She faced him, holding his gaze with her own intense one.
"Do you know anything about Vulcan history?"
"A little," Peter said cautiously.
"Let me show you something." She walked back to the computer terminal
and selected a computer tape, then plugged it in.
As Peter seated himself in front of the screen, images coalesced in
front of him. The predominant one was an image of the Plains of Gol, a
scene familiar to anyone who watched popular media entertainment.
Splashed across the desolate scene were the words The True History of
Vulcan.
He groaned inwardly. Propaganda films were not among his personal
favorites.
"Are you aware that the Vulcans fought major wars on their planet
several thousand years ago?" Lisa asked, as the film moved forward,
illustrating her question with vivid, computer-generated film sequences
that seemed shockingly real. "Wars that make Earth's World Wars and the
Eugenics War look like skirmishes by comparison?"
"I think I remember reading something to that effect," he mumbled.
"Well," Lisa leaned forward and murmured confidentially,
"they still have the weapons from those wars, stockpiled in secret
installations. Weapons that could turn Earth into a smoking cinder in a
matter of minutes."
As the images on the film confirmed her wild allegations, Peter's mouth
dropped open, and he didn't have to feign astonishment. Where in hell
did she get that idea? They had to have faked these images! Vulcan has
no weapons except defensive ones--and hasn't for four thousand years!
"You're kidding!" he managed, feebly. "Where did you find out about
that?"
She shook her head. "Everyone in the KEHL knows.
We can't ge t the Terran government to admit it, but it's true."
"Wow," was all Peter could say. "That's hard to believe."
"You think that's bad, you haven't heard anything, yet," Lisa said. She
touched the computer controls and changed the scene from massive
stockpiles of terrifying weapons to another, more fantastic landscape.
There was a towering cathedral-like edifice in a searing desert. Inside
were cavernous, smoky, dimly lit rooms packed with peculiar, glowing
orbs, pulsating as if with a mysterious force.
"The Vulcans are in control of ancient Vulcan ... personalities, I guess
you'd call them," Lisa said. "Spirits
without bodies. They're called katras, and they have hundreds of
thousands of them stored up, just waiting to turn them loose to possess
the people on Earth. Unless we can stop them, they'll conquer us without
a shot being fired!"
This last was almost too much for Peter. He knew he had to cajole her
along, try to learn more, but all he wanted was to escape listening to
such noxious paranoid fantasies.
"But don't worry," she consoled him, misinterpreting his expression. She
placed a warm hand on his arm. "We're on to them now. And our membership
is growing, bringing in new committed people--people like yourself. Our
voices will be heard." When he didn't respond, she asked, "What made you
join up?"
"Self-preservation," he said, letting her take it any way she wanted to.
"But I ... had no idea ... things were so bad ... "Her bizarre
accusations merely gave him more incentive to accomplish the task he'd
come here to do.
"Lisa, you told me you needed my help in a special task.
Something about a Vulcan conspiracy ... ?"
She nodded. "Boy, you're inexhaustible! I wasn't going to bring it up
tonight, but ..." She glanced through a number of tapes then pulled one
up. "We've found information that's coming straight out of the Vulcan
consulate that will shatter this whole holier-than-thou sham the Vulcans
have set up. This information will prove that Vulcans are using their
telepathy to influence powerful members of the Federation--perhaps even
the president himselfl"
Peter's eyes locked on the small tape. In his pocket sat blank
cassettes, enough memory to copy anything he should find of value here,
but so far, nothing seemed significant.
"How can I help with that?"
"Needless to say, this information was very difficult to come by," she
told him. "A lot of it has been lost in the transference--special codes,
significant schedules. Since you're a data-retrieval technician, I
thought ..."
He nodded. "Sure! I'd be glad to help. I can take it to work tomorrow
and ..."
She shook her head. "Oh no, this can't possibly leave here.
In fact, Jay's not real happy with my even letting you see it.
But ... for some reason ... I can't help but trust you, Peter Church."
Lisa leaned forward almost imperceptibly, at the same time Peter felt
his own body drawn toward her. When their lips met, his face flamed with
embarrassment that his body had so little regard for his own internal
ethics.
"I'll ... be happy to work on it here," he said huskily, when they drew
apart. "I can probably ... tap into my workstation ... use my fries at
work to decode some of the lost material."
She nodded. "That would be great." And kissed him again.
They both jumped when they heard the door behind them whoosh open. Jay
stood there, frowning disapprovingly.
Lisa moved away from Peter self-consciously. "I ... didn't think you'd
be back so early," she stammered.
Jay didn't respond, merely glanced at Peter and said to the woman
neutrally, "Can I see you in my office a moment?
Something's come up."
"Is it Induna?" she asked worriedly, standing. They'd found out that the
president of KEHL had survived Sarek's "assault," but had been
hospitalized (at his own insistence, Peter knew). "Is he all right?"
"Let's ... talk in my office," Jay reiterated, nodding his head in that
direction.
"Wait for me," Lisa said to Peter, "and I'll show you the problem with
those files."
He nodded and watched her walk toward Jay's office with the other man.
The moment they were both out of sight and earshot, Peter snatched up
the "conspiracy" tape and plugged it in. Grabbing one of his empty ones,
he downloaded the whole thing, sight unseen. After copying the secret
cassette, he copied the extensive KEHL membership lists, and the
propaganda films as well. He had just finished copying the annual
agenda, and sliding his tapes back in his pocket, when Lisa came back
into her office. Jay was not with her. Peter stood to greet her.
"Everything all right?" he asked. "Is Induna okay?"
Lisa nodded, smiling warmly. She slid her arms around him and he
returned the embrace. "Jay is such an alarmist!
Induna's out of the hospital, and will be back here tomorrow."
"Great! Why don't we get started on those Vulcan files?"
She pulled him closer and murmured, "Is work all you think of, Mr.
Church?"
He swallowed, unsure of how far he could take this charade. "Well ...
this would be the best time for me to access my workstation ... "There
wouldn't be many students in the Academy library at this time. He hadn't
&nbs
p; quite figured out how he was going to log on without revealing who he
"worked" for ... or his real name.
"Tomorrow will be soon enough," she assured him, and reached up for
another kiss.
He obliged her, realizing uneasily that his body was responding to her,
even if his mind wasn't. Hastily, he raised his head, staring down at
her. "Okay. Tomorrow. It is late.
I'd better go."
"See you tomorrow, then," she agreed, and released him, smiling warmly
as he let himself out of the basement.
With a twinge of regret, he thought, Not bloody likely. In spite of the
late hour, he made a beeline for the Starfleet Security offices on the
Academy's campus. Those offices were staffed all night. Someone would be
there that would be interested in his story. And then he'd never have to
go back to that basement again, never have to war within himself over
Lisa's feminine charms and her absurd, even dangerous politics. One
thing was for sure--no matter how many mixed feelings he might have
about taking the Command track at school, he was now certain that he had
no interest in working in Intelligence!
Twilight on Vulcan.
Sarek stood alone on his terrace, watching T'Rukh at full phase. The
ambassador had returned from Freelan the previous night, and the day had
been taken up with visits to the meal center and consultations with his
wife's physician.
Now, gazing at the full, bloated sphere, Sarek reached out and grasped
the stone balustrade so tightly that his knuckles shone greenish white
in the eerie glow of The Watcher.
Silently, the ambassador struggled for calm.
As he watched The Watcher, the gigantic world seemed to loom even
closer, as though it were about to topple out of the sky and crush him.
The chilling breeze stirred his thick, iron-gray hair, as refreshing as
the touch of a cool, human hand on his brow. Sarek swallowed, feeling
dull pain in his midsection. Surely he was not ill ... A quick
assessment of his physical condition assured the ambassador that he was
physically healthy ... the pain he was experiencing had no physical
cause.
Sarek leaned heavily on the railing, experiencing again that rush of
vertigo at the thought of Amanda. Amanda was with him now, for the
moment, but soon, the Healer said, she would not be here anymore.
Because Amanda ... Amanda was dying.
Dying. His wife was gravely ill, and, even though they were attempting
to treat her condition, T'Mal held out little hope of recovery.
Dying ... Amanda. Dying. So the Healer said--and one glance at his
wife's face yesterday had convinced him.
Sarek stared blindly at The Watcher, thinking of all the times he had
stood here, during many of the epochs of his life.
How many times had he stood thus? Absently, the ambassador retrieved the
number. He had not seen the giant world until he was an adult, when he
had built his villa here. Also, he had spent much of his working life
off-world. Still, Vulcan's days were shorter than Terran days, and Sarek
was 138 Federation Standard years old. 122,474 times. 122,474 times ...
The ambassador had watched T'Rukh the night that his firstborn had been
declared outcast and departed his homeworld, and known within himself
that he would probably never see Sybok again. Nor had he.
He'd watched T'Rukh during the early hours of his second pon farr,
experiencing the heat of desire, concerned that human flesh and bone
might not withstand the flames consuming him. But human flesh and bone
had proved more resilient than he had thought. During that night, his
secondborn had been conceived.
The ambassador had watched T'Rukh the night that Amanda had delivered
their son, and again when Spock had announced that he had passed the
entrance requirements for Starfleet Academy, and was forsaking the
Vulcan Science Academy to go off-world. Memories of that "discussion"
still had the power to make the ambassador's jaw muscles tighten.
T'Rukh's light had illuminated his son's tall form as he'd walked away
without looking back. His father had thought never to see him again,
either. But that time he had been in error, and never had he been more
pleased to be mistaken.
Sarek drew deep, slow breaths of the cool air as he let his
consciousness sink down, deep inside himself, seeking that place of
quiet repose that every Vulcan was taught in childhood to retreat to
during times of trouble.
He could not find the place. Calm acceptance continued to elude him.
raising both fists to press them against his temples in a gesture he
would never have permitted himself had he not been alone. Every mus cle
in his body was taut; his indrawn breath hurt his lungs.
Logic ... his logic was gone, the core of his mental balance was
gonemand in its place was pain ... and fear.
And grief. Sorrow filled him, until he felt that he could hold no more.
There was no quiet center that would release him from his pain, this
fear, this grief. How could he stand it, if he could not find his
center? How did humans manage, with no silent retreat or sanctuary to
shield them from the constant onslaught of emotion--how could they stand
this?
No wonder some of them broke with reality, retreating into insanity
because they could not deal with their pain, their fear, their grief.
Sarek stared at T'Rukh unseeing, unblinking, until his eyes began to
burn. The physical pain distracted him, and he found a brief respite in
it.
Sarek ... The call resounded softly within his mind. Sarek ...
Immediately the ambassador turned and left the balcony.
He strode swiftly through the living room, down the short hall; then he
hesitated before the carven portal. The call came again. Sarek ...
Quickly he sent back a wordless reassurance, a sense of his proximity
and imminent arrival. Then, drawing a deep breath, the Vulcan put out a
hand and rested it against the carven portal, seeking strength from its
solidity, its age.
Letting the breath out slowly, he summoned calm, seeking at least
outwardly--control. When he was certain that his features betrayed
nothing of his inner turmoil, he straightened. Squaring his shoulders,
he pushed the door open and stepped into the room he had shared with his
wife for more than sixty Earth years.
The chill of the air-conditioning struck him immediately.
Amanda's physician had insisted, over her protests, that she must not
tax her remaining strength by enduring her adopted world's notorious
heat. Cold air blasted against his face, driven constantly so a pressure
lock would not be necessary.
The ambassador's gaze rested first on the bed, but it was empty, the
light, silver-blue coverlet Amanda had woven decades ago thrown back.
Even as he turned toward the small sitting room that looked out over the
rear garden, he sensed her presence, waiting for him.
Quickly, Sarek strode through the bedroom and into the adjoining sitting
room. Amanda occupied her favorite chair as she gazed out the window at
her garden, her pale skin seeming doubly unearthly in T'Rukh's light.
She sat quietly, not turning her head. During the past days she had lost
even more weight ... now she seemed little more than a wraith. Only
Sarek's iron control kept him from betraying his distress at her
appearance.
Sarek ... Her mental "voice" filled his mind. "Amanda," he said,
allowing just a touch of reproach to shade his voice, "you were supposed
to rest for the remainder of the day. The Healer emphasized your need
for rest. Logic demands that you heed her advice." When he reached her
side and stood looking down at her, only her smile was unchanged ...
gentle, full of affection.
"I'm tired of resting," she said, holding up two fingers toward her
husband. "And you know how I love to watch The Watcher shine on the
garden at night."
"I know," Sarek replied, touching her fingers with his own.
"Is it pleasant out tonight?" she asked, a hint of wistful eagerness
tingeing her soft voice.
"Yes, it is," Sarek replied. "However, to answer the unspoken corollary
to your query, no, it is not cool enough for you to go outside, my wife.
The Healer's directions were quite specific on that point. Logic
dictates that you must husband your strength ... and the heat depletes