even a finger's touch to his
head. "It is to remind thee not to deny the past, yes. But it is
also to remind thee how narrow and sharp is the edge
between chaos and civilization. And it is to remind thee,
Spock, son of two worlds, that it is only a small, small step

back to the days when the sword's edge was the only law.
Thee must choose a path with care."
    Spock bowed again, struggling with himself for proper
composure. "I will not forget."
 It was a whisper.

    The custom on Vulcan, Spock knew, was for each family
to celebrate their newly fledged adult's status privately--but
he also realized that there could be no true privacy for the
family of Sarek, who was, after all, Ambassador to the
Federation. Even so, Spock thought, the list of guests was
reassuringly small; he had never believed that a mere
ceremony could have been so wearing.
 Almost as wearing as being out in the desert again!
    By nightfall, he could gladly have curled up and slept like
a child. Instead, Spock managed to slip away to the relative
quiet of the terrace of his father's estate, wrapping his arms
about himself against the chill, craning his head back to
stare at the star-crowded sky. Why had T'Pau singled him
out? His mixed blood? Or had she seen something in him?
What?
    A tactful cough made him realize he wasn't alone out here
after all. "Captain Rabin. Lady. Forgive me. I did not mean
to intrude."
    "You aren't intruding." The captain looked very different
in her simple blue gown and shawl, but she was still very
much David's mother, judging from the amused way she
was looking at Spock. "'Today I am a man,'" she mur-
mured.
 "I... beg your pardon?"
    "That's what the boys of my people say when they
complete their manhood ritual. '1 am a man,' meaning, 'I
accept that I'm responsible for my own actions.'"
    "I see. Similar, indeed, to the Vulcan way. But... I am
not yet responsible for my own life."

    "Aren't you?" Her smile was rueful, "Nobody ever said
that being an adult was easy. Just when you think you've got
it all figured out, life has a way of dumping you on your
head."
  "David?" he asked in a sudden burst of intuition.
    "And Starfleet. I never intended to be a single parent,
but... well... life happens. Don't misunderstand: I love
my son. But if it wasn't for Starfleet Academy, I don't know
what I would have done with him. A starship is hardly the
place to raise a child--yet I'm not ready to be tied down to a
planetside job, either."
    "But David is going into the Academy, and of his own free
will." The faint glow of starlight reflected in eyes that were
suddenly suspiciously bright. In a soft voice, blinking
fiercely, Captain Rabin added, "I'll miss him fiercely, but at
least I know he'll be happy. And that sets my mind at least a
little bit at ease."
 "I am glad." If that statement held emotion, so be it.
 "And what of you?" she added suddenly.
    "I..." Spock stopped, not sure what he was going to say.
"I would like...I believe that I would like... to...
apply to Starfleet Academy."
    "Ah." Was there the faintest note of triumph in her voice?
"As I told you before, I will gladly sponsor you for an
appointment in the Academy. But..." "My father."
     "Exactly. He is a rather important Federation ally, you
know; the Federation can hardly up and steal his son away."
 "Then you won't--"
    "Then I will. I'll be happy to sponsor you--but first you
must tell your parents what you're doing. Where you will be
going."
    "I will." Spock bowed, trying to hide his sudden trem-
bling. "I will."

    It would be difficult. He knew that. But Spock thought
back to all the hardships he and David had faced--and
survived.
    If the Womb of Fire could not destroy me, he decided, I can
certainly withstand my Jather ~ will!
 I will prevail. One way or another, I will prevail.

!2

z~

TWENTY-TWO

Obsidian, Federation Outpost and Deep Desert
Day 5, First Week, Month of the Shining Charm,
Year 2296

Lieutenant Shara Albright nibbled worriedly at her lower
lip, caught herself at it, stopped, then absently started up
again.
    Where were they? That the shuttlecraft had gone down
somewhere out there... that was a given. But where? All
that empty, terrible wilderness... she fought clown a shud-
der, thinking about the nice, orderly, and above all green
parks of New Hampton, her homeworld. No deserts were
permitted on New Hampton, no barren waste, and the sun
was a pleasant golden thing, not this horrible, horrible
monster of a Loki; there, nature knew its proper place.
    Yes, and so did the people. Albright had been brought up
by nice, proper parents to be a nice, proper lady, and where
she had ever found the odd spark to enter Star/leer Acade-
my, yes, and to graduate with honors, even if her parents
still hadn't quite forgiven her--

    No. That wasn't important, not now. There had been
nothing in all her training to cover something like this,
nothing in the textbooks to deal with the aching sense that
she was far too young for her rank, far too inexperienced--
    Stop that/she scolded herself. You are Starfleet/ You are an
oj~cer// Act like one/
 "Ensign Chase," she snapped. "Anything?"
    The young man, bent over the console, staring at the
unchanging equations, shook his head without looking up.
"Nothing, Lieutenant." His voice shook slightly with weari-
ness. "l almost caught something that might have been a
transmission, but that was over three hours ago, and it
didn't last long enough for me to get a fix on it. Since
then... not even a squawk."
    "Keep on it. They're out there somewhere, and I want you
to find them."
    Now he did turn slightly in his chair to look up at her.
"Uh, Lieutenant, it has been over a planetary day now, and
we've had no sign--"
 "That was an order, mister!"
 "Aye-aye, ma'am."
    Had there been a touch of pity in his voice? Almost as
though he was adding silently to himself, Doesn't she realize
the truth? Doesn't she realize that they're all dead?
    Nonsense. She would not believe that. Captain Rabin,
with all his irreverent humor and cheerful disregard for
proper Starfleet behavior--no. Someone that--that utterly
infuriating, that full of life, could not be dead. She would
not, could not, believe that. He would stay alive out of--out
of sheer perversity!
    All at once, mortified, Albright realized she was on the
verge of tears.
    Belay that//she scolded herself. Regulation 256.15: Officers
shall show professional behavior at all times.

    But for once, the orderly world of the regulations hand-
book could give no comfort.

     A chuchaki, Spock noted, sitting his mount with as much
 grace as he could manage, was a natural pacer, which meant
 each stride involved moving first both left legs then both
 right legs. As a result, the animal had a most distressingly
 rough gait, rocking its rider briskly from side to side.
    The chuchaki also smelled very much like... he analyzed
the aroma, compared it to the memory of an unfortunate
encounter on Terra... an ancient, unwashed dog. (There,
the dog had decided it was his dearest friend and had shed
fur all over him; here, the chuchaki all seemed delighted to
sniff at his fascinatingly different scent and try to nuzzle
him. Equally odorous either way.)
    However, he could not deny that the chuchaki, the entire
herd of them, crossed the desert with incredible speed and
eff~ciency.
    Rabin, predictably, was having a wonderful time even
with danger ahead of them, leaning forward in the saddle,
robes flying, looking like something out of one of his beloved
adventure movies. Lawrence of Arabia, indeed.
    The land was changing as they rode, no longer as level,
rising in slow degrees as the Taragi-shar Range loomed up
on the horizon. Fingers of ancient black rock, the weathered
remains of old eruptions, reached out over the gravel, and
the chuchaki slowed their bone-jarring pace, picking their
way with care, their cleft hoofs clicking against stone but
handling the rougher terrain with ease.
    Beside Spock rode the Elder on her own gleaming white
chuchaki, sitting her saddle with the ease of years of experi-
ence and showing no sign at all of stress or weariness. At
Spock's glance, she nodded.
    "We are almost there. Just beyond the ridge that lies
before us."

    Behind them, the group of nomad warriors (they were
hardly disciplined enough to be called a troop), who had
been joking and singing as they rode, fell sharply silent, save
for the occasional command to or curse at a chuchaki.
    The chuchaki, beasts of the desert plain that they were,
were not as silent. They grumbled and complained to
themselves at being made to climb, but after some prodding
from their riders, they scrambled up and up the broken lava
rocks without too much difficulty, their hoofs mastering the
steep slope almost as easily as though it were flat.
 With a final surge, they crested the ridge and paused.
 "There," the Elder said.
    Her sweep of an arm took in a barren plain, absolutely
flat, absolutely without vegetation. Beneath Loki's hostile
glare, it burned a dull, sullen gold. Beyond loomed the
mountains, a jagged black wall, like so many great stone
knives towering to the sky.
 "What is that?" Rabin breathed.
 "The Taragi-shar Range," Spock replied.
    "I know that, but what is that--that great golden basin
down there?"
    The Elder said nothing, only prodded her chuchaki for-
ward. With much groaning and grunting, the other animals
followed. None of the other nomads sMd a word, either, as
they rode out across the flat golden plain: sand, against
which the chuchaki's hoofs made no sound. Nor was there
any other sound, not even the faintest stirring of wind. The
air was very hot, very heavy.
 "Eerie," Rabin said, his voice a wary whisper.
    To agree would be a needless concession to emotionalism.
But Spock could not be unaware of the silence, which did
seem more than normal. The air prickled uncomfortably
along his skin, and he wondered if there was to be a sudden
storm. He twisted about in the saddle, seeing the dark mass
of the Taragi-shar before them, the equally dark ridge

iZ,

behind them. On either side, arms of old lava, black basalt
with glints of obsidian, fanned out from the mountains to
the ridge, forming, as Rabin had said, a great bowl. Not a
good place to be caught by natural forces or, for that matter,
Romulans.
    Rabin glanced at Spock with the air of someone who
cannot stand another moment of suspense. "Where are we?"
the human whispered.
    "This," the Elder said softly, "is the Te-wisat-karak, the
Golden Hell."
 "Oh, good name!"
    It was nearly a shout in all that silence. The Elder glanced
at him in mild disapproval. "It is an ancient site of sacrifice
to one whose attention you do not wish to attract: Khar
Hakai, the Eater of Souls."
    Spock started in spite of himself, feeling an atavistic little
chill prickle its way up his spine. Control, he told himself
firmly. He had learned enough over the years to prove to
himself that similar mythoi, similar archetypes, turned up
among even unrelated peoples. It was not extraordinary to
find that this culture, too, had a demonic being who de-
voured sentient essences.
     Yet something deep within him, some primitive instinct
from the clays of Vulcan's ancient past, whispered, Omen.
 "Omens," Spock murmured, "are pure superstition."
 Rabin overheard. "Superstitions or no," he whispered,
 "let's hope that these omens you don't believe in are as good
 for us as they were the first time around!"
    "One does not," the Elder said in stern disapproval,
"make light of the powers of Khar Hakai."
    No sooner had she mentioned the Eater of Souls than
Loki erupted into a spectacular solar flare, a bright, blinding
aurora and sudden sharp ionization of air that made no-
mads and chuchaki alike cry out their alarm as the desert
sands crackled and sang about them.

    Rabin, fighting his curvetting, frightened chuchaki, gasped
out, "The radiation in this place is really going to climb, and
personally, I'd still like to have kids someday."
    Spock, quickly checking his tricorder, corrected, "It has
already risen. And I am certain you would wish those
children to have the normal human genome."
    "You bet I would, but let's not stay out here on this open
target discussing it!"
    The nomads, meanwhile, were shouting out prayers in
atavistic horror. The Elder cut through their noise with a
sharp, "It is time to invoke the Sunstorm Truce." Rabin stared. "What's that?"
    Her glance said plainly, Kindly Fool. With great restraint,
the Elder said, "You have not been a part of our world long
enough to know it, not you who have always lived behind
city walls like a Tamed One."
    "We are behind no city walls now," Spock cut in. "And
time cannot be wasted in niceties."
    The Elder gave him a slight nod of respect, then flung up
an arm in signal and urged her chuchaki into a dead run for
the wall of mountains. The others followed, no one making a
sound now save for the pounding of galloping hoofs against
sand, while all around them the air flared and burned. At
last the nomads swirled to a stop in the partial shade of an
overhanging ledge, and the Elder told Spock quickly:
    "The Sunstorm Truce is the oldest law of the desert. Even
warring clans will put aside their hatreds when the sun rages,
and shelter together against our common enemy. No one
may refuse a stranger shelter, not even," she added in
distaste, "the Faithful. Come, follow."
    She slipped as lightly to the ground as a much younger
woman, and Spock and Rabin followed her to a deep cleft in
the rock wall. Spock, glancing up, noted a petroglyph carved
deep into the rock over it: another sun spiral, inlaid with
some garish, blood-red stone, with an equally garish yellow

warding-off sign below it. This spot was clearly meant to be
easily found.
    In the fissure below the petroglyph, protected from the
elements, hung a great stone bell. Clever, Spock thought in
sudden comprehension. This was evidently part of the
safety system set up by the nomads to gain them admittance
to shelters across the desert; there must be similar bells
hidden all across the clan territories. And presumably the
placement of all the bells took advantage of acoustics so that
they could be easily heard by those already in the shelters.
    At the Elder's glance, Spock took up the bronze mallet by
the bell's side and struck the stone bell. It rang out with a
deep, hollow boom, echoing across the rocks with exactly
the extraordinary strength he had expected.
    The Elder nodded approval. "Well struck. Continue, if
you would. Yes, good. There can be no mistaking the sound.
Now we need only wait for the door to open."

    McCoy swayed on his feet, almost falling, then caught
himself, somehow managing to keep his balance. Couldn't
fall, couldn't stop talking. How long had he been spouting
this gibberish? Seemed like forever. Couldn't be more than a
day. Could it?
    God, right now he would kill for a nice, cool drink. He'd
even settle for a less than nice hard stone floor on which he
could lie down and stretch out and--no, mustn't think of
rest or, heaven help him, sleep. Mustn't let his mind wander.
If the good ole boys back in the good ole U.S. of A. could
keep a filibuster going for days, well then, so could he,
and... and... only trouble was, he was running out of
horses or ideas for horses. Got to keep going, though. Make
'em up as he went along. Romulans or that madman in
white--none of 'em would know the difference anyhow.
    "And... and his great-grandfather was Equipoise." God,
now I'm quoting Broadway, Guys and Dolls or whatever.

Gotta keep going, though, even though my throat's starting to
hurt and I'm getting... oh Lord, a pun... I'm getting a
little hoarse. "And I say unto you, oh my brethren, that
Equipoise, he begat him a whole string of mighty horses, and'
they went on to fame and glory, and of them folks said such
wonderstruck things as--what the hell was that?"
    A great hollow booming sounded and resounded through-
out the cavern, followed by shouts of alarm from all the
Faithful. "What is it?" McCoy asked, daringly snatching at
Ruanek's arm as the Romulan hurried by. Ruanek only
pulled his arm free with a snarl, rushing off without a word.
Left forgotten where he stood, McCoy asked plaintively,
"Will someone please tell me what's going on?"
 But no one answered him.

    Ruanek let out his breath in a hiss. That had been a near
thing, an almost-disaster. When Makkhoi had seized him,
the centurion had very nearly reacted with a warrior's
reflexes, weapon in hand. Only by the sternest self-control
had he kept from drawing and firing. He would not have
wanted to be the cause of that brave man's death.
    Besides, Ruanek wasn't so certain himself why the Faith-
ful were suddenly swarming about like some hysterical
swarm of tatri with an overturned nest. What was this they
were shouting, this "Sunstorm Truce"?
    Suddenly the Master was among them, white robes swirl-
ing, the Faithful recoiling from his furious presence. "What
are you doing?" he raged at them. "Do not open those
doors!"
    "We must!" Their voices were frantic. "It is the Sunstorm
Truce! Someone outside has invoked it, and we must, we
must respond!"
    Whatever that truce was--something, clearly, to be in-
voked due to the wild solar activity he'd been told was going
on outside--it was obviously of the greatest religious im-

 i ii,
ix

portance to the savages. Surely, their pleading faces were
insisting, their Master, their leader, their messiah, surely he
would understand this most basic and vital of truces.
    This isn't the time to argue with them, you Vulcan mad-
man.t No matter who's out there, it can't be that large a troop.
We can deal with them. But if you don't yield here and now,
we're going to have a riot on our hands.t
    The Master would not heed. With a brusque wave of his
~hand, he ordered the Romulans forward, Ruanek among
them, to bar the way. The Faithful recoiled in shock at the
line of coldsfaced warriors confronting them.
    As though, Ruanek thought with bitter humor, they can
hardly believe that we, their "heavenly messengers," couM
ever be so cruel.
    For a moment, he dared believe that the shock would be
enough, that the Faithful would sink back into submissive-
ness.
    No. As another hollow boom resounded through the
cavern, they surged forward again, and every Romulan
hastily drew a weapon.
    But the Faithful stopped just short of attack, pleading,
"You must understand, you who come from higher realms.
Stand aside, we beg you, stand aside!"
    "Hold your fire," Ruanek commanded his warriors. To
the Faithful he said, almost gently, "I am not your Master. I,
like you, must Obey his will. Have you not served him well?
Are you not still loyal to him? Is your faith, then, so weak?"
Ha, some of them were wavering. "Go back," Ruanek urged.
"We will not harm you."
    It might have worked. But at just that crucial point, that
Vulcan maniac shouted, "There is no such thing as Sun-
storm Truce! I so declare it!"
    And with terrible timing, that cursed hollow boom
sounded again. "There is Sunstorm Truce!" the Faithful

cried. "The doors must be opened, shelter must be granted!
This is our oldest law!"
    Someone snorted in contempt: Kharik, a sideways glance
told Ruanek. Kharik looked at him fully, saying without
words, scorn in his eyes, Well? Give the command/Open fire/
    But there were children in the mob, women with babies in
their arms, and not a weapon among them.
    I am a warrior, not a butcher. t There is no honor in cutting
down children!
    "Laws change," Kharik snapped, as much at Ruanek as at
the mob, and fired. A child fell, screaming.
 And the mob charged.

    "Why will they not let us in?" the Elder said as though
speaking about stubborn children. "They can't have failed
to hear the summons. And they can not have strayed that far
from the truth."
 Her tone said, I will not permit it.t
    "They cannot," Spock agreed, listening intently. "I hear
sounds of fighting from within." He exchanged quick
glances with Rabin: Not the Federation.
    Who, then? The Romulans? Or were the Faithful suddenly
and unpredictably breaking faith?
 "What," Rabin asked succinctly, "has McCoy done?"
 "I doubt that even the doctor--"
    But Spock broke off sharply as one great door creaked
open ever so slightly, metal groaning as though those trying
to open it were fighting with those trying to keep it shut. He
caught a quick glimpse of chaos within, of Romulans backed
into a corner firing at wave after wave of the Faithful, and
heard quick, fiery shouts of "Sunstorm Truce" and "Be-
trayal!"
    Perilous to enter just now. But at the same time, they
could hardly stay out here during the solar flare. Besides,

Jk/~lla. Ollr~1111a. 11 O~ OU.~CI. II ~IJW~11 L/-,

there could hardly be any better distraction than a rebellion!
Given the circumstances, it was illogical to hesitate.
    There was a plan, Spock realized, risky but possible.
Rabin would try it, and Rabin would get himself killed, so
Spock slipped inside before the human could move. Taking
a deep breath, he let his voice ring out with all his strength,
cold, logical, precise:
 "Are these your gods?"
    Everyone froze, whirling to him in astonishment. Spock
took a sure, deliberate step forward in the sudden tense
silence, another, following up his momentary advantage
with, "What gods would betray their own sacred laws?"
    The Faithful drew back as he approached, letting him
pass, staring at him in open awe. The Romulans followed
him with hands on guns, but made no move to fire, either
waiting for orders or simply curious to see what he would do
next.
    Beyond the mass of people, a tall, white-robed figure
stood waiting, head shrouded by the hood of his cloak.
    The one who names himself the Master, Spock thought.
Logically, it can only be he. And who else but someone with
so melodramatic a title would stand with such melodrama in
such fiamboyantly impractical garb?
    Leaving the last of the crowd behind, Spock stepped out
into the Open, pushing back the hood of his desert robes. He
saw the Master tense.
    "No," the figure breathed. "Ah, no. The past, not the
here-and-now. No."
    With a sweep of a long-fingered hand, the figure brusquely
bared his own head.
    Spock stiflened, staring. He should not have been aston-
ished; there was no logical reason for this reaction; they
never had found clear proof of that one's death. And yet,
illogical or not, he could do nothing just yet but stare at
the sight of this aristocratic face. Older, yes, thinner, per-

haps, fierce with an aesthetic fervor that was clearly mad-
ness, and yet undeniably: "Sered!"
    Sered, too, was staring in wide-eyed incredulity, as though
seeing the boy Spock had been, seeing the adult he now was,
trying desperately to reconcile the two. "You are Spock!"
    It was almost, Spock thought, an accusation. "Yes," he
said. "I am."

TWENTY-THREE

   Vulcan, Sarek's Estate
Day 21, Tenth Week ef Tasmeen,
Year 2247

The sealed door of Lady Amanda's wet-planet conservatory
clicked open as she stood pruning her peace roses. Miniature
pastel sunsets of rose and yellow brushed her hands as she
straightened. Only Spock ventured to interrupt her here,
because only Spock believed her when she told him his
presence was never an interruption. She had been expecting
it. And, since he couldn't yet see her face, Amanda allowed
herself a smile of pure joy: Her son was alive. Her son was
unhurt.
 Her son was changed.
 How could he not be changed, poor boy?
    After his airlift from the Womb of Fire, a debriefing that
would have been arduous for an adult, and his release from
the Healers' care, Spock's control had been painstaking. His
ordeal in the desert seemed to have honed him to a new edge
of power and resolve.

Sarek was pleased at Spock 2 increased self-mastery. That
has to count for something.
    But she was Spock's mother: if anyone could perceive in
that rigidly still face that he had come to some sort of
important conclusion, it was she. "Out with it, Spock."
    At least he did her the credit of not asking, How did you
know? "Mother, i have come to a decision." A human youth
might have stammered or blurted out the rest; Spock's
words were measured. "I have spoken with Captain Rabin.
Her son, David, with whom 1 traveled, will be entering
Starfleet Academy. She thinks that I would be a suitable
candidate for entrance."
    Very carefully, Amanda laid aside her pruning shears and
looked away from the inappropriate loveliness of her peace
roses.
 What hasn't he told us? What did happen out there?
    Whatever, it had clearly been so traumatic that it was
going to change Spock's whole future.
 "l take it you concur with Captain Rabin."
 A nod.
    Amanda hastily began adjusting her jacket, an excuse to
turn her head away so that her son wouldn't see any
unseemly emotion. Sarek would be desolate, and she would
miss her son--oh God, would she miss him! But Spockm
Spock would be going home! He would see the town in
which she had grown up, the cities in which she had studied,
the seas and mountains at which she had marveled and that,
loving Sarek, she had forsaken to follow him to this forge of
a desert planet where the word "love" might be felt, but
never, never spoken.
    And Spock? What was he thinking? Surely he had never
been more thoroughly Vulcan than now, when he was
turning his back on all that Vulcan stood for.
 All that Vulcan said it stood for. There was a difference.
 "You could simply have left," she ventured, trying to

break through the shield of control he was raising against
her:
    Spock raised an eyebrow. "Captain Rabin told me her
nomination was contingent on my telling you. And my
father."
    Not securing their consent nor even their acknowledgment.
Just, simply, their awareness that their son has made his
choice.
    "Captain Rabin's ship leaves Vulcan in seven days,"
Spock continued. "I wish to..."
    He hesitated, and Amanda finished silently for him, Tie
everything up in one neat package? Oh Spock. Her heart
sank. All Sarek's hopes...
    But then Amanda reminded herself sharply that Sarek
might hope all he wished--even though her husband would
reject the concepts of "hope" and "wish"--but she had a
son to protect.
 "You mean to tell your father tonight?"
    Spock nodded. "I plan to notify the Science Academy
tonight that I must decline their offer of admission. It is
proper for my father to know before I do so."
    Besides, Amanda thought, the Academy would probably
call Sarek the minute Spock finished his notification.
"Sarek, do you know what that son of yours has done?" As if
he were unfit to decide for himself. A pity I can't be a fly on
the wall at that conversation. Even if as everyone~ told me
over and over, Vulcan doesn't have flies on walls/
    "I am glad that you are telling us, not just..." She
dashed a grimy hand across her eyes, angry that tears had
suddenly welled up. "Not just running off to join the army."
    He blinked. "That is an idiom with which I am unfa-
miliar."
    "Then learn it quickly, because you're going to hear lots of
unfamiliar idioms at the Academy. 'Running off to join the
army' used to happen on Earth. Boys who were wild or

who..." What? Didn't get enough approval? Love? Their
father's respect? "... who weren't content with their lot
would run away and join the military. But my own son,
brought up to nonviolence, learning weapons..."
    Something flickered deep within Spock's eyes. "Mastery
of violence is mastery of one's self. Surak teaches us that."
    "Oh Spock," Amanda sighed, "you know I can't trade
chapter and verse about Surak with you. Just tell me: What
brought this on?"
    "David Rabin told me how Starfleet prizes the indi-
vidual-"
 "And just because David--"
    No. Spock had led his agemates before T'Pau and T'Lar.
It was not merely illogical to accuse him of following,
conforming; it was inaccurate. Her son was a born leader.
    Was that satisfaction in her son's eyes that she'd broken
off?. Relief?. "All my life," he said softly, "I have been under
observation. Some have waited for me to fail, and some have
wanted it. Others have stood by, ready to excuse me, while
still others have just... observed. I look no different from
the males of my age set. But whenever my control faltered, I
was punished more stringently. This is not resentment,
Mother," he added quickly, "it is observation. What is
more..." His voice grew rough, but only for an instant. "I
punished mysetfi" "Spock."
    "Look at Sered. If people had watched him as carefully,
perhaps, as I have always been observed... no. Let that go.
Mother... do you think I can succeed?"
    Oh my son, you are still a boy after all! "I think there is
nothing that you cannot do. Except escape the dictates of
your own conscience. What does it tell you?"
    "You yourself told me that I am a bridge between two
worlds. It is logical that I experience both, not attempt to

. .2:

deny half my heritage. Starfleet allows me to do so, not as an
ambassador's unworthy son, but as myself."
    He bowed and left. Amanda seized her pruning shears and
attacked her roses through a blur of tears.

    Tonight, Amanda thought, as the family sat together after
dinner, her translations seemed lamentab'.y flat. At least
working on them spared her having to meet her husband's
eyes. Through their bond, she sensed what passed for
contentment in a Vulcan: a satisfactory dinner; the company
of his family; a wife intent on work that had won her respect
on her adopted world; a son who had survived an ordeal
with courage and honor; the prospects of an evening's work
and an interval of meditation before he retired.
 Spock laid aside his holographic sketchcube.
 "I must speak," he said.
    Sarek raised his head, looking at his son with a surpris-
ingly benign gaze. Amanda felt her heart contract.
    "Acting unilaterally is disrespectful," Spock continued,
"and I mean no disrespect. But... I am about to transmit
my resignation to the appointment granted me by the
Vulcan Science Academy."
    "Indeed?" Sarek's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "I
presume you have alternative plans. Is it too much to ask
you to share them?"
    Spock swallowed. "Captain Rabin said she would appoint
me to Starfleet, but that I must first tell my parents."
    Sarek flicked Amanda a you-knew-this/glance. A hint of
his surprise and pain echoed through the bond they shared.
"The Federation knows my opinions of its military. I appear
to have valued Captain Rabin's judgmant too highly. You
will, of course, tell the captain that I do not give my
consent."
    Spock never flinched. "In all respect, sir, I do not require
your consent. I was told that I must, however, acquaint you

with my plans before I enter this next phase of my life." He
paused, for the first time showing a trace of uncertainty,
then added, "I would welcome your acknowledgment and
approval."
    Look at him, Amanda thought in anguish. Standing there
like a soldier at military attention, waiting jbr the world to
end.
 It ended in ice.
    "Never that," Sarek said. "The idea of my son, handling
weapons, learning the madness of the ways of violence, is
totally unacceptable. You are ill-prepared to deal with such
things."
    "I confronted violence and madness," Spock countered,
"in the person of Sered, your colleague. And I prevailed."
    Sarek's frown deepened. "We must oppose violence, not
embrace it. Your control frequently slips even here on
Vulcan where every incentive is provided you for mastering
your emotions. If your control fails among offworlders, you
do not simply fail, you fail all Vulcan."
    "T'Pau gave us weapons on Mount Seleya as a sign that we
were adults. Why would she give us swords if we were to
shun weapons? Why are the martial arts taught in Vulcan's
schools?"
 "For discipline." Sarek bit off the words.
    "Quite so," Spock retorted. "I require a specific type of
discipline that the Science Academy does not provide, but
that Starfleet does."
    Sarek rose, only slightly taller than his son, but much
more solid. "For thousands of years, Vulcan has stood for
passion's mastery. In turning aside from our Way, you set
yourself in judgment over Surak. If your logic were not
impaired, you would not need to be reminded that Surak
died by violence."
    "Surak followed his own choices, my father," Spock
replied. "As must I. Or, the ritual on Mount Seleya notwith-

 standing, I am no more than a boy to be rebuked, and the
 ceremony and all I learned in the Womb of Fire are lies."
     "The adepts do not liere" Sarek began, but Spock cut
 through his father's words.
     "On Mount Seleya, I swore to be an autonomous adult,
 not an extension of you, my father. Or of anyone else."
    "You are no part of me," Sarek told him. "Observe what
you have done to your mother, to one of those humans
among whom you will go. Your very presence will damage
them."
    "My father, do you consider that your years as ambassa-
dor have damaged Earth? In that case, it seems illogical of
you to persist."
    Sarek cast a glance at Amanda. "I require an interval of
meditation. I shall speak to your son only when his reason
has returned."
    He strode from the room. Even the echoes of his footsteps
seemed to ache.
    Spock stood frozen, staring after the father who had just
repudiated him. "What else could I have done?" he asked,
and behind the rigid self-control, Amanda read a hint of
plaintive confusion.
    "You were very harsh," she told him. "I know that you
acted as you logically believed you must, but I wish things
had been otherwise."
    "Why must it be my will that you wish 'had been
otherwise'?" Spock demanded. "What of my father's will?"
"That," said Amanda, "is what I am going to find out."
Drawing the soft silk folds of her skirts about her, she
withdrew. As she passed through the door, she glanced back
at Spock.
    She had left him holding his ground in the spacious, silent
living room, but now that proud posture had sagged as if he
had been defeated, the image of confusion, of anguish.

You are still young, my poor dear, deny it though you will.t
As she watched, she saw Spock straighten and take the
three breaths with which, she knew, control was invoked.
Unaware that his mother was still watching, he turned to the
communications console in the corner, clearly meaning to
use it, not the computer in his room, to announce his
decision and his rights in public, as befitted an adult.
    Amanda retreated down the corridor, fighting for self-
control. A human needed all the control she could get when
Vulcans, even Vulcans loved out of all logic, fought. Was she
truly reduced to eavesdropping upon her son and her
husband? An irresistible force had met an immovable
object. Careful, Amanda, or the impact will crush you.
 Or break your heart.

    For a moment, Spock stood looking about the room his
mother had so carefully arranged to mix both Vulcan and
human tastes. Right now, its warmth, careful lighting, and
meticulous choice of furnishings seemed as much an illusion
as his mother's hope that one of themmSpock or Sarek--
would see reason, or at least the other's point of view.
    I cannot live the life my father has planned for me. I am
myself a separate adult.
    The thought was not quite as convincing as it should be.
He kept picturing his father's face, feeling his father's utter
rejection. Quickly, Spock pressed a button, another, open-
ing a specific communications channel.
    "Spock!" David Rabin's voice pierced the stillness. "That
you? How're you doing?"
    The human's voice was warm and friendly, almost over-
whelmingly emotional after the so very controlled confron-
tation With Sarek. But then, David had shown how he could
turn emot',on, particularly humor, into a survival instinct.
Such techniques cannot apply to me. And yet, how much

 has he--and his humor--influenced my decision? Has it
 been contamination? Or... an improvement on the whole?
     Not certain, Spock resorted to a formal "I am restored to
 my customary level of function. And you? Have you recov-
 ered from dehydration?"
     "Oh, I'm fine. Takes more than a little desert trek to stop a
 Rabin! But, you know, Spock, about that plomik soup you
 like? They fed me a fair amount of it. Seems it has some
 valuable stuff in it for recovering humans. But as for taste,
 well--"
  "Am I to assume that it does not 'taste just like chicken'?"
  "Hey, he rememberst We'll have you punning yet."
  "No. I... David, I ..."
  "Oh. You told them, didn't you?"
  "It was not pleasant, but it is done."
     "Spock, I'm--I'm--" Another, longer pause. 'TII get my
 mother."
    "Thank you." Alone in the silence, Spock stood rigidly
still.
    It was done. He had taken another irrevocable step
toward a new future.
    And away, a small voice in his mind whispered, from his
father.

    Hesitantly, Amanda laid her fingertips on the closed door
of Sarek's study, waiting for her presence to resonate
through the bond to her husband.
    "Enter, my wife," Sarek called, his voice leached of the
subtle expressions that deep love, infinite patience, and
twenty years of marriage had taught her to discern.
    The small room was serene, almost austere, the walls hung
with a few weavings chosen for their soothing patterns, so
amenable to meditation. In the corner of the room, a firepot
in the shape of a haran, a legendary fire-beast, glowed. An

incense that Amanda recognized from her marriage, when
Sarek's mind and hers touched each other for the first time,
filled the air. It was an aid to concentration. One that Sarek
rarely needed.
    She made herself look at her husband. For once, his
meditations had not refreshed him. The furrows in his
cheeks were deeply marked, and his eyes were hollow. He
looked as if he had fought and was still fighting for mastery.
 Of Spock?
 Her answer came immediately through the bond.
 Not of Spock. Of himself.
    He held out two fingers to reaffirm their bond. Parted from
me and never parted. Never and always touching and
touched. It was second nature for her to glide forward and
touch his hand. And to respond.
    His fingers were hot and dry. The anguish that came
through the bond and the ferocity with which he suppressed
it made her recoil. Before she could stop them, she felt tears
roll down her face.
 "Amanda, this is not logical."
    His voice was gentle. Amanda forced herself not to flinch
as Sarek rose and his fingers touched the tearstains on her
face. Illogic lay not in weeping on a desert world, but in
flinching away from her husband. He was offering her
support, yet his touch told her that he was the one who
needed comfort. And she had rebuffed him.
    She must. Sarek had no comfort for Spock, and she,
therefore, had none for him.
    Because dissembling was futile through the bond, she said
only their son's name. "Spock."
     Sarek drew back. "I should have insisted that an Adept of
 Gol probe Spock's mind while he was under the Healers'
 observation."
  She knew he sensed her flare of anger, but she managed to

ZZi,

 keep her voice even. "Your inference is unfair, my husband.
 Unworthy. T'Pau would not have honored our son had he
 been deranged."
     "It violates all logic that a son of mine would turn his back
 on my instruction."
     There was a limit to human self-control. "Sarek," Aman-
 da snapped, "if you don't remember the nightmare of those
 days when we didn't know if we could have a son, I do! Does
 it matter, does it truly matter, what lifepath Spock chooses,
 provided it is honorable--and that he is alive to pursue it?"
     "Spock has rejected thousands of years of peace to choose
 Starfleet and its ethic of war, its glorification of violence.
 How long can anyone survive that way?"
     "Vulcan survived its wars," Amanda retorted, "long
 enough for there to be a Surak. And Earth survived, long
 enough to make First Contact."
     "My wife, you use logic as a weapon. That is a human
 trait."
    "Oh no, we are not alone in that trait, my husband. But we
will be alone, you and I, unless you reconsider your treat-
ment of our son."
  "I shall have no son," said Sarek. "Again."
    "Is that what it is?" Amanda demanded, while inwardly
she winced. Of course she and Sarek sometimes quarreled; it
would have been beyond even Vulcan will for twenty years
of marriage to have passed completely smoothly. But surely
there had never been so much at stake. "You're afraid of
being hurt again? Is all this disdain for Starfleet just simple
fear? Let me tell you, my husband, I am afraid too. But
human women have been sending their boys off to war--"
 "In that case, my wife, why do you weep?"
    "Because I hate it! And because my child is now old
enough to make a man's decision. Chickens can't go back
into eggs--and I don't need you to tell me I'm speaking in

outworn metaphors! Spock is old enough and certainly
intelligent enough to choose his own path. You did not even
ask his reasons."
 Sarek merely raised a disdainful eyebroW.
    "Yes. I know. His choice is so alien to you that you reject
it as illogical by definition. But Sarek..." She tried to draw
breath around the lump in her throat. "When we married,
humans and Vulcans both told us how illogical our decision
was. Do you recall how many people told us it was a
mistake?"
    "Seven hundred and fifty-five, at last count," Sarek said,
and there might have been the slightest trace of ironic
humor in the words. The humor vanished. "Do you now
consider our union a mistake?"
    Her awareness of him had rarely been stronger. And her
fury at him had never been greater.
    "I have never felt so, not for a moment. But I tell you, I
will not let you destroy our son, or yourself. Or," her voice
broke, "me."
    Suddenly the small study felt unbearable alien and op-
pressive. Amanda rushed from it out into her gardens. She
walked for hours as the night grew chill, staring out at the
Forge on which her son had been hammered into something
new.
  What would become of him?
    And what, 0 my husband, my love whom I could cheerfully
strangle right now, will become of us?

    Subtle filters tempered the ruddy violence of 40 Eridani
A's light into a glow more like that of Earth's sun. In the
discreet restaurant near Shikahr's Terran enclave, Amanda
folded back her sunveils and waited for her guest.
    Ah. Captain Rabin was punctual and most tactfully
wearing civilian clothing much like her own: robes of

                269

 elegant, flowing fabric that was sturdier than it seemed.
 After all, she came from a culture that prided itself on its
 desert heritage; she had proper respect for Vulcan's sun. But
 then, Amanda had seen the captain under medical care,
 wrapped in a thermal blanket and sprouting tubes, and had
 observed at the time that this was the kind of officer whose
 true uniform was her own dignity.
     Whispers rose from the few patrons fortunate enough to
 secure reservations nearby. Meet the ladies who lunch,
 Amanda thought ironically: the Vulcan ambassador's hu-
 man wife and one of the first women ever to command a
 starship. More whispers presented various inaccurate impli-
 cations and hypotheses. Amanda flashed her best smile, then
 attempted to ignore the onlookers out of existence.
  "Lady Amanda?"
  "Captain Rabin."
    "Are you often one of the ladies who lunch, Lady
Amanda?"
    Apparently, Captain Rabin possessed her son's gift for
using humor to ease her way. "Right now, Captain, I don't
feel particularly ladylike. Please, call me Amanda."
    "I'm Nechama. After all, our sons are friends. What can I
do for you?"
 "Well, for a start, you can sit down and order lunch."
    Nechama Rabin looked at the choices. "Vegetables, vege-
tables, and more vegetables. Ever want a steak?"
    "After twenty years, not very often." Amanda could not
help smiling at the other woman. The woman who had
stolen her son.
    "Frankly," said Nechama, after a moment, "right now, I
feel as if I am going into battle. I almost think I'd prefer
Klingons."
    She picked up a glass and drank. Holding her gaze,
Amanda raised her glass, murmured, and drank too.

 "Water ritual?" asked the Starfleet officer. "Why?"
    "You helped save my son's life. I can never thank you
enough." I, not necessarily my husband. She is intelligent
enough to understand what I do not say.
    "Please. Spock helped save my sows life and, for that
matter, mine."
    "Let me make this perfectly clear. I do not believe that
you meant to steal my son."
    "If we're being clear, Amanda, I don't know if I
would have told Spock anything about Starfleet. Granted,
he's a fine boy, but the Federation is full of fine boys. And
girls. But, when David told me that Spock might be
interested... well, for all David's youth and his habit of
turning everything into a joke, his people skills are astonish-
ing." Rabin grimaced. "It would have been worse than
illogical not to offer Spock the chance. It would have been
wasteful."
    She eyed Amanda as shrewdly as her son must have sized
up Spock. "So, is that the explanation you wanted from
me?"
    Amanda looked down at the assorted greenery on her
plate.
    "I see," Rabin murmured. "The ambassador's taking it
badly, isn't he?"
    To reply would violate Vulcan privacy. But just then,
Amanda realized, faced with an understanding, accom-
plished, and above all human woman, she did not care.
"Very badly. Vulcans, for all their obsession with logic, are
not passionless." She could feel herself flushing. "But they
master their emotions by a discipline so harsh it makes
 Starfleet look like shore leave."  "I... don't envy you."
     "Please, don't misunderstand! My husband and I have a
 good marriage, a very good marriage." Usually. Just not

i,: iii~:

 now. "But Sarek takes Spock's decision as a betrayal. He
 refuses to speak to him. Spock pretends not to care and
 spends his time preparing to leave home." To Amanda's
 horror, she heard her voice break. She mastered it with
 every discipline she had learned on Vulcan. "My Vulcan
 son. One kind word from Sarek would have won his
 obedience. He adores his father, and he's tried so hard to
 win his approval!"
     Nechama Rabin reached out a hand, then made a small
 gesture of futility with it.
     "It's all right," Amanda said dryly. "I'm Vulcan only by
 marriage. You can touch me. And I can't really blame Spock
 for finally deciding that he can't please his father and finding
 something of his own. Even if it's Starfleet."
    Captain Rabin straightened. "'Even'? You share the am-
bassador's dislike of 'Federation militarism'?"
    "I'm not from a Starfleet family. And my family has no
tradition of fighting men, much less fighting women. For
generations, we haven't needed one."
    "I see. The political situation could deteriorate if the
ambassador supports Vulcan secession."
    "In revenge for Spock's joining Starfleet? No. Revenge is
illogical. And Sarek would consider reprisals beneath his
dignity."
    So he will turn his pain inward instead. After a time, he will
believe he truly does not care.
 "Amanda, what are you trying to tell me?"
    "That I can't fight what must be. Look after my son,
Nechama. I know your duties take you away from Earth, but
Starfleet is your world. You can help ease a lonely boy into
it."
    "Don't go imagining Spock as some stranger in a strange
land. No, it won't be easy for him at first; it isn't easy for any
of the cadets. But as you say, I know Starfleet. And that's

why I can promise you that Spock is going to make friends
who will last him his entire life."
    Amanda dropped her gaze to her plate. For the first time
in days, she felt as if she could eat. She raised her glass, a
gesture Nechama Rabin copied.
 "L'chaim," the captain. "Here's to life."
 "To life," Amanda echoed, and almost managed a smile.

z'

TWENTY-FOUR

A

Intre#id II, Obsidian Orbit
Year 2296

The sirens of red alert whooped in rhythm with the red
lights that flashed across the bridge.
    "Shields on!" Uhura ordered. "Have you still got a fix on
that Warbird?"
  "Aye-aye, ma'am."
 "Lock on phasers," Uhura ordered Weapons.
 "Phasers locked on, ma'am."
    "Good," she said. "Now, keep your hands away from the
firing button. Sit on them, tie them behind you if you have
to. Ifa Klingon like Azetbur managed to wage peace, so can
we."
    That drew appreciative smiles from the bridge crew. Well,
what did you know? She hadn't thought they had it in them.
    Maybe I've underestimated them. Maybe all they needed
was action. Our own little private Kobayashi Maru.
 "Ma'am?" Lieutenant Richards began. "They don't seem

aware that a flaw in the cloaking device is concentrating
radiation from the solar flares."
 Skeptical, Lieutenant? Shows you have sense.
    "Won't that radiation subside when the flares do?" Uhura
asked. "Yes? Keep tracking that Warbird. Plot its course on
screen."
 "Aye-aye."
    Warbirds have to drop cloaking before they fire. At least
they used to. There'd been some mutterings about the events
that had led up to Camp Khitomer, but they'd been slapped
with "nosebleed" classification status. There had been a lot
of "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you" tied up
with that conference.
    All right. Go with the facts that were, not those that might
be. "Let's think this one out," Uhura said. "What Mr .... I
mean, Captain Spock calls a thought-experiment. We know
that Warbirds have to emerge from cloaking to fire." Or we
used to know that. "So far, so good."
    "Aye-aye, ma'am." That was general agreement, albeit
mystified. They didn't know where she was going with this.
    "But wait a minute," she continued. "We can track the
Romulan by the flaw in its cloaking device. But they're no
fools, never were. And since they're no fools, I am assuming
they mean for us to track them. They're counting on it. So,
as far as I'm concerned, they've already chalked us up as a
casualty."
    Uhura hit the communications panel on her chair's arm.
"Uhura to Engineering. Mr. Atherton, how're you coming
with that diversion of impulse power?"
    "We can boost phaser fire about fifty percent for maybe
two broadsides, Commander," Atherton said, as if he was
making a vast concession.
     "'Maybe' two broadsides?" Uhura asked. "Not enough
 for a whole battle? See what else you can do by... eight

 hundred hours. And while you're at it, have you got the
 specs for a cloaking device?"
     Long, long ago, Captain Kirk himself had stolen those
 specs. Even now, tense and frightened as she was, Uhura
 had to stifle a grin at her memory of Kirk in the command
 chair wearing tilted eyebrows and pointed ears--and
 Spock's insistence that on Kirk, they were not aesthetically
 appealing.
     "Aye, Captain," said Atherton. He sounded really appre-
 hensive now.
    Getting to know me, are you, Atherton? Good. "Excellent,"
Uhura said. "How long do you think it'll take for you to
build one up from scratch?"
    Grinning, she prudently turned down the volume right
before an anguished Oxonian howl from Atherton would
have split her eardrums.
    "Good. Cut that time in half, mister, and get back to me.
Bridge out.
    "We may want to pull our own disappearing act," Uhura
explained to the bridge crew. "Can't hurt."
    Well, it couldn't hurt anyone but Atherton and his crew.
And maybe a Romulan or two.
    The crew dropped into wait-and-see mode. Uhura negoti-
ated appeals from Engineering. From time to time, she
reduced Duchamps to apologetic admissions that he'd re-
ceived no transmissions from any of the ships he had hailed.
Some of those ships are imaginary, mister, remember? Still,
one message from Excelsior, say...
    Uhura stared out into space, as if willing the Warbird to
become visible, to finally break the suspense.
    Why not wish for a knight in shining armor while you're at
it, lady?Jim Kirk ~ dead, Spock ~ missing, and you're going
to fight this with every weapon you can.
 "Commander... something's coming in," Duchamps

cut into Uhura's thoughts. "Warbird, Commander. It's
dropping its cloaking device."
    "Shields on full," Uhura snapped. "Battle stations, alert!
Mr. Atherton, how about those phasers?"
    "The message is coming from the Romulan vessel." If
Duchamps sounded any more surprised, his jaw would
probably have thumped onto his workstation.
    "Well," Uhura drawled, "will wonders never cease? Put
her captain on screen, mister."
    She drew herself up into what she privately called her
Queen of Sheba pose. Romulans responded to magnificence,
and she knew that Romulan women often held high posi-
tions on board their starships and in government. Respect
for women was built into their culture. She had that working
for her--and the fact that she was a veteran of the Enter-
prise. One of Jim Kirk's own.
    The figure who appeared on-screen wore no helm. His
uniform was finer than most Romulan uniforms she had
seen, and she'd seen fewer stars in some nebulae than
glittered on his tunic. Dark hair, metmulously cut, pate skin,
high cheekbones, a commanding arch of nose, and eyebrows
almost ridiculously well arched made this Romulan look
more patrician than most. Hmmm, must be seeing one of the
real aristocrats, Uhura thought. He was definitely worth
looking at, and l'll just bet he knows it. too.
    Keeping her hands out of sight, she brought up Intelli-
gence files, ready to search on whatever name her adversary
supplied.
    "You are Lieutenant Commander Uhura of the Intrepid?"
the Romulan commander asked.
    "Commander Uhura of the science vessel Intrepid H,"
Uhura corrected sweetly. "Captain Spock, of Vulcan, is our
commander of record."
    The Romulan officer nodded. No name? Either he was
very rude or very confident. Or he was playing a game.

/

     Uhura wasn't Communications for nothing. She was good
 at games. "You have the advantage of me, sir," she said,
 arching her own eyebrows and putting a great lady's disdain
 into her voice.
  "That I have, Commander."
     "I was not speaking of firepower, sir, but of courtesy,"
 Uhura countered. "You are an intruder in this space. You
 use our names, but have not supplied your own."
     What the Romulans used for registration numbers ap-
 peared on her workstation, and remind me to log a commen-
 dation for Duchamps, Uhura thought. She ran a fast search.
    "Avrak," she said, and saw the slightest tightening of his
mouth. "Commander Avrak of the Adamant. And what,"
she added with a second quick glance at the display, "is
Senator Pardek's own sister-son doing in this quadrant of
the galaxy? A trifle indiscreet of you, isn't it, Commander?"
    She had been right. Pardek had been one of the most
prominent figures at Camp Khitomer after Nanclus of
Romulus had been arrested, and Avrak was his nephew and
heir.
    "Your intelligence is good, Commander," Avrak said
smoothly. Did he seem somewhat peered at having to share
a title with a signals officer jumped up to command? All the
better if he did. "But so is ours. I know what your weapons
specifications are on the science vessels. Spy vessels, I
should say. You are in violation of Romulan space, a clear
declaration of war. I call upon you to surrender."
    Uhura smiled thinly as her crew whispered objections.
"Commander," she said in her best imitation of James Kirk,
"I'm surprised at you. Don't you know that we have already
transmitted our position back to Starfleet, and in cipher?
You're the one who's violated the Neutral Zone, as you
know perfectly well. Your cloaking device has been leaking
radiation thanks to the solar flares in this system. I'd have
that checked, if I were you," she added with false solicitous-

ness. "And put your engineering officer on report while
you're at it."
    Avrak smiled ever so slightly. "Now you are the one who
is overconfident, Commander. Does your crew know that
you're planning to fly them straight into the mouth of
Erebus?"
    Oh, he was a cultivated one, wasn't he, with his references
to ancient Romulan battle epics?
    "We await reinforcements," Uhura purred. "You may
believe you have us outgunned: I would not trouble to dispel
your illusions. Nevertheless, when our convoy arrives, you
might as well be commanding..." Inspiration hit her;
Romulans hated ridicule. "A rubber ducky."
    Did he get the reference? Possibly; at least he knew from
her tone of voice that he'd just been insulted.
    Atherton, you'd damn well better have those phasers online
by now. And a cloaking device of our very own wouM be really
useful.
    "Commander," came Atherton's voice, right on cue, ~'I've
got the firepower you want, but please, for the ship's sake,
don't go fighting any fleet actions."
    Hadn't planned to, mister. She tapped out assent on her
console, continuing to keep her hand below Commander
Avrak's line of vision.
    "Come, come, Commander," Avrak said in the most
urbane of tones. "We do not have to charge you with spying.
Call it... engine failure. A most convenient fiction. You
were forced to divert course, and we chanced to find you."
    "When someone dies, his heart stops," Uhura retorted.
"That doesn't mean that a man shot by phasers dies of a
heart attack. Or that a Romulan who's overextended himself
can't bluff."
"As can a Starfleet officer who knows she is outgunned."
"Oh no, my dear Commander Avrak, you're the one who's
bluffing." Uhura kept her face carefully blank. "Excelsior's

 on her way. Commanded by Hikaru Sulu. Do you know
 him? One of James Kirk's best."
     "Ah, what a pity. We broke your cipher, Commander. We
 know that Excelsior has not yet responded to your distress
 signal."
     "You broke one of our ciphers, sir," Uhura riposted, "as
 you were meant to do. We have others. Do you really want to
 wait around to see if Excelsior shows up? Captain Sulu takes
 a dim view of trespass. As you know. Right about now, he's
 really not very happy with treacherous Warbirds."
    Uhura took a deep breath, thankful that her bridge crew
knew to confine their reactions to glances and whispers. It
was one thing to bluff with hardware and starships. Now for
the real bluff, which was, of course, political.
    "Commander." She leaned forward in her best "let's talk
equal-to-equal" pose. "It seems to me that you are of no use
to your senator and patron dead. Unless, of course, you are
of an age and standing sufficient to create an...
inconvenience. Enough of an inconvenience that he might
see an advantage in favoring your heir over yourselfi"
    She flashed a smile that men in several quadrants of the
galaxy had assured her was dazzling. Avrak's face flushed
darkly, but not as dark as hers, which gave away nothing at
all, thank you very much.
    "Perhaps," Uhura added, "you came to investigate a few
spies whom you might have downworld, hmm? May I
remind the commander that Obsidian is a Federation pro-
tectorate, secured by a Starfleet outpost? Unless your people
are planning to bob their ears and bleed red for a change, it's
going to be easy enough to spot them, you know. Or," she
asked with sweet malevolence, "have you beamed a plastic
surgeon downworld, too?" No answer.
    "Do you know," Uhura went on, "I cannot believe that a
senior Romulan officer, a patrician of your Empire, would

create an act of war merely because you were too indiscreet
to not threaten or bluff. It seems most... illogical, espe-
cially for a race of Vulcan stock. Perhaps your kinsman is
right to focus on your heir, not on yourself."
    Leave him some dignity, she warned herself. After all, he's
a Romulan. If he loses too much face. he'll fight to the death
to regain it.
    "Lady," Avrak forced out between clenched teeth, "you
forget yourself."
    "Commander," Uhura gave him back as good as she got,
"I cannot believe you would declare war--beyond the fact
of your illegal presence here--because you were worsted in
an argument with a lady. I would suggest you withdraw.
Now. I grow weary of this debate."
    That tactic had worked for Captain Kirk. Would it work
for Uhura? She crossed her fingers, well out of line of sight,
and prayed silently.
    Avrak allowed himself to laugh. "Commander... Lady,
how I wish we had met somewhere, almost anywhere other
than upon the bridges of enemy ships." That, Uhura
thought, was probably the only truthful thing he'd said so
far. "I am minded to indulge your bluff for some hours
longer," Avrak continued. "And then..." His smile broad-
ened in a way that made Uhura want to slap him; he was too
confident by half. "We shall see what we shall see." He
paused. If they had been in the same room, Uhura sus-
pected, he would have looked her up and down. "Until then,
Adamant will... hold fast."
    Intrepid's screen blanked as Avrak ended transmission.
An instant later, the Warbird disappeared as its cloaking
device engaged.
    "Well," Uhura said brightly. "That was interesting, wasn't
it? Or, as Captain Spock would say, fascinating.
    "Duchamps, are you still picking up those radiation
anomalies from the Warbird?"

i'

  "Yes, ma'am."
    "Good. Well, at least we've got a few new weapons for
ourselves." Two, anyhow: the augmented phasers and the
cloaking device, assuming Atherton got it online (and she'd
bet a month's pay on his success). And maybe, just maybe,
they'd get Captain Spock back.
    "Commander?" Lieutenant Richards asked warily. "I...
uh..."
 "Spit it out, mister."
    "Begging the commander's pardon, but it sounded as if
that Avrak were... uh... attracted to you and letting you
know it. And during red alert, too." He sounded shocked.
    "Did it, Lieutenant?" Uhura gave him another of her
dazzling smiles and saw him actually flinch from the impact.
Did you think I didn't know it, mister? "Now that, too, is
fascinating. Reminds me of a little something Captain Kirk
taught me long ago. Remember? I've said it before: Anything
can be a weapon. Anything at all."
    Red alert continued to sweep across the bridge, concealing
her science officer's blush.
 And, darker skin or no, her own.

TWENTY-FIVE

       Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 5, First Week, Month of the Shining Cllara,
Year 2296

I am Faisal ibn $aud ibn Turki, Ensign Prince repeated
defiantly to himself. I am a prince of the ancient ruling
house. I will not die in such an ignoble fashion!
    The archaic words weren't much comfort. Faisal looked at
the rest of the group, huddled into the deepest recess of the
cave against the fury of the solar flare outside. (Dramatic,
that flare; too bad that they couldn't exactly enjoy the view.)
Not one of the troop looked happy, or bold, or anything
other than... resigned.
    Yes, yes, I know, if it is written we shall die. then we shall
die--but no one can know in advance what is written, so
damned if I'm just going to curl up and--and wait. "Trust in
Allah but tie your camel," and all that.
    But neither Islamic theology nor Arabic proverbs were
going to comfort these people. Instead, Faisal said as briskly

as he could, "If I am not mistaken, solar flares of this
intensity don't last too long."
    "They don't have to," Ozmani muttered. "We'll be out of
food soon enough."
    "What nonsense is this? We still have plenty of supplies,
enough of these..." But even Faisal couldn't bring himself
to call ration bars food. "These nutrients," he finished
resolutely, "to see us through three days. Four, if we're
careful."
 "Water."
    Faisal just barely kept from snapping something hot in
Arabic. "We have enough water, too," he contented himself
with saying, "as long as we don't get too energetic." No, that
was only reinforcing the "curl up and die" idea. I'm a pilot,
curse it all, not a--a psychiatrist.t What am I supposed to
say?
    Ha, yes, he had it. Faisal continued as brightly as he could,
"We did get off that one burst of a message before the flare.
The base personnel couldn't have missed it, and brief
though it was, they're good enough back there to have gotten
a fix on us. Hey, you know those folks! By now they'll be
searching for us. As soon as the flare dies down, they'll be
coming to get us."
    No response from any of them, save a wan smile from
Lieutenant Diver. Humoring him, Faisal thought. These
were a group of weU-trained specialists suddenly stuck in the
middle of danger with nothing constructive to do, that was
at the heart of it. Of course they were all used to the good old
military "hurry up and wait" that hadn't changed since the
days when his great-great-however-many-great-grandfathers
were out fighting the Turks. But usually the "hurry up and
wait" happened when one was amid familiar surroundings.
It was asking a lot of these people to combine passive
waiting with the hardships of desert survival.

    "All right," Faisal said suddenly. "Enough brooding.
When my ancestors were stuck in the middle of the Rub al-
Khali, the Empty Quarter of our homeland, with nothing
around them but... well... nothing, they could very eas-
ily have let all that desert emptiness get to them. Instead,
they kept up morale by telling each other stories."
    Kavousi sighed, just a touch too loudly. Faisal glared at
him, in no mood for sarcasm. "Captain Rabin left me in
charge, mister. And ifI say we're going to start a storytelling
circle, then by Allah, that's exactly what we're going to do.
Besides," he added with a quick grin, "haven't any of you
ever heard of Scheherazade?"
    A few wry chuckles answered him, and Faisal continued,
cheefieading, "We're Starfleet, aren't we? If one woman
alone could hold off Death for a thousand and one nights,
we can damn well hold it off for three or four little days!"

    A moment ago, Centurion Ruanek had been surrounded
by natives shoving against him, trying to overwhelm him
even as he fired and fired again. A moment ago, he had been
struggling to keep his footing against the combined weight of
their wiry, half-starved bodies, realizing that if he fell, he'd
be crushed, realizing that he was actually in danger, he and
his warriors both--
    And now the battle had stopped so suddenly it was as
though he'd been plunged into some fantastic old tale in
which living folk were turned to stone. He gaped along with
the others, Romulans and natives both, at this sudden bold
intruder. The robed figure was actually daring to move right
through the lot of them, proud and straight-backed as
though knowing no one would attack him. And Ruanek
gasped along with the others as the stranger tossed back the
hood of his cloak. Another Vulcan--
 More than that/ Ruanek realized suddenly. Light and

Darkness, this is none other than the famous Spoek himself.
The half-human Starfleet legend--yes, and he is clearly
acquainted with our noisy madman.
    No, no, more than "acquainted." These two were defi-
nitely foes, as rigid with hatred as those emotion-blocked
Vulcans could get.
    Amazing, Ruanek thought, and again, amazing, which
didn't begin to relieve his feelings. And how can I use this?
He glanced sideways at cousin Kharik, thinking, Maybe all
isn't lost after all, maybe we can get out of this mess without
killing more children or ourselves, and raised his hand to his
warriors in the Romulan signal that meant "hold your fire."
    No danger of disobedience; the others, Romulans and
natives both, were all still as intrigued as he.
    There will be a battle. Ruanek hardly needed to wonder at
that; the icy tension between Spock and Sered was almost a
tangible thing. But this time it will be a battle of one-to-one,
Vulcan against Vulcan.
    Akhh, and let this be the end of it/If Sered fell, surely
Avrak would accept that as a sign that this mission was
doomed to fail. There could be no other possible course of
action but to leave, not unless those over Avrak really did
want outright war with the Federation.
    Unlikely. Yet it might not be a bad thing; there can at least
be glory won in warfare. But there can be none at all in
serving a madman!
    Yes, yes, let hiTM and his warriors at last be free of the
madman and let them leave this cursed planet not as
servants but as true Romulans! Let them escape while
something of honor was still left to them!
    I never thought to say this, not of a Vulcan, not of Spock, no
less, but: Win.t Slay the madman and J?ee us all.t

    Spock and Sered stood staring at each other, both too
stunned to move, each waiting for the other to take the

initiative. A familiar, albeit hoarse~ voice cut suddenly
through the tense silence: McCoy.t
    "I hate to break up what's obviously a touching reunion,"
the doctor drawled, "but can't we just sit down and talk this
over like reasonable folks?"
    Spock, never taking his attention from Sered, said coolly,
his voice deliberately pitched so all could hear him, "These
are not 'reasonable folks.' These are those who would break
Sunstorm Truce."
    The assembled Faithful growled at that, stirring uneasily.
But before they could decide on any drastic move, the great
metal doors flew open with a thundering crash. Into the hall
burst the nomad warriors, shouting gleeful war cries as they
rushed into shelter and battle.
    The Romulans whirled to this sudden new threat like one
well-oiled machine, weapons raised--but the disillusioned
Faithful took advantage of the moment for a renewed
charge. The Romulans were suddenly caught between two
waves of 1ow-tech but highly determined people, the desert
nomads and the Faithful for once acting as one. Spock saw
the quick bright flash of phasers here, there, and some
attackers fell, but there were always more to take their
places, too many to be stopped. The Romulans, Spock
thought sharply, might have the better weapons, but the
tribespeople had something stronger on their side: pure
righteous fury.
 And better numbers.
    It was no contest. The Romulans were swarmed, over-
whelmed, weapons torn from their hands.
    And in the next moment, the Faithful will become a mob,
as only those so suddenly stripped of belief can become,
mindless, violent, deadly.
    Spock quickly extrapolated the possible results: slain
Romulans equaled Romulan retaliation, resulting in poten-

 tial genocide and certain Federation-Romulan warfare. And
 he shouted with all his might, "Do not kill them! Do not
 harm the outlanders! Do not kill them!"
    Somewhere behind him, Spock heard McCoy's dry whis-
per to Rabin, "Was he this nonviolent as a boy?"
     Rabin retorted, "No. He killed. He must never have
 forgotten."
     Nor have I. But what I recall or do not recall is hardly the
 issue.
    No time to say as much to McCoy. And Sered--ah, Sered
was clearly seeing his holy mission failing yet again, and--
oh, most infuriating fact--due to the same blasphemer as
before. Eyes blazing with madness, he snapped out,
"Enough! Heed me, fools! Enough.t"
    It was a shriek savage enough to cut through any mere
mortal noise. At that dramatic sound, the fighting broke
sharply off, nomads, Faithful, and Romulans all startled into
immobility. Sered strode quickly forward into the sudden
silence, spotless robes swirling theatrically, and came to a
dead stop directly in front of Spock.
    "I thee challenge." The language Sered employed was
such an archaic form of Old High Vulcan that Spock could
barely decipher it: the true language of the priest-kings of
the te-Vikram caves.
    "What challenge," he began haltingly in the same dialect,
but Sered cut him Off.
    "Let this be a battle of Righteousness. I thee issue the
Holy Challenge of Combat, one to one, hand-to-hand in
proper ritual. There shall be no weapon save our strength,
no quarter, no mercy."
    I am not going to match wits with him in a dialect that
handicaps me. "Such archaic terms are not logical," Spock
countered coolly in current Vulcan. "There no longer exists
such a thing as the Holy Challenge."

    "Logic? Sered spat out the word in disgust. "What has
your petty, useless logic to do with this? This is a matter of
Light, not logic! Too long have we been walking separate
ways. Too long has our enmity gone unresolved. And Evil
has flourished! No longer! At last we are together--at last
one of us shall die!"
    Not merely madness but melodrama as well. "There is no
need--"
    "There is!" His eyes fierce as Loki's flames, his whole
stance rigid with religious fervor, Sered proclaimed to all the
world, "Here it is! Here is the final battle! Here is the final
judgment of Good against Evil.t"
    Rabin could hardly have understood the words, but he
could hardly have missed the gist of them. He hissed at
Spock, "You're not really going to--"
    Spock nodded curtly. "I see no other logical way to end
this. He must be stopped before more harm is done, but a
phaser blast will spark a deadly riot."
    Sered was tearing off his spotless finery, till he stood in
nothing more than his white breeches, his chest lean and
sleek with unexpected muscle. He might be Sarek's age,
Spock thought, but Sered had kept himself as wiry-strong as
a young warrior from the ancient days.
    Still, he cannot have matching stamina. At least I trust that
such is the truth.
    No other way than this, as he had told Rabin. Spock, too,
stripped off his desert robes; he had not fought hand-to-
hand in earnest for... exactly 6.45 Federation-standard
years, and he wanted no encumbrances.
    What was that sudden murmuring? Romulan... yes.
lhe Romulans--were wagering, Spock realized, boldly wa-
geting on the outcome of the duel.  I wonder who they prefer.
  Illogical to even consider it, though judging from the

fiercely approving glance of that young Romulan--a centu-
rion, by his garb--he was the favorite.
    Shutting this irreverent trivia from his attention, Spock
bowed to Sered in the ancient, elaborate Vulcan manner.
Sered returned the bow with the same archaic courtesy--
 Then they closed with each other.
 And the final battle began.

TWENTY-SIX

       Obsidian, Deep Desert
Day 9, First Week, Month of the Shining Chara,
Year 2296

Spock and Sered circled each other warily, slowly stalking,
each seeking an opening, a weakness in the other, each
finding none.
    His breathing is regular, Spock analyzed coolly, no fear
or hesitation shown. His movements are smooth and agile:
no hidden injuries. His eyes... are the eyes of madness,
which may give him strength or weaken him with anger A
possibility, not a fact. Useless to speculate on what had yet
to be proven. ! must first see the shape of his attack before
shaping my own. Quick extrapolation: His attack will not
be anything as swift-ending or merciful as tal-shaya. And it
will surely be something far older even than tal-shaya. Dating
from the time of the priest-kings. Whatever system he uses,
I must not kill. For all the evil he has done, his is an illness
of the mind, not a rational working of harm. I must not
kill.

     There was no emotion to Spock's thoughts; there was no
 place here for the human side of his nature.
    Without the slightest warning of tensing muscles, Sered
burst into motion, lunging forward, stiflened hand thrusting
like the blade of a sword. Spock quickly parried with a
forearm block, ignoring the shock of impact, and Sered just
as swiftly sprang back, revealing nothing at all of his
thoughts. But the style of his movements, the precise angles
of arms and body and legs in this smooth, swift dance, told
Spock what he needed to know:  This is ke-tarya.
    Logical. It was a style of fighting ancient enough to please
Sered though still current--fortunately--as an exercise
regime among modern Vulcans; Spock had studied it as a
boy, and occasionally still practiced it as an adult.
    He feigned a kick that should make Sered dodge to the
left--yes. Spock struck, hand aiming at a pressure point
intended to send Sered slumping into unconsciousness and
end this fight quickly. But Sered moved just as swiftly,
blocking with bent arm, unfolding it with enough force to
send Spock staggering back a step.  Was this ke-tarya?
    Sered lunged, hand curved in a claw tearing viciously
for the throat. Spock moved smoothly aside, twisting to
throw Sered forward with the momentum of the attack--
but Sered moved with him, lunging yet again, so quickly
that Spock had to block him once more, despite his con-
trol aware of the slash of pain as Sered's nails tore his
skin.
    Skin only. That move was meant to tear out my throat.
What is he using? Ke-tarya has no moves like this.t
    Yes, his mind quickly reminded him, it did. This was
the most ancient form of ke-tarya, ke-tar-yatar, never stud-
ied by modern Vulcans save historians; ke-tar-yatar was no

mere exercise but a style designed for one purpose only:
death.
 And Spock knew no way to counter it.

    God, McCoy thought, look at those two move, almost
faster than the human eye can follow. Of course he'd always
known that Vulcan reflexes were swift, but this--
    Too bad itg not just some exhibition match. That wouM be
downright fun to watch, two evenly matched opponents like
this, all that speed and grace and no harm meant.
    But no, it would have to be to the death. And in the middle
of all these enemies, too, just waiting for a spark to set them
off Like playing with old-fashioned whaddayacallems...
matches in the middle of dry tinder.
    Never taking his glance from the Vulcans involved in their
quick, deadly dance, McCoy muttered hoarsely to Rabin,
"Helluva time for a duel."
 "When," Rabin shot back, "is a good time?"
    "Good point." McCoy swallowed dryly, trying in vain to
soothe his aching throat. Damn, what he'd give for a cold
drink! For any drink. "At least Spock's kept himself in good
shape. Desert doesn't seem to have weakened him." A snort from Rabin. "It hasn't."
    "Unfortunately," McCoy added with a physician's ap-
praisal, "it looks like the madman's kept himself in pretty
good shape, too. Never mind that he's more than twice
Spock's age, and Spock's no kid--age doesn't matter to
Vulcans the way it does to us mere humans. Like Faerie
Folk, you know? Pointed ears and all."
    That earned him a quick, startled glance from Rabin.
Never mind, McCoy told him silently. I haven't gone round
the bend. Just tired, thatg all. And worried.
 God, yes. And not just because they were in such peril.
 I already watched you die once, Spock, and once was more

than enough. Damreit, Spock, don't do this to met We've
already lost Jim. I don't want to lose you, too.

     Ruanek watched with face impassive and heart racing.
 Captain Spock moved with the ease and power of a true
 warrior--but he seemed to lack the true warrior's drive to
 kill. There! He could have crushed Sered's throat with that
 blow--yet he turned aside from its full force. And there!
 There! If he'd continued that lunge, he could have broken
 ribs, stopped Sered's lungs. Yet he was pulling back!
   What is he doing? This is no place to show mercy!
    And Sered--akhh, who would have expected the madman
to have such strength? And such stamina? The power of the
mad, indeed! Not for him to show caution or pity or
whatever misguided logic it was that was handicapping
Captain Spock. Ruanek let his breath out in a slow hiss of
frustration. Sered must not win, and yet honor forbade any
interference.
 And I still have some honor left.
    "A new wager!" he cried out defiantly, glaring at cousin
Kharik. "I raise the stakes! Double the score on Captain
Spock!"
 Had Spock heard? Understood?
    It is the only encouragement I can offer you, Ruanek told
him. Let it be enough.
    That it was also open defiance of his patron, of Avrak and
his commands-~-akhh, well, Avrak's plans were already in
disarray and sometimes one must risk all upon a single
throw of the sticks.
    A massed hiss from the Romulans brought Ruanek's
attention sharply back to the fight. Spock was staggering
back, nearly falling, clearly stunned.
    "You," Kharik said with great relish, "are about to lose
your wager."
 The emphasis on the last word told Ruanek that his

cousin meant far more than a monetary trifle. "We speak of
one who nearly held our Empire at bay," Ruanek snapped
back. "He is not as weak as you think!"
 Let it be true. For both our sakes.

    Sered's last blow had come very close to breaking bones.
Spock dodged, dodged again, aware despite his stern self-
control that his reaction time was 2.55 instants slower than
it had been, aware that his body was 6.26 percent weaker
than it had been. There was pain, bruising, torn muscles,
possibly even a cracked rib, though he would not allow such
things to hinder him. But he could do nothing about lungs
that were laboring for air. Still, no serious damage had yet
been done, and Spock refused to hear the small, human
voice whispering at the edge of his mind that there will be,
that you must kill or be killed--no. Humanity had no place
here.
 Did it not? The hint of an idea slid into his thoughts.
 Possible.
    Sered? His sleek chest was slick with sweat, and blossom-
ing bruises here and there told of blows that had gotten past
his defenses.
    I must look very much the same. Hardly the Starfleet
officer. Wry honesty forced him to add, The somewhat
winded &arfieet officer.
    Yet Sered seemed not at all distressed, not at all out of
breath, and the wild madness in his eyes burned as brightly
as ever.
    The strength of madness, indeed. He will go on and on until
he dies. Or kills me.
    Only one chance: not Vulcan but human logic, Jim Kirk's
reasoning, insisting feed that madness. There was no logic of
any kind left to Sered, no self-control, nothing but raw,
primal emotion.
 As though he'd read Spock's thoughts, Sered lunged again,

 hand a claw. Spock countered with a forearm block, and this
 time all the will in him could not quite shut out the ache in
 overstrained muscles. He stepped deliberately back, saying
 as steadily as heaving lungs would allow:
  "Do you really think that you can win?"
  "Of course!" It was a harsh roar.
  "A shame to see such a fallacy."
  "What--"
     "A shame to see such a once-brilliant mind so over-
 turned."
  "What do you--"
     "Look at yourself, Sered. Look. Where is your splendor,
 Sered? See the truth. No splendor here, no great messiah.
 Logic, Sered." Human logic, so that nothing I say does more
 than shade the Vulcan truth. "You are nothing but one aging
 outcast. Nothing but a madman lost in his own delusions.
 No, more than that:
    "Sered, you are nothing but what the humans you despise
call 'a crazy old useless fool.'"
  With a wordless shriek, Sered charged him.
  Wait... wait... now.
    Spock, timing his action precisely, met that maddened
charge with a neat, professional, and quite logical punch to
Sered's solar plexus, followed by an equally neat uppercut.
    Sered collapsed as though strings holding him upright had
just been cut. There was a whoop, quickly suppressed, from
the young Romulan centurion, then stunned, total silence.
      Silence which Spock, standing over his unconscious foe,
green blood on his knuckles, broke by saying simply:
  "Let us assume that Good has won the day."
    That started a sudden storm of shouting, Faithful, no-
mads, Romulans all trying to be heard. And so I have not
brought peace but sparked a new riot--no! I did not go this
far to see more deaths in this place!
  "Silence!"

    Ahh, he certainly did have a cracked rib or at least severe
bruising: his body did not want him shouting like that. And
it would be quite pleasant to sit somewhere and regain his
breath. There were, though others might deny it, limits to
Vulcan strength.
    Control, he told himself sternly. Control. There is no time
for weakness yet.
    McCoy, being McCoy, hurried to Spock's side, heedless of
danger, all set to examine him. At Spock's fraction of a "not
now, Doctor" frown, the human contented himself with
draping the discarded desert robes back about Spock, "so
you don't get a chill on top of everything else," and knelt at
the fallen Sered's side, diagnostic tools in hand, his face a
study in conflicting emotions.
    Rabin, being Rabin, had just as quickly moved to guard
Spock's back, whispering something about "Turned a kung-
fu movie into a John Wayne movie, didn't you?" It was the only logical move. Or movie.
    But he kept that rather feeble pun to himself. "You,"
Spock said sternly to the Romulan centurion. "Here."
    The Romulan wisely obeyed without an instant's hesita-
tion, signaling to his uneasy warriors to follow. The centuri-
on was shorter than Spock by a small margin (1.2
centimeters, Spock's brain told him), and young enough to
actually allow himself a quick grin of relief before fixing his
face in more properly solemn lines. He gave Spock a crisp
military salute.
    "I am Ruanek, Centurion of the Empire. Of House Minor
Strevon. I formally request honorable protection for my
warriors and myself."
    Good. The youngster was quick-witted. But then, he never
would have risen to the rank of centurion at such an early
age if he had been anything but clever.
    "Granted," Spock said. He added with more force for all
the others to hear, ignoring the strain it put on aching

muscles, "I have placed these people under my protection.
They were but tools of the foe, not the foe himself. They are
not to be harmed."
    Were the murmuring Faithful accepting that? Probably
not; those deprived of their illusions usually wished to
destroy the illusion-maker and, failing that, the illusion-
maker's allies.
    But the Elder stepped smoothly forward, her easy grace
yet again belying her age. "There will be no war," she said,
and it was not a request.
    At her calm gesture, the nomads moved to encircle Spock,
Sered, McCoy, Rabin, and even the startled Romulans. At a
stern glare from the Elder, the nomads lowered their weap-
ons and merely... stood, a solid, implacable ring.
    "There will be no war," the Elder repeated, and nodded
solemnly to Spock.
"Peace," he agreed with an equally solemn bow.
"Peace," the centurion repeated, again proving his quick-
wittedness, adding in a wry whisper to Spock, "Besides,
you've just made me a nice bit of money."
    Before Spock could find a suitably logical retort to that,
there was a great roar from outside, a familiar rush of
noise--shuttles setting down? Federation equipment? Yes,
surely that. McCoy and Rabin said simultaneously, "Here
comes the cavalry over the hill!"
    They paused, stared at each other in astonishment, then
burst into laughter, gasping something about "You, too?"
"Old Westerns? .... Love 'em!"
    Which makes as much sense, Spook thought, trying not to
rub muscles that were nagging him about their soreness even
through his control, as anything else that has happened this
day.
 The cavalry, as it were, had indeed arrived.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Obsidian, Deep Desert and Federation Outpost
Day 5, First Week, Month of the Shining Cllara,
Year 2296

Spock restrained himself from flexing his fingers diagnosti-
cally again. He had ascertained that no bones were broken
and that the most superficial of the grazes on his hand
from delivering what humans referred to as an "uppercut"
were already healing. A human would permit himself to
slump, to admit that at least one rib was probably cracked,
possibly broken, and that he felt as bruised as if he had
been trampled by a stampeding chuchaki. Dr. McCoy would
no doubt make ironic comments Spock had no desire to
hear.
    Fortunately, however, McCoy was preoccupied with
Sered. Conscious once more but at least as battered as
Spock, the madman had permitted his robe, trampled and
soiled with blood though it was, to be thrown over his
shoulders, protecting him from Loki's light but not, in his
current state, from the pain of his injuries. His sides and

chest were as bruised as Spock's, and his jaw had swollen to
twice its size.
    We each wear the other's blood. The thought was one from
which he would be glad to escape.
    Sered's eyes were glazed, the veils flickering aimlessly
back and forth across them as his mind retreated almost
into catatonia. He was standing, which was the best that
could be said of him.
    He must be returned to Vulcan, where his madness could
be treated and he could be interrogated--by someone other
than Spock.
    Touching Sered's dementia would be worse than that ugly,
ancient crime of rape--and not necessarily just for Sered.
    The late T'Pau had known all along, Spock realized. Any
investigation would have to include what she, no doubt, had
preserved in meticulous personal records. It might even be
deemed important enough for someone of T'Lar's stature to
commune with T'Pau's katra.
    "All Vulcan in one package," Jim had once called her. She
had refused a seat on the Federation Council rather than
reveal who the intruders at Mount Seleya had actually been.
Had that been a betrayal?
 No, T'Pau had protected her own.
    Spock protected his own, too, even when he wanted no
more than to indulge in the luxury of a Vulcan healing
trance. Many of Spock's "own," the nomad warriors who
had followed him so joyously into battle, now stood on the
sands of Te-wisat-karak, watching his every move. Even
some of the former Faithful had dared to follow him,
stretching out their hands, pleading with him to remain and
be their new Master.
    "You need no Master," Spock told them patiently. "You
have the Law. You will have wise leaders of your own once
more. This Revered Elder will aid you in choosing them.

And you have the friendship of this good man." He gestured
toward Captain Rabin.
    "Let's move out a ways from the rocks," Rabin said. "The
chuchaki put up with the first shuttle landing, but there's a
limit to what they'll tolerate. You folks don't want to hike all
the way home, do you?"
    That made the nomads actually chuckle, and Rabin
grinned.
    "A wise precaution," Spock said, referring to both the
shuttles and Rabin's winning friends with a jest.
    Someone wasn't laughing. Spock glanced over at the
Romulans, now under his protection. All but one: young
Kharik, a cousin to the centurion Ruanek, whom two of the
Romulans were holding under close guard. Spock admitted
to himself that seeing the anger on the subcenturion's face,
with its Vulcan features, was... disconcerting.
    Ruanek, as Spock had commanded, stood close to McCoy
in case Sered's madness turned violent again.
    "Don't worry about me," Spock heard McCoy tell Ru-
anek. "Worry about how you're going to smuggle horses
across the Romulan Neutral Zone." Horses?
    "Assuming, of course," McCoy continued, "that you won
enough money to set yourself up as a breeder."
    A breeder? Of horses? Perhaps exposing Ruanek to
McCoy's notions of humor constituted abuse of a prisoner!
    But Ruanek actually laughed, a breach of control for
Vulcans but not, apparently, for Romulans. Typically,
McCoy had won the young Romulan's liking.
    For all I know, that had something to do with the centur-
ion's support of me, with the support of most of the Romulans
here, during my duel.
    Although none of those who had exiled themselves from
Vulcan knew the deep discipline of Gol, the Vulcan gifts lay

latent in them. Spock had felt their strength, their will, reach
out to support him as he fought Sered.
    My victory is yours, he thought at them, wondering if they
would hear. If he could sense their will, their support, it
might be possible, one day, one year, for Romulans to learn
the ways not just of Surak but of Gol.
    The next time Romulans stand on Mount Seleya, let it be
as pilgrims and peacemakers.
    Spock believed that McCoy would say he had his work cut
out for him.

    "I give you my word," Captain Rabin said to the Elder,
"on my mother's soul. I shall return with help, and if not I,
then my children." He began the ritual three bows of
respect, but the Elder forestailed him, drawing him into the
formal embrace of equals.
    After a polite moment, the captain drew away. Gently, he
disengaged the small hands of two children who had at-
tached themselves to his legs and strode toward Spock. At
the last, he turned to wave to the nomads, then snapped
down his protective visor with a dramatic gesture.
    What movie hero is he imitating now? Spock wondered
with the barest hint of amusement. No matter; it is effective.
    Rabin gestured. Spock turned and saw Loki's violent light
flash from the incoming shuttles. The human snapped shut
McCoy's communicator with a satisfied grin. Spock's hand
flexed again, waiting to take the communicator from him,
try again to raise his ship.
 Impatience? he asked himselfi Illogical.
    The solar flare had subsided, although it was still too risky
to attempt using the transporters. Uhura must have a good
reason for continuing the communcations blackout. The
more powerful communications equipment at Rabin's head-
quarters would help him find it out.
 "They evacuated our people first," Rabin said. "Ensign

Prince and all. Wanted to airlift the lot of them back to
Kalara, but they insisted they weren't going back until we
were safe. I've got a mind to put them all on report for
insubordination."
    "No doubt," Spock remarked blandly, "your sickbay will
suffice as a brig."
    Rabin chuckled, then gestured again at the landing shut-
tles. "Faisal's not piloting. That's probably punishment
enough for him."
    Guards swarmed out, faces hidden by protective helms
and visors, their bodies stiffening at the sight of the Romu-
lans. Spock and Rabin stepped forward just as a very
bedraggled knot of familiar officers tumbled out of the
shuttles behind them. One of the latter gestured passion-
ately, critically, over his shoulder at the hatchway, pushing
up his visor so there could be no mistaking his disapproval.
    "What was that supposed to be? Touchdown at twenty-
nine point five, twenty-nine point six, twenty-nine point
seven, take your pick? A sloppy landing like that makes us
all lose face before our captain!"
    "Faisal!" Rabin exclaimed, pushing up his own visor.
"You, all of you, you're a sight for sore eyes!"
    He blinked hastily, not just from the sun, Spock realized,
but from a wave of emotion so powerful that even his human
friend sought to control it. "Now, put your visor down,"
Rabin snapped, voice not quite steady. "You want to go
blind?"
    Ensign Prince was actually quivering with the effort not to
dash forward and hug his captain--and possibly Spock and
everyone else, as well--but managed to stay put, more or
less at attention, particularly after Rabin said something in
Arabic that made him raise his head with pride. Spock
watched as his friend somehow managed to greet everyone
by name, pat everyone on the back, and still preserve some
semblance of military bearing all at once.

  He, too, looks after his own.
    "Welcome back to civilization, Lieutenant Diver," Rabin
was continuing. 'q hope my people gave you every consider-
ation."
"They kept us alive, sir," the young lieutenant said.
"And the lieutenant's got to finish the Tale of the Three
Princes of Serendip," Ensign Prince cut in, grinning. "We
were rescued just when they'd found the princess."
    At Rabin's blank stare, Lieutenant Diver added, blushing
slightly, "You... ah... just had to be there, sir."
    "I see. Well. All the same, it's a pretty sorry welcome to
Obsidian, Lieutenant. You'll just have to come back, per-
haps when the ozone layer's had a chance to start healing.
We can all stroll around, you, too, Spock, sample the local
food, give you, Lieutenant, your first ride on a chuchaki."
    Lieutenant Diver studied the Taragi-shar with a geolo-
gist's longing. "With rock formations like that, sir, just try to
keep me away!"
    The guards started forward to take the Romulans into
custody.
"They are under my protection," Spock said.
"But--Romulans!" one of the guards protested. "Just the
fact that they're here, in Federation spacemthat's an act of
war!"
    Spock raised a bruised hand for silence. "If one were
genetically accurate, one could say that they are, in fact,
family members, distant cousins to myself. That would
logically eliminate the need to think of them as Romulans."
    The guards warily backed down, not wanting to argue
with a Starfleet officer--and a Vulcan. Rabin surreptitiously
gave Spock the thumbs-up gesture.
    That means approval, I know. I suspect Jim would rather
have approved as well.
 After all, Jim had always tried to avoid fighting with the

Romulans and had never been above a certain... creative
interpretation of the facts.
     "Well," asked Rabin, "now that that's settled, hadn't we
better go mind the store?" Spock flinched--
    "Only me," McCoy said laconically. "Didn't mean to
startle you." His tricorder whirred busily as he scanned
Spock's rib and kidney areas--"not that your innards are
anywhere a sane man would have them, mind you."
    Spock acquiesced. It was better to let the doctor believe he
had been startled than to ask pardon for his loss of control at
hearing "hadn't we better go mind the store, "words his dead
friend had often used, in the mouth of a friend who still
lived.
 "Nothing too serious," McCoy muttered.
 Spock raised a brow. "Are you disappointed, Doctor?"
    "Naw. A cracked rib, lots of bruises--not bad for a
prizefighter, amateur division."
    Spock permitted McCoy to ease him into the shuttle. It
was simpler than arguing. And by now he had to admit that
sitting, as the nomadic saying went, would be far better than
standing.
    "You're going to rest on the flight back," McCoy warned,
"or so help me, I'll sedate you."
    The doctor darted back outside before Spock could reply,
returning with the nearly catatonic Sered, whom he strapped
in before returning to Spock's side with a wry grin.
 "The Invalid Express is under way."
 Spock suppressed a sigh.

    David Rabin just barely kept pace with Spock as he strode
past the painted letters on the outpost's walls and into
CommCen. "If you please, Ensign, connect me with Intrepid
If."
 Impossible to believe that the ship was no longer there,

 Spock thought. If not to the degree that Jim had bonded
 with the Enterprise, he was at least partially bonded to it; he
 would have sensed if it had been destroyed, as he had years
 ago when the original Intrepid had died.
     Behind him, the outpost's staff was clustering around
 their leader. "Yes, Captain Rabin," Lieutenant Albright was
 saying. "I took my medicine. In more ways than one. And I
 am--we are all very glad that you're back."  Her voice almost managed not to falter.
    "I'm trying, Captain Spock." The ensign looked up at him
with concern.
    Spock could see his own reflection in the brightly polished
console. He could agree with the doctor and, apparently,
with this young man--did all of David Rabin's people
worry so?--that he belonged in a sickbay rather than on the
bridge of a ship. Nevertheless, he raised an eyebrow, a silent
order to the ensign to try again.
    "Not to worry," he could hear Rabin telling Lieutenant
Albright. "When you've got a little more experience in the
field, you'll have more perspective on these things. Mean-
while, if you could send a yeoman with something to eat,
some water, maybe..."
 "Yes, sir!" The precision was back in Albright's voice.
    The signals ensign sighed with relief, and Spock came
fully alert. "I've got contact, sir."
    Spock heard the familiar crackle of sublight communica-
tions. His aches receded. "Spook here, Commander Uhura,"
he said crisply.
    "Captain Spock!" That was definitely Uhura. "Good to
hear your voice!"
    Static crackled between the base and the Intrepid. As well
as if Spock already faced Uhura, he knew she reproached
herself for giving way to emotion. He must make her know
he reproached no one for acting in accordance with his
nature. Or hers.

    Communications went live once again. "Ship's status is
operational, Captain." Uhura had disciplined her voice into
dispassionate briefing mode. "We pulled into Obsidian's
shadow. Radiation levels were well within hull tolerances,
no overdoses were reported, and hull levels are returning to
baseline norms."
    "Summon a security team to the transporter room, Com-
mander. The ground team will beam up, plus seven others."
    "Negative, Captain, negative." Uhura's voice cut across
his. As she boosted the volume, Spock raised his eyebrows at
the whoop/whoop/whoop of red alert. "We've got this War-
bird in the vicinity. It's cloaked, so we're in no immediate
danger, but I'm keeping shields up until reinforcements
arrive. I've opened negotiations with the Warhird's com-
mander, Avrak. Sister's son to Senator Pardek."
    So, now. Fascinating. "Most understandable, Command-
er. You seem to have prepared for any eventuality. My
compliments."
    "Thank you, sir." The ring of pleasure in Uhura's voice
eased some ache in Spock that he had not known he
possessed.
    "Spock?" David Rabin stood at his shoulder. "Since
you're not going anywhere just yet, I'd like to discuss
something with you."
    "Indeed." Spock followed Rabin into a conference room
where food, water, and a savory hot drink had been set out.
"I see you have already planned for this event."
    "Sit down," Rabin commanded. "At the risk of sounding
like a stereotype: Eat something. On the flight back, I was
making plans that I want to run by you. Now that we've got
the nomads working with us and no more Romulan interfer-
ence, I want to set some priorities." "Wise."
    "The first thing is to tell the whole story. No more myths.
No more secrecy. No more fear. Then, we start to rebuild

 the ozone layer. I know we've only got outpost status here,
 but with the cooperation of Obsidian's people--all of its
 people," he added with immense satisfaction, "we can ask
 for a change in planetary status so that Federation technolo-
 gy can be brought in."
"The Prime Directive?" Spock asked with an eyebrow lift.
"This is a devolved culture," Rabin reminded Spock. "I'd
wager paleoarcheologists and archivists could pinpoint pre-
cisely at what cultural level they regressed."  Spock nodded. "Proceed."
    "Ozone layer is going to be our long-term project," Rabin
said. "Where we're really going to make our short-term
gains is in the area of medicine. If we could borrow the
services of a really first-rate oncology center..." He shook
his head. "When I die, what I'd really like as my epitaph is
that I helped see that the only thing that made kids get sick
around here was the local equivalent of a cold. We can cure a
lot of those cancers and stabilize the ones we can't against
the next breakthrough. Are you with me, Spock?"
    "Not literally. I will be returning to Vulcan so that Sered
can be treated. But I find your priorities flawlessly logical. I
suspect," he added with the smallest upward crook of a
corner of his mouth, "that you have heard the last of the title
'Kindly Fool.' I have one more suggestion."
    "What's that?" Rabin poured hot tea for Spock and glared
at him until he drank.
    "More diplomatic missions to work with the deep-desert
nomads. The Elder we met is a powerful ally. No doubt she
is connected with tribes halfway across the planet."
    Rabin shook his head. "Spock, all I can say is that I wish
you were going to be here to take charge of that. Seems
you're a born diplomat."
    Spock set his teacup down almost too quickly. Rabin
might even attribute any shakiness to the fact that Spock
had used his damaged hand to lift it. A diplomat. Like his

father. His father who had tried to force him into a pattern
designed before Surak's birth.
    But I broke free to create my own pattern. Now... where
is that pattern leading me?
    He looked past Rabin and out a floor-to-ceiling window of
polarized steelsheen into a dry-planet garden, remembering
the conversation he had had so many years ago with his
mother in her wet-planet conservatory. The stars of Romu-
lan space shone up there, far beyond the poison of wounded
Loki. Perhaps Sered had had the right idea after all, even if
his means were as desperately flawed as his mind. If more
Romulans and Vulcans of goodwill could only speak togeth-
er honestly and openly... Perhaps it must wait until a
younger generation grew up without the old, illogical fears
that kept the cousin races sundered. Ruanek, after all, had
even wagered on him.
    Spock's hearing picked up a beep in CommCen, and he
rose, his abused muscles protesting.
    "Commander Uhura from the Intrepid," said the ensign.
"Commander's compliments and she'll be happy to beam
Captain Spock on board now. Just the captain, she adds,
sir."
 Interesting.
    Spock started toward the transporter booths. "David,
kindly look after my people for a while longer, please."
    Rabin grinned and waved the transporter chief away from
the controls. "Next time, don't forget to write. Shalom,
Spock."
    He saluted Spock in the Vulcan fashion, which he had
once told Spock had religious significance for his own
people. Spock returned the gesture.
    "Live long and prosper, David Rabin. And..." How
would someone of Rabin's people word it? Ah, yes. "Do not
be a stranger!"
  Transporter effect took him before Rabin could retort.

TWENTY-EIGHT

A

Intrepid II
Year 2296

Spock had an instant to wish, illogically, that he could have
materialized on his ship minus his injuries before a young
officer greeted him.
    "Lieutenant Duchamps, sir. Commander Sent me to brief
you en route to the bridge."
    "Commendably efficient," Spock approved as he headed
toward the nearest turbolift. Uhura had even chosen some-
one able to keep Up with his long-legged stride, not expecting
to see him return somewhat the worse for wear.
 "Bridge," Spock ordered.
    The turbolift hummed, then lurched. The ship screamed
red alert again, and lights went dark as power flickered.
Spock lunged for emergency controls, ignoring strained
muscles. The lights struggled back on, and the lift returned
to operations, although somewhat more slowly.
 "Powersave," Duchamps explained superfluously. "Cap-

tain--I mean Commander Uhura said to channel power
to the shields to compensate for being outgunned."
    Captain Uhura. He had always valued and respected the
communications officer, but he had had no idea that she
could so quickly weld his bridge staff into a fighting crew.
    The turbolift's hum faded, the door slid open, and Spock
strode out as fast as his battered body would allow.
    "Captain!" The gladness in Uhura's voice was replaced by
concern at the sight of him. Spock hoped that the alternation
of red light and shadow that marked red alert would hide the
brief frown that crossed his face.
    "There is no serious damage," he assured her, and moved
forward. Uhura fairly leapt out of the command chair so he
could seat himself, standing beside him as he quickly
scanned her records of the past few days. "Creative adapta-
tion to maximize weapons," he noted.
    "A science vessel just isn't up to exchanging broadsides
with a Warbird, so I was trying to bluff. I thought I had
Avrak convinced!"
    If diplomacy worked with Klingons, how much more
effective should it be with Romulan kinsfolk? "We shall
provide him with another demonstration of the validity of
your logic, Commander," Spock told Uhura, and saw some
of the tension leave her body.
    He glanced at the crew, seeing an almost imperceptible
difference in them. Commander Uhura had welded them
into the same sort of cohesive unit that David Rabin had
created on Obsidian. (And was that the merest twinge of a
very human jealousy he felt, that she should succeed where
he had not? Impossible.) The crew looked back at him. Their
spines straightened. One or two of them even smiled.
 Spock nodded. "Open a hailing frequency."
    Duchamps turned, exchanging a grin with Uhura. "With
pleasure, sir/I mean, aye-aye, sir."

    Spock awarded the lieutenant an ironic eyebrow and
received a grin in exchange.
    The screen blanked, then filled with the image of a
Warbird's cramped bridge with Avrak, sister-son to Pardek,
seated in the command chair.
    Civil wars are always the worst, McCoy often said. Still, if
Romulans and Vulcans both wished it, they might at some
point in the future again be one people. A quick flash of
thought: Was this why T'Pau had refused to allow the
subject to be discussed, why she had kept herself aloof from
the tremendous contribution she might have made all these
years on the Federation Council--so that the family might
have a chance to heal itself?.
Avrak's eyes widened at the sight of Spock.
"Commander Avrak," Spock greeted him bluntly. "Let us
admit that it would be glorious to measure our ships'
strengths and our crews' courage. Glorious, but illogical.
Your attempt to sabotage the Federation's efforts on Obsidi-
an have failed, and your plot to exploit a renegade has been
exposed."
    He turned to Duchamps. "Lieutenant, raise the outpost
on Obsidian. Captain Spock's compliments to Captain
Rabin, and would he kindly patch in transmissions from his
sickbay and brig?"
    A second screen came live, the image forming of Sered,
lying slumped on a diagnostic bed, eyes blank, clearly not
living in reality.
    "You relied too greatly on a weak reed, Commander,"
Spock told Avrak. "Commander Uhura has already sum-
moned reinforcements, but she faced certain... lim-
itations of knowledge."
    "Your lady the officer is a fierce one, Captain." There was
more than a touch of admiration behind the words, possibly
even a hint of something unexpectedly warmer. Beside

Spock, Uhura stiflened, and he felt her hand tighten ever so
slightly on the back of his command chair.
    Interesting, Spock thought, and stored the data away. "I
value my officer appropriately, Commander. She very prop-
erly called for reinforcements. But she did not have access to
certain information."
    Spock gestured as imperiously as Sered ever had, and an
image of Centurion Ruanek, his cousin Kharik (still under
guard), and the other, surviving Romulans, formed on-
screen.
    "You have not just suborned a Vulcan in broken health--
and who must be returned to Vulcan for medical interven-
tion," Spock began, coolly listing facts, "you have illegally
landed an armed force on a world protected by the Federa-
tion. You have crossed the Neutral Zone and fired on a
Starfleet vessel. At least two of these actions are acts of war,
while the first is what my crew might call inhuman. Do you
truly wish the entire Federation--and your Praetor--to
know that it was all your doing? Or shall we simply be polite
and call the matter a slight... miscalculation or misunder-
standing? I leave the choice of word to you."
    After one quick glance at Sered, Avrak had ignored him.
But he was unable to look away from the Romulans in the
brig on Obsidian. "My warriors," he said.
    Spock arched an eyebrow. "All but one of them gave me
their parole. I took them under my protection to save their
lives. They deserve nobler purposes than these."
 "They deserve better than a Federation prison!"
    "So they do, Commander," Spock agreed. "And we have
no desire to be their jailers. Accordingly, I am returning
them to you."
 "On what terms?"
    "Why, Commander Avrak, what logical terms are there in
this situation but those of honor? Captain Rabin, respond
please."

    Rabin would have been within range the instant that
Spock hailed his outpost. "Captain Spock." His voice was
properly formal.
    "This is Commander Avrak of the Adamant. He has a
slight problem with missing personnel. Do you think you
can assist him?"
    "With the greatest of ease, sir." Spock heard Rabin
activate a communicator. "Transporter room? Six to beam
to... ?"
    "Commander?" Spock asked. "Will you transmit coordi-
nates to Obsidian?"
    Avrak looked as if he would rather order Spock's slow
execution. He gestured curtly. A centurion saluted. From
the planet, Rabin nodded.
"Coordinates coming through. Prepare to beam six up."
Lights swirled about the Romulans, forming into col-
umns. Their bodies flickered, and the lights faded. Avrak
turned his head as if listening to the Romulan equivalent of
a transporter chief report that six warriors had come on
board.
    As David would say, good luck attend you, Ruanek. I think
you shall need every bit of your cleverness.
    "I have my warriors back," Avrak snapped. "Those who
still live. I shall disavow knowledge of the misadventure in
which the others died. Now, what of the Vulcan renegade?"
    "I shall return him to Vulcan for therapy and interroga-
tion. Any knowledge that remains in his damaged mind is
valuable to us."
 "I do not envy you the shipmate, sir."
    "Envy is an emotion, sir. This is a matter of duty, not...
enjoyment." And he shaded the word with the faintest
disdain.
    Avrak smiled. "Game well played, Captain Spock. I shall
anticipate our next contest. And..." He let his eyes stray
from Spock to Uhura. "My compliments to your officer."

    His glance was openly admiring. A flurry of amusement
went around Spock's bridge crew. Uhura shrugged.
    "There would be no games," Spock said quietly, "if we
could, perhaps, deal together as friends. Or perhaps one day
as kinsmen, once again."
    Avrak's gaze snapped back to Spock. He raised a thought-
ful eyebrow. "Stranger things have happened," Avrak admit-
ted after a moment.
    The screen blanked. Instants later, the Warbird's cloaking
device engaged.
    "Check to see that it's still emitting radiation," Uhura
ordered, turning toward Lieutenant Richards's scanners.
"Begging your pardon, sir," she added to Spock. "But I'd bet
that Commander Avrak will keep that glitch so we can track
him out of Federation space."
"It is illogical to bet on sure things, Commander."
Spock turned to Lieutenant Duchamps. "Mr. Duchamps,
will you please contact Obsidian and ask when Dr. McCoy
will have his patient stabilized for transport on board?"
 "Aye-aye, sir."
    Spock allowed his spine to touch the back of the com-
mand chair. Even this more relaxed posture was uncomfort-
able. The chair simply was not a proper fit, neither literally
nor figuratively.
    Logic required an accurate assessment of his own skills.
He could command satisfactorily and more than that; but
command was a task in which "satisfactory" was insuffi-
cient. He was also, he knew, an outstanding science officer,
and Jim used to call him "the best first officer in the Fleet."
Those roles were in his past. What was his future?
    You're a born diplomat. David Rabin had told him.
Decades ago, as a boy, he had been right about Spock and
Starfleet. Was Rabin right now, too? Despite his humor and
the passion for the frontier that made him avoid promotion
as assiduously as Jim Kirk, Rabin's mind had always been

adept in making the intuitive leaps that Spock only now had
begun to realize might represent a form of logic entirely new
to him.
    He would need, Spock thought, to give serious considera-
tion to the issues he had raised with Avrak.
    Was I, too, impelled by an intuitive logic? One that
parallels DavM's own?
    Reconciliation of the Sundering would truly be a worth-
while goal--the crowning scientific expedition of his life.

    McCoy's call from Obsidian found Spock in his quarters,
where he had turned up the climate control to a luxurious
approximation of Vulcan's restoring heat.
      "You should be in sickbay," McCoy accused him, face
frowning from the viewscreen.  "Not just yet, Doctor."
    David Rabin's image was right beside that of McCoy.
Gratifying, Spock thought, to see peace between the two.
    "They're gone, Spock," Rabin assured him, "though you
probably know that already. Centurion Ruanek withdrew
his parole so that... let me see if I can remember his exact
words..." Rabin's mobile face took on a faraway expres-
sion. "'I withdraw my parole that I may be free as befits a
warrior, a vassal to Avrak sister-son of Pardek, and a son of
House Minor Strevon.'"
    Spock inclined his head a fraction. "The centurion speaks
with propriety." ú
    "Property too," McCoy added. "You may not have made
him a wealthy man, but when his bets on you paid off, he at
least had the sense to be grateful. Knows how to cover
his... ah... tail, too."
    Good. Such a youngster shouM not be wasted. "What is
your patient's status?" Spock asked.
    McCoy hesitated. "If he were a human, I'd say he was in
shock. Denial, but not quite to the point of true catatonia.

And I'd put a human on suicide watch. But given what I've
learned of Vulcan physiology and psychology--" He eyed
Spock ironically. "--I'd say he's as tough as the rest of you,
despite his craziness."
 "Is that a technical term?" Spock asked mildly.
    "As technical as I'm going to get! I would think that any
neurological damage should be reparable once we get him to
Vulcan. We are headed to Vulcan, I take it." "You are finally learning logic, Doctor."
    "I think I'll ignore that comment from a patient-to-be,"
McCoy remarked: his form of revenge. As Rabin leaned
back, grinning widely, the doctor continued, "As I was
saying, I think that the Science Academy can probably
regenerate any damage. However, the consequences if, as,
and when Sered returns to sane awareness--can you imag-
ine a Vulcan with a guilt complex?"
 "I'm not sure I want to," Rabin said.
    And he met the doctor's eyes with complete, if ironic,
understanding.
    "Captain Rabin, thanks for your hospitality and all your
help."
    "Is Sered ready to beam up to the Intrepid?" Spock
asked.
 "Spock, I'll meet you in sickbay," McCoy, responded.
     "Negative, Doctor. I will receive you in the transporter
room myselfi With guards. I will not risk you again."
 McCoy rose hastily. "I'm on my way."
 "Take care of him, Doctor," Rabin said.
    McCoy raised his eyebrow in a Vulcan-like gesture that
made the captain smile. "Take care of him? He'd tell you it's
the other way around."
    "So?" Rabin asked. "What else are friends for? Shalom,
Spock."

"I will think about what we discussed. Live long and
prosper. Spock out."
    No doubt McCoy would press Rabin for an explanation.
After all, as Intrepid's chief medical officer, McCoy had a
duty to participate in any major decisions.
    Spock signaled Security, ordering, "Armed party to the
transporter room." He rose slowly, allowing himself to
wince since he was alone. A day or so in sickbay might be
worthwhile, even if he had to listen to McCoy's ranting.
    He adjusted climate control back downward. There was
absolutely no logic in giving McCoy the satisfaction of
knowing he had succumbed to the lure of physical comfort.
    Then, with the slightest tightening of his lips, Spock
adjusted the control back up. There was also no logic in
giving the doctor the chance to nag him about removing
himself from a healing environment.
    Either way, I must admit that the doctor's presence will be
quite welcome.

TWENTY-NINE

A

   Intrepid II and Vulcan
Day 21, Tenth Week uf Tasmeen,
Year 2296

"Captain's log, Stardate 9835.7." Spock paused for a mo-
ment, organizing his thoughts, then continued:
    '7 have reviewed the performance of the bridge crew of
Intrepid II, and hereby confirm the commendations made by
Commander and Acting Captain Uhura to Lieutenants Du-
champs and Richards, as well as to Lieutenant Commander
Atherton of Engineering.
    '7 shouM like to log additional commendations: to Chief
Medical Officer Leonard McCoy for his courage and humani-
tarian assistance on Obsidian, and to Commander Uhura as
well. I would like to recommend that, at her next fitness
evaluation, she be offered a ship of her own. Perhaps even this
one."
 Her reaction to that should prove most interesting.
 "Helm reports that we shall soon enter orbit around

Vulcan, where Sered will be transferred to the care of Vulcan
Science Academy Healers."
    Someone was at the door to his chambers. "Spock out,"
Spock ended, and closed the log. "Come," he called, and the
door opened, revealing McCoy.
  "Ah, Dr. McCoy. I have been expecting you."
    He raised an eyebrow at McCoy's finery. The doctor wore
a new, hot-weather uniform, acquired against a trip down-
world into Vulcan's heat.
    "If I'm going to be a consulting physician to the Vulcan
Science Academy," McCoy explained, "I can't look like
something the sehlat dragged in."
    "What a sehlat drags in, Doctor. would undoubtedly be of
more interest to pathology than psychiatry."
    McCoy grumbled, conceding the point, and set a bottle of
Romulan ale down on Spock's table.
 Spock awarded his friend another eyebrow.
    "Well, I'm all out of Saurian brandy, and I've never been
able to civilize you into liking mint juleps, so we'll just have
to make do."
    "1 thought," Spock said, "that the ale might be part of
your... I believe the appropriate term is 'syndicate'...
with Centurion Ruanek."
"Nice youngster, isn't he? Deserves better than..."
Breaking off, the doctor extracted glasses from a shelf, and
poured. "Spock, are you by some chance planning to help
them out the way you did the Klingons?"
 "You have a genius for intrusion, Doctor."
 "Hell, Spock, what else are friends for?"
    Spock raised his glass to McCoy as if in the ritual of water
welcome. "Absent friends," he said, and this time meant
living as well as deceased.
    They both drank to the toast. Then Spock continued, "I
have begun to think that friends are for keeping one honest,
a gift you and David share. In fact, Doctor, I would probably

have been consulting you soon enough. I have been thinking
of making some changes--"
    "Dammit!" McCoy exploded. "Out of the frying pan--
which is a pretty good metaphor for Loki, if you ask me--
into a Learning Experience. Uhura told me you've asked her
if she wants a ship of her own, and she's considering it. Now
what?"
    "Captain Rabin suggested that I had the skills suitable for
diplomacy. Because he was the one who first suggested I
might successfully enter Starfleet, logic compels me to
consider his suggestion."
    McCoy set his glass down, propped both elbows on
Spock's table, and leaned forward. "Doctor to patient, if you
don't mind. It's true you don't have the same flair for
command that Jim did or the style that has Duchamps
sitting up and saying 'aft' every time Uhura smiles at him.
But you do have people skills: we saw that with the Elder on
Obsidian--hell, we saw that with the children down there. If
you want the honest-to-God truth, I'd say that your skills
actually parallel those of your father, down to the last drop
of charisma. Probably explains why the two of you fought
like--like sehlats and le-matyas for so many years. Oh all
right, sehlats and le-matyas who'd studied logic at Surak's
feet. You know perfectly well what I mean." Spock inclined his head.
    "Spock, you've already made up your mind, haven't you?
And if you have, what's the point of calling in your friendly
neighborhood doctor?"
    "Doctor, it was you who called yourself in. The 'point,' as
you call it, however, is what I believe humans used to call a
'reality check.'"
    McCoy took a careful sip of ale. "Dealing with Sered sort
of makes you want to make sure your mind's in the right
place, doesn't it?"
 Spock awarded him a level glance. "Logic posits change.

Even you will change, Doctor. For all I know, you might
return to Obsidian one day. My assumption is that between
my hail to the base and your return message, David was
trying to draft you."
    "Wouldn't be the first time Starfleet pulled that stunt on
me. Damreit, Spock, I'm a Starfleet surgeon, not area
pediatric oncologist."
    "Before you are either, Bones"--it was a deliberate use of
the old, familiar nickname--"you are a healer. You will go
where you are most needed. As must I." "We're not talking about me, Spock."
    "Nor about me," Spock replied. "But about logic and
change."
     As McCoy assumed his most exasperated "give me
strength" look, Duchamps signaled from the bridge.
 "Captain, I have located Ambassador Sarek."
    Spock's hand tightened ever so slightly on his glass. Logic
and change, indeed. "Patch the ambassador's call through to
my cabin, please."
    "You don't want me here. No, don't argue. Just give your
father my greetings," McCoy said, with an odd, sympathetic
little smile, and slipped out, tactful and acerbic to the last.
              r
    Spock had beamed down alone in what was sunset at
Shikahr, at a point he had chosen for its view of what had
once been his home.
    From the low hilltop on which he stood, he could admire
the brilliance of the red light that struck the Forge, hammer-
ing out individuals, a civilization, millennia of history with
the ruthlessness of an artist. A shavokh veered, rising on a
wingtip before it mounted a thermal to soar out toward the
Forge. Spock followed its flight for a moment. Beyond the

Forge was the Womb of Fire, where he had been reborn as a
Starfleet officer in the reek of sulfur and fear. The evening air
was fragrant, enticing with the desert's lure.
    The Veil slid down over his eyes as he stared into the
splendid light, peering through it to focus upon the subtle
curved walls and courtyards, set among his mother's gar-
dens, of his family home. The air and sight of home
were... highly satisfactory. McCoy might call that hyper-
bolic language if he chose.
    House and gardens both were still meticulously main-
tained. Neglect was, of course, illogical, as was regret. It did
seem, however, that while Spock's mother lived, the gardens
had possessed a studied disorder in the raking of the gravel
and pebbles of the paths, the arrangement of just one
blossoming shrub, placed with slight, satisfying asymmetry
to the others, even the casual untidiness of one fallen spray
of leaves upon a hollowed rock, that they now lacked.
    Although Spock had known the door codes since he had
been old enough to venture out-of-doors alone, he signaled
his arrival. Sarek greeted him formally at the door, ushering
him ceremoniously inside.
    Always sealed against Vulcan's heat, dust, and dryness,
the house now felt instead hermetically closed off from the
rest of the world. Sounds echoed in the austerely furnished
rooms. These days, Spock thought, Sarek traveled as light as
Spock himself.
    "May I offer thee water after try journey?" Sarek asked
formally.
    "I am honored by thy welcome," Spock replied, just as
formally. "I give thanks."
    He bowed deeply, son to father, guest to host, as he
accepted the water that Sarek brought from a bubbling
courtyard well in cups even older than the house, each
carved from agate that gleamed in the sunset.
 Father and son saluted each other and drank. Sarek

gestured Spock to a chair. At least, Spock thought, it was not
the one reserved for honored guests.
    They sat admiring the sunset until it faded. Subtle light
radiated from the walls of the house, glittered in the
gardens.
    "I have received a report from the Science Academy on its
most recent patient," Sarek began after a long, almost
meditative interval. "I am struck by the symmetry of your
and Sered's interactions.'~
    "Dr. McCoy would say, 'What goes around, comes
around,' or perhaps, 'The wheel has come full circle.'"
    For a tense moment, he was certain that his father would
reject the metaphor.
    "Yes," Sarek said. "Events do possess a symmetry that is
aesthetically appealin~3 as well as logical." He paused. "Al-
though that is a redundancy."
    "Captain Rabin and I proved to be the agents, finally, of
Sered's return to Vulcan, just as we helped to exile him."
    "Sered chose his own exile," Sarek corrected. "At some
point, surely, before the madness took him, he had aware-
ness, volition enough to have sought counseling. In-
stead..."
    This measured, logical conversation was perfectly
proper--between acquaintances, not family. "T'Pau knew
him for what he was," Spock said, and to his chagrin--
another emotionwheard criticism in his voice.
    Sarek drew himself up in the way that had proved so
daunting to Spock as a boy. "Thee has no right to judge
where thee chose not to belong," he said in Old High
Vulcan. "Thee made thy choice."
    But Spock was no longer a boy to accept a reproof he did
not deserve. "My father, we both know why I chose Star-
fleet. It is illogical to argue the past."
 Sarek bowed his head ever so slightly but said nothing,

knowing as Spock knew that their last quarrel had set
eighteen years of silence between them. Without Amanda's
conciliatory influence, any quarrel they had now might
prove irrevocable. Drawing a deep breath, Spock began
again, this time more cautiously, "Yet, my father, it is of my
former choice that I wish to speak."
    His choice of the word "former" brought Sarek's head up
with more haste than was seemly, a strange light glistening
in his eyes. "Walk with me, my son," Sarek said. And rose
somewhat quickly.
    Spock followed his father out into Amanda's gardens. Her
memory was very vivid here, too, almost as if some human
essence akin to a katra remained in what she had loved and
tended for so many years.
    "My father," Spock began, "I have formed a working
hypothesis regarding a solution to a long-standing problem.
It is logical for me to conclude that I have arrived at this
solution because of the very choice that I made as a boy to
go out among the stars and serve with beings of many
races." Trying to ignore Sarek's ever so slight tensing, he
continued, "I have been doing so, however, in a way that I
suspect that Dr. McCoy would term 'making it up as I went
along.'"
    The faint tension relaxed. "As always, the doctor speaks
in metaphors."
    "As always, the doctor speaks emotionally," Spock
agreed. "But, as we both have found, logic almost always
underlies his words. I... have thought to change my life's
course somewhat. Because you are the most experienced
xenodiplomat on Vulcan and perhaps in the entire Federa-
tion, logic demands that I consult you. As does..." He
hunted for a word that was not too emotionally charged,
settled on "loyalty."
 "Speak, my son."

    Was Sarek finding breathing difficult? Spock glanced
quickly at him but perceived no indications of cardiac
distress. Best to say quickly and concisely what there could
be no turning back from.
    "I require advice on how best to apply to the Vulcan
Science Academy for advanced study in diplomacy and
alien cultures."
    "You would resign your commission?" Sarek's voice rang
out over the Forge.
    The words, illogically, hurt. Service, Spock reminded
himself, is service, no matter the variation. And it is only
logical to serve in the most efficient possible way.
    "The position of ambassador," Sarek continued, voice
sternly controlled, "is a civilian position, and an important
one. It must not be abused."
    "Sir, I would not abuse the position I seek--one that you
have always fulfilled with such honor--by attempting to
hold both it and my current rank. As soon as Starfleet
confirms my choice of replacement, I shall resign."
 There. It was done.
 Sarek stood watching him, his eyes hooded.
    Spock hesitated. "Your recommendation would be of the
utmost assistance."
"If I refuse, no doubt you will apply on your own."
"No doubt. Nevertheless, I would value your approval.
Because I... consider it worth the having." Spock felt his
chest tighten, as though, illogically, he were a human in need
of tri-ox. "I always have."
    Sarek's hand, outstretched to straighten a branch laden
with fragrant white flowers, faltered. He started to reach out
to Spock instead, but then let his hand drop and glanced
quickly away.
 "I ask pardon for my loss of control," Sarek murmured.
 "I see no need to ask pardon, sir."

    Dammit, Spock, McCoy's voice yelped in his mind, some-
times there~ such a thing as too much logic!
    So be it. Spock closed a hand on his father's shoulder,
letting the touch say what he could not.
 And now he will brush me away. ReJuse me. Again.
    Yet Sarek did not rebuke him. They stood motionless,
father and son, and then Sarek said, very softly, "I give
thanks."
    Spock released him, and, moved by unspoken agreement,
they began to walk again.
    "My father," Spock said, "you and I have both studied
human culture. Over the past few years, I have become...
reacquainted, I should say, with human writings that are as
old as Surak's epigrams. For example: 'To everything there is
a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven;
a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a
time to pluck up that which is planted...'"
    "'A time to love,'" Sarek's deep voice blended with the
night wind, "'and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time
of peace...'" He paused. "I am acquainted with the text."
    Of course. Doubtless, if Spock searched, if he could bear
to search his mother's effects, he would find the large,
battered volume that she had brought with her from Earth
and from which she sometimes had read aloud when Spock
was young or when she, like her husband, required a period
of meditation and reflection. And he had always thought her
life had been so serene.
    "Your explanation is highly unorthodox, my son. Never-
theless, your logic is most... eloquent. If I may be permit-
ted another quotation, I shall quote your mother, who
derived great satisfaction from telling all we met, 'We are
very proud of Spock.'"
 "You honor me, sir."
 "There is no honor in expressing the truth."

"On the contrary, my father, there is no honor higher."
Father and son stood together as the wind wreathed them
and died away. Chimes rang, then subsided, leaving a
stillness too precious to shatter.
    At length, Sarek sighed and spoke. "With your mother
gone, the house seems to possess echoes that are not
harmonious. Accordingly, I often dine in the common room
of the Science Academy. Would you care to accompany me?
It would be an ideal beginning."
    He is lonely, Spock thought with a shock of realization.
My father is lonely. "An excellent idea, my father."
    Together, they walked toward the Science Academy; star-
light glittered on their upturned faces. Their accord, at least
for the moment, possessed all the harmony of music resolv-
ing into a tonic chord, Spock thought, aesthetically as well as
logically pleasing, although, as Sarek said, the two concepts
were one.
    A veteran of Starfleet, an accomplished scientist, Spock
could enter the Vulcan Science Academy as a peer now,
rather than on the sufferance that would have been granted
Sarek's half-blood child. He had come home by choice, and
by choice would go back out into the stars again.
    He glanced toward the stars that marked the boundaries
of the Romulan Empire, seeing not merely their light but the
faces of memory, as well as the faces he had yet to meet.
 I am coming, he told them silently.
 They would wait for him.

Ambassador Spock's Story Will Continue in

         ,tar Tr›r
 VULCAN' S H tAInT

               by
Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz

      Coming Fall 1998 from Pocket Books