STAR TREK - TOS - Vulcans Forge

DONT READ WITHOUT VULCANS HEART!

ONE

Federation Protectorate World Obsidian, City of Kalara

Day 2, Fourth Week, Month of the Raging Storm

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 agains t 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 comewe 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-

STAR TREK - TOS - Vulcans Forge

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