Valdyr saw that their eyes were fastened on the ambassador with an avid

 

gleam-- all except one. Keraz ha d drawn back in his seat, and was

 

shaking his head. Suddenly, the commander sent his gauntleted fist

 

crashing down on the aged table so hard that the ironlike wood groaned

 

in protest. "Kamarag, you go too far!" he growled. "I have no love for

 

Azetbur, or her new policies, but I cannot disobey my oath as a Klingon

 

officer!

 

 

There are more renegades raiding across the Neutral Zone every day, and

 

I have no intention of becoming one of them!" Valdyr had to restrain

 

herself from leaping up and saluting the commander.

 

 

Kamarag drew himself up, as though deeply offended--but his niece could

 

tell that his indignation was feigned.

 

 

"Keraz, you mistake me! I have said nothing about disobeying oaths. I

 

have merely requested that each and every one of us assembled here today

 

spend some time in thinking about our current situation, and how it may

 

best be improved!

 

 

There was no talk of oath-breaking in that!" Valdyr sighed inwardly as

 

Keraz obviously lost some of his confidence. His brows drew together in

 

consternation.

 

 

"Yes, Keraz, were you not listening?" Karg growled sarcastically.

 

 

"Did you stay out last night drinking and wenching, only to fall asleep

 

just now and dream talk of oath-breaking?

 

 

For there was none of that voiced today!"

 

 

"Right!"

 

 

"Karg is correct?

 

 

"We have our honor!" The other officers snarled their support of Karg's

 

rebuke.

 

 

Keraz sat back in his seat. "Perhaps I misheard you, Kamarag," he said

 

grudgingly.

 

 

The Klingon ambassador nodded, and within minutes the clandestine

 

meeting had broken up. The moment she could do so without seeming

 

suspect, Valdyr left her seat and hurried out into the corridor. She'd

 

caught Karg ogling her with an appreciative eye, and she wanted to avoid

 

the captain at all costs.

 

 

But her way out of the deep cellars was blocked by the officers, who

 

lingered, talking in groups, or waiting their chance to speak personally

 

with Kamarag. Valdyr shrank back into an alcove that had once held wine

 

casks.

 

 

She'd been standing there long enough to grow chilled from the damp

 

stone surrounding her on three sides when she heard two familiar voices.

 

Kamarag and Karg were talking softly.

 

 

"It went well, I thought ..." Karg was saying. "Except for Keraz. He

 

should be Azetbur's personal servant, if he wishes to clean her boots

 

with his tongue. I knew he would be trouble."

 

 

"We handled it, between us," Kamarag said smugly.

 

 

"Keraz may not join us--but he will not betray us to Azetbur. He has no

 

love for her himself. Tell me, how did your latest raid go?"

 

 

"The best yet," Karg said. Valdyr could almost see him smacking his lips

 

over the memory. "One of those mixed colonies, mostly Tellaritesgyou

 

should have heard the females and the young ones squeal as we cut them

 

down!

 

 

There was very little worth taking on Patelva, true, but it was

 

wonderful to feel the heat of battle and smell the richness of

 

fresh-split blood again." Valdyr swallowed. Klingons gloried in war and

 

battle, true, but there was no honor in mowing down noncombatants.

 

 

Karg's words made her belly tighten with disgust.

 

 

Suddenly a new voice broke into the conversation. One of the other

 

otcers had come up to slap her uncle on the shoulder and congratulate

 

him on a stirring oration. Peering out from her niche, Valdyr saw that

 

the newcomer's back blocked her from view, so she seized that

 

opportunity to steal softly away down the corridor.

 

 

Later that evening, as she sat in her chamber studying for her next

 

examination in Federation Standard, the Klingon woman heard a knock on

 

her door. After bidding the visitor enter, she saw it was her uncle.

 

"Uncle!" she exclaimed, standing respectfully. Even though she did not

 

agree with what he had done that day, he was still her family's savior

 

and head. Klingon tradition decreed that her first loyalty be to him.

 

 

"I have something important to discuss with you, niece," he said in his

 

deep, resonant voice. "It has come to my attention recently that you are

 

of an age to wed." Valdyr's eyes widened. "Yes, I suppose so, Uncle,"

 

she said. "But I am so busy with school these days, I have not thought

 

much on the matter of prospective husbands."

 

 

"Your mother arranged no marriage for you before her death," Kamarag

 

said, seating himself on the narrow, shelflike bed. "Was that your

 

choice?"

 

 

"We never discussed it," Valdyr said. "My mother married according to

 

liking, not for family advancement. I believe she intended the same for

 

me, but I do not know for certain."

 

 

"My sister married beneath her," her uncle said grimly.

 

 

Valdyr stiffened at hearing her beloved father denigrated so,

 

 

but Kamarag did not notice. "However, there is no point in rehashing her

 

unfortunate choice, since it all lies in the past.

 

 

We must look to the future--your future. Someone offered for your hand

 

today, and I accepted." Valdyr held her breath. Who? Keraz? I do not

 

love him, but he is a warrior with honor ... no, that cannot be. Keraz

 

is married, I remember hearing that. Who elseg A sudden thought occurred

 

to her, and, with a sinking sensation, she heard her uncle confirm her

 

worst fears.

 

 

"Karg is a veteran of many battles, a warrior of considerable renown. He

 

fancies you, niece, and he is well able to provide you with anything any

 

female could want. I accepted his offer." Rising, he strode to the open

 

door and beckoned. The Klingon captain stepped in from the hall, and

 

grinned broadly at his promised bride.

 

 

"Karg ..." Valdyr whispered, faintly. The knot in her belly turned over,

 

and she had to lock her knees to keep from trembling. To wed and bed

 

Karg? NOT I would embrace my dagger as bridegroom before that

 

dishonorable Denlbya'qatlh!

 

 

As though he could read her mind, Karg gave her a mocking half-bow. "My

 

wife-to-be ... your uncle has'done me a great honor."

 

 

"Hah!" Kamarag barked out a shout of laughter, and slapped the suitor on

 

the back. "The honor is all ours, Karg!" He gave Valdyr a smug glance.

 

"I Bo not wonder that she is speechless with joy." I cannot marry him, I

 

cannot! I hate and despise him, Uncle.t Do not make me do this.t But,

 

seeing the pleased expression on Kamarag's face, Valdyr forced herself

 

to take a deep breath and regain her control. She might not be warrior

 

material herself, being slender and not tall, but the blood of a noble

 

house of warriors flowed in her veins. She would not dishonor herself by

 

begging. "Uncle, I must think about this seriously. Karg needs a wife

 

who has high social position and much ... beauty," she said,

 

cautiously. "I have neither. I do not believe the match would be

 

satisfactory for such a high-ranked warrior."

 

 

"Such modesty!" Karg chuckled richly as he stepped over to the young

 

woman and ran a caressing hand up her arm, testing the muscle that lay

 

beneath her sleeve. For a lingering moment his hand trailed perilously

 

close to her left breast, and Valdyr went rigid. Would he dare to fondle

 

her in front of her uncle? If he does that, I will kill him here and

 

now, she thought.

 

 

But Karg contented himself with kneading and prodding the muscles of her

 

arm and shoulder. "Small, but there is good, wiry strength there," he

 

remarked approvingly. Then, glimpsing the outrage in her eyes, he added,

 

sardonically, "Ah, my bride ... you are so young, so innocent ... you

 

warm my heart."

 

 

Grasping Valdyr's chin and forcibly turning her face to and fro, he

 

continued to examine her as he might a prospective mount for his

 

stables. "You know nothing of what excites a male ..." he said

 

caressingly, obviously enjoying her humiliation. "But have no fear ...

 

innocence excites me greatly. Do not worry, my targhoy. There is beauty

 

in you. With the flowering of your womanhood, it will come, Valdyr-oy.

 

When you are my wife, your beauty will blossom like chal flowers in

 

spring."

 

 

His endearments and the love suffix attached to her name made the young

 

woman long to shriek with fury. Her mind filled with images of her

 

plunging the dagger she wore strapped to her forearm into his heart.

 

 

As his fingers touched her cheek, Valdyr could not repress a shudder of

 

disgust. "Look, Kamarag, she trembles for me already? Karg chortled;

 

then he seized her in a bruising embrace and pressed his face into her

 

neck, his teeth fastening on her throat so hard that the woman gasped

 

from the pain.

 

 

"Enough, Karg!" Kamarag ordered, and the captain released her. Raising

 

her hand, Valdyr touched her throat, then stared unbelievingly at the

 

smear of blood on her fingers. "I know you are hot to take a bride, but

 

the wedding will not take place until after our triumph. The taste of

 

victory will add extra savor to your wedding night, Karg."

 

 

The captain was breathing hard as his eyes ran over Valdyr's body, and

 

his voice, when he spoke, was thick.

 

 

"Very well, Kamarag. But she is sweet enough to tempt any male ... "He

 

addressed the young woman then. "Do not concern yourself about your

 

fitness to be my wife, Valdyr-oy.

 

 

Just as the beauty will come, you will learn the intricacies of society,

 

until you are ready to take your place with me, to help my advancement.

 

Your uncle assures me that you possess high intelligence, for a female."

 

 

Valdyr wanted to flay him alive for his words, but she held herself

 

back. She must be clever, use all of her wits to escape this fate that

 

loomed before her. Allowing Karg to see her true feelings would only

 

make them watch her closely until the day of the wedding.

 

 

Perhaps she could run away. Or, if she could not refuse Karg, perhaps

 

she could postpone the marriage for a while.

 

 

Karg was a warrior. Perhaps he would be killed. The thought made her

 

smile.

 

 

So, steeling herself, Valdyr forced herself to say, "At the moment,

 

school occupies all my time. Perhaps when I finish this term, I will

 

find myself more ... prepared for marriage, Uncle."

 

 

Kamarag frowned. "You will not need further schooling now that I have

 

arranged such a successful match for you, aldyr. Better you should turn

 

your attention to the management of households. That in itself is a

 

demanding life."

 

 

"Your uncle is right, Valdyr-oy. I have a large house, but it has

 

suffered from the lack of a woman to care for it," Karg added.

 

 

"No further schooling?" Valdyr struggled to control her temper. If she

 

made her uncle angry, it would bode ill for her brothers, as well as for

 

her. She must not allow them to know what was in her mind. "But, Uncle

 

..."

 

 

Perhaps sensing her distress, her uncle said, "You may finish out this

 

term, as long as it does not interfere with your duties here, and with

 

your spending more time in the kitchens, learning the duties of a wife."

 

He gave Karg a smug glance. "I will not have Karg say that you did not

 

come to him properly trained for your new role."

 

 

"In addition to the kitchens," Karg said, his gaze roving over her body

 

again, "do not forget that you must learn the ways of the nursery,

 

Valdyr-oy." With a toothy grin, he slapped her uncle on the back and

 

left the chamber.

 

 

Once they were alone, Kamarag regarded his niece with a touch of

 

impatience. "Well, girl?" he barked, finally. "Have you nothing to say?"

 

The young woman exerted rigid control as she forced herself to reply

 

quietly, "Uncle, I will do as you say."

 

 

"See that you do," he grumbled. "You do not want to appear ungrateful,

 

do you, niece?"

 

 

"No, sir." Relaxing visibly, her uncle rocked back on his heels, and

 

smiled as he changed the subject. "The meeting went well today, did it

 

not?"

 

 

"They all seemed to share your point of view," Valdyr said, treading a

 

careful verbal path. "All except Keraz." Her uncle dismissed the

 

commander with a wave of one blunt-fingered hand. "Hundreds of years

 

from now, our names will be remembered as the ones who saved the Empire

 

and the Klingon way of life," he said, earnestly, his deep-set eyes

 

gleaming.

 

 

"But ... current policy of our government is to make peace with the

 

Federation," Valdyr reminded him. "Peace with the Federation, friendship

 

with our old enemies--even peace with James Kirk, who saved the

 

chancellor's--"

 

 

"Kirk!" roared Kamarag so loudly that Valdyr started.

 

 

"Niece, I cannot hear that name without anger--do not think to provoke

 

me by letting it fall from your lips so casually! May Kirk be devoured

 

by ten thousand demons on his way to oblivion! Kirk lives still, and I

 

have no peace!" Furious, the ambassador strode back and forth in the

 

small chamber, his boots resounding on the floor like ancient war drums.

 

"Kirk! Kirk is the enemy, and I will never regain my honor until he is

 

dead, until I can dip my hands in his warm blood and dye them scarlet--I

 

will never rest until Kirk and all his line are wiped out!"

 

 

"But, Uncle." Valdyr was taken aback. Kamarag's temper was legendary,

 

but she'd never seen her uncle in such a rage.

 

 

"Kirk saved Azetbur's life. She will never agree to having him killed."

 

 

"I care nothing for her!" Kamarag was livid. "She is the spineless

 

daughter of a spineless coward. She will not stop me, niece."

 

 

"Stop you in what, Uncle?" Valdyr asked, curious and repelled at the

 

same moment.

 

 

"Stop me from carrying out my plan," the ambassador said, and smiled.

 

 

The sight of that smile chilled her, even though her chamber was warm.

 

"What plan?" she asked.

 

 

His smile broadened, revealing a mouthful of teeth. A cunning, predatory

 

expression replaced the anger that had been there. "You will see,

 

Valdyr," he promised softly. "Just wait, and you will see ... "

 

 

Journal of Amanda Grayson Sarek September 16,2293 What is it like to

 

die?

 

 

Vulcan& of course, have their katras ... a word no one has ever been

 

able to translate with any degree of precision. Not quite a soul, not

 

exactly a personality, more than a memory, less than a living being ...

 

I suppose one has to be born Vulcan to have any hope of understanding

 

Vulcan mysticism.

 

 

Spock and Sarek will live on, after their deaths. Will I?

 

 

Many of Earth religions hold that I will ... but there is no certainty.

 

And if there is an afterlife, would individuals from different worlds

 

mingle there?

 

 

Now I am getting metaphysical--and silly. Speculating about such things

 

is fruitless ... illogical. Life after death will either happen, or it

 

won't, and there is nothing I can do about it either way ... except

 

bephilosophical.

 

 

I dread Sarek return from Freelan, even as I long for it. I suspect

 

T'Mal contacted him, and that she was as blunt with him as she was

 

evasive with me. No doubt she was concerned that the truth would be too

 

much for a human to bear.

 

 

Little does she know this particular human. I have known what is

 

happening to me for months, now. I can't remember when I first realized

 

that my body was

 

 

running down, sputtering to its inevitable halt ... the knowledge just

 

grew in me, day by day.

 

 

It seems that I have Reyerson's disease. It isn't always fatal,

 

especially to those in the prime of life--but I am ninety-three.

 

Luckily, itg not an illness that causes a great deal of pain. Its main

 

symptom is continuous exhaustion, which, at my age, is fairly common

 

anyway.

 

 

I've spent time these past few days reading over my old journals. The

 

moments come back so clearly, it almost seems as though the past is the

 

reality, and this present, with its exhaustion and inevitable ending, is

 

merely a bad dream.

 

 

When I read about them, the memories revive, as fresh as if they

 

happened only yesterday. I cannot believe I have lived this long--it all

 

seems to have gone by at great speed. Every time I look in a mirror

 

these days, I am shocked to see a woman who is, beyond a doubt ... old.

 

I don't FEEL old.t--not inside. The aches and pains remind me of my true

 

age, but my mind and my heart feel as young as ever. Young Amanda is in

 

here with me, in my head, and Old Amanda has trapped us within this

 

shell of aged bone and flesh.

 

 

Curious, isn't it? I wonder if every human feels this way ... or am I

 

unusual? l,'ulcans, of course, feel exactly as om as their chronological

 

age. Anything else would be illogical ... Can I really be ... dying?

 

 

At times I have to fight off panic, but those episodes are growing less

 

and less frequent. They are simply too tiring, I suppose, for a body

 

that is ... shutting down.

 

 

Of course, I would not want to live forever ... but I don't want to

 

die, either. I want to live--there are still so many things to do, so

 

many places to go, so many things to see-- I want to live ... yet Iam

 

coming to realize that I will not, at least, not for much longer. By

 

this time next year, probably much sooner, the universe will be going on

 

without me. Amanda Grayson, Madam Sarek, the Lady Amanda ... I will be

 

gone, will be no more.

 

 

I am dying.

 

 

There, I've admitted it. Writing it out in black and white like that has

 

actually been a relief. Facing the worst the future has to offer is

 

better than mincing around, shying away from an all-too-possible

 

reality.

 

 

Of course, the Healers are treating me, trying to arrest the disease.

 

But I know without asking that my progno-sis is dismal. And, even if a

 

miracle happened, and I were cured of this particular illness, at my

 

age, the inevitable can only be staved off for a short time.

 

 

There is one journal entry that I've been saving as a treat, for when I

 

feel particularly low. I believe that tonight is the night to read it

 

...

 

 

June 14,2229 ... a few minutes past midnight My hand trembles as I

 

write this ... I can scarcely believe what happened tonight!After all

 

these months of seeing him, trying to make myself believe that his

 

interest was not solely that of a diplomat befriending a student of his

 

culture ... trying, but never quite succeeding--I can hardly believe

 

what I am about to write--tonight Sarek kissed me/ It was not really a

 

kiss as a human knows it--but it happened. Just the softest brush of his

 

fingertips against my lips, but I trembled as we turned and walked home

 

in silence. Even now, as I sit here writing, I feel as though I have

 

caught some exotic fever.

 

 

Is it possible that we have known each other for only four months? It

 

seems incredible that my life could have changed so radically, so

 

irrevocably, in such a short time. Four months, almost to the day.

 

 

My work was everything to me ... teaching was my only passion. Being

 

able to convey to my students the wonder and richness of alien cultures

 

was my fondest dream, a goal to be striven for, my heart's greatest

 

desire. The day I won the T'Relan Award for Excellence in Teaching was,

 

I thought then, the pinnacle of my life.

 

 

All this time, these past months, wondering, trying to fathom why such a

 

distinguished diplomat wanted to spend time with a teacher who happened

 

to win an award for teaching and thus was invited to an embassy

 

reception ...

 

 

Once or twice I thought, "Perhaps he's attracted to me," only to back

 

awayjkom the thought at warp speed.

 

 

Vulcans do not form romantic attachments, after all.

 

 

Either they bond at a very young age, or they make a reasoned, logical

 

decision later in life. Romance? Don't be ridiculous, Amanda.t But

 

tonight ... was romantic. I believe that even Sarek felt it, was

 

affected by the spell of the night ...

 

 

The three-quarter moon was setting over the Pacific as the couple walked

 

along the beach. Amanda Grayson picked her way over the wet sand,

 

smiling as the white-tipped waves curled ever closer to her feet. Dinner

 

had been excellent; Sarek had taken her to one of the finest restaurants

 

in town.

 

 

As they'd eaten, she'd caught curious glances from their fellow diners.

 

It was unusual, she knew, for a human woman and a Vulcan male to be seen

 

together. And her escort was a noted diplomat at the Vulcan Embassy--a

 

well-known public figure.

 

 

Thankfully, after they'd left the restaurant, none of the curious had

 

followed them. Now, watching the moon slip down toward the waves, they

 

were completely alone. The tide was coming in, lapping ever higher.

 

Amanda watched her escort coverfly as he gazed at the ocean, his

 

expression quiet and serene.

 

 

She was so intent on watching Sarek that an importunate wave caught her

 

unawares. Amanda jumped and gasped as cold water sloshed over her feet,

 

and she bumped hard against the Vulcan. Automatically, he caught her arm

 

and steadii her. It was the first time he had touched her in the four

 

months since she'd met him.

 

 

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed. "If I'd fallen in, I'd have gotten

 

soaked." Glancing up at him diffidently, she caught her breath in

 

surprise as she realized that he was ... smiling. There could be no

 

doubt about it. Sarek's austere,

 

 

aquiline features had softened, and his normally stern mouth curved

 

upward on both ends. The Vulcan's dark eyes held an amused spark.

 

 

Sarek is smiling. At me, she thought, amazed and touched.

 

 

I didn't know he could smile.t

 

 

She smiled back at him, feeling a rush of happiness so pure and strong

 

that it was like some euphoria-inducing drug. As they stared at each

 

other, their eyes locked, the next wave caught both of them in its wash.

 

 

This time they both jumped. Amanda, glancing down, saw that the

 

ambassador's boots were soaked. "Oh, dear.

 

 

Your boots."

 

 

"They will dry," Sarek said, ignoring his footwear.

 

 

"Amanda ... tell me something."

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"Is there anyone ... special in your life?"

 

 

He can't possibly know what that question means on Earth, she thought,

 

blankly. "Of course there is," she said, struggling not to blush. "I

 

have my parents, and my students, my family and my friends. They're all

 

very special to me ... Sarek."

 

 

It had been hard for her to call him by only his name without his

 

title--he was such a formal person, so reserved.

 

 

It was growing easier each time she did it. "And of course, back East I

 

have several friends that I only see a few times a year, because

 

they're--"

 

 

"Amanda ..." She couldn't believe that he'd interrupted her. He'd never

 

done that before. The Vulcan stepped closer to her, so close she could

 

feel the heat of his body against her face and throat.

 

 

"Yes, Sarek?"

 

 

"I wanted to know whether there is a special male in your life."

 

 

She stared at him unbelievingly, but managed to compose herself. "No,

 

Sarek. There is no special ... male." Her heart was pounding harder

 

than the surf.

 

 

"So you are free to choose a ... mate?" he asked.

 

 

"Yes," she whispered, but hardly any sound emerged from her throat. The

 

Vulcan leaned closer, indicating that even his acute hearing had not

 

picked up her answer. "Yes," she repeated. "Yes, I am."

 

 

"That is good to hear, Amanda," he said quietly; then he leaned forward,

 

slowly and deliberately, and kissed her mouth with his fingertips.

 

 

Even as he drew back, Amanda instinctively knew that her life had

 

changed forever. There was only one possible explanation for Sarek's

 

words and action--he wanted her for his wife. She knew from her studies

 

that Vulcans did not waste time in casual dalliance.

 

 

For a moment he regarded her intently, his eyes filled with all the

 

things he could not say aloud. Then, without another word, the Vulcan

 

offered her his arm to help her back up the beach. Amanda went with him,

 

her whole body conscious of his touch, of the heat of his skin beneath

 

his sleeve.

 

 

I love him, she realized. I've loved him from the first, and didn't

 

realize it until now.

 

 

September 16,2293

 

 

Just finished rereading that journal entry. Oh, my/ Was I ever that

 

young?

 

 

And yet ... if I close my eyes, I can still taste that kiss, even after

 

sixty-four years.

 

 

I have had a good life. I have been blessed. There are few regrets ...

 

 

But for now, I am tired ... must rest ...

 

 

Captain James T. Kirk stood in the coruscating glow of the transporter

 

beam, dreading what he would see as soon as he materialized on the world

 

called Patelva. Yesterday the Enterprise had been summoned to the colony

 

world that had been decimated by a raid. The captain had made one quick

 

reconnaissance to the planet, then returned, sickened, to his ship,

 

leaving Dr. McCoy and his medical staff to their grim work of trying to

 

save as many of the pitifully wounded survivors as they could.

 

 

As the transporter beam faded around him, Kirk could hear the sounds of

 

the wounded. The beam-down coordi nates were in the center of a group of

 

hastily thrown-up bubbletents, so, unlike yesterday, he was not

 

surrounded by shattered and torn bodies ... which was a relief. But the

 

sounds were bad enough.

 

 

Medical personnel scurried to and fro, racing frantically to beat their

 

ancient enemy. In a distant field, filled with crops that would never be

 

harvested now, security personnel stoically attended to the hideous work

 

of disposing of the corpses.

 

 

"Captain ..." Kirk turned away from the grim scene to find his first

 

officer at his elbow. "I have completed my interviews with the few

 

uninjured survivors I could locate.

 

 

Their reports all concur Klingons did this."

 

 

The captain gazed around him, and sighed. There hadn't been much doubt

 

about who the assailants were--the patterns were all there. "I know," he

 

said. "I just finished speaking to Chancellor Azetbur on subspace

 

communications.

 

 

She confirmed that their sensors have picked up a number of Klingon

 

vessels crossing the Neutral Zone lately, but swore to me on her

 

father's honor that none of them has been authorized to do so by her

 

government."

 

 

"More renegades," Spock said, his normally expressionless features

 

touched with sadness. "Chang has set a precedent, I fear."

 

 

"I'm afraid that Azetbur's going to go down, Spock," Kirk said.

 

"Everything looked so hopeful last month at Khitomer, but now ..." He

 

shrugged slightly. "The media back on Earth are having a field day with

 

these renegade raids. Many of the delegates to the Security Council are

 

calling for Ra-ghoratrei to withdraw his support of Azetbur's

 

government."

 

 

"I know. And without the support of the Federation, Azetbur has little

 

chance to remain in power."

 

 

"The chancellor is the Empire's only hope for survival, Spock!" Kirk

 

said wearily. "If I can see that, so can others."

 

 

The Vulcan nodded, his dark eyes bleak. He started to comment, but

 

before he could do so, a familiar voice made both officers turn.

 

 

"What's the news on the Federation hospital ship?" Dr. Leonard McCoy

 

demanded, coming up from behind the two officers. The chief surgeon's

 

medical tunic was splashed and streaked with drying blood and even less

 

pleasant substances, and his blue eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue.

 

 

"Dammit, Jim, my people are ready to drop, and I can't spare a one of'em

 

for a break. We've got to get some reliefl"

 

 

"The ship's on its way, Bones," Kirk was quick to assure the medical

 

officer. "ETA is thirty-six hours from now."

 

 

"Damn!" McCoy growled; then he sighed. "Can you at least beam down some

 

more security people? They're not trained, but they can help clean up

 

and make sandwiches for the staff." Kirk nodded and, taking out his

 

communicator, quickly gave the order. McCoy busied himself dispatching

 

the security teams to where they were most needed, then turned back to

 

regard his friends wearily. "Thanks, Jim. This is one helluva mess ...

 

"

 

 

"I know, Bones."

 

 

"Who did it?" McCoy demanded, staring out across the jury-rigged medical

 

compound. "As if I didn't already know from the disrupter patterns on

 

the bodies."

 

 

"Klingons, Doctor," Spock said. "But Chancellor Azet-bur has stated that

 

they were renegades, not governmentally sanctioned troops."

 

 

"I suppose so," the doctor said, rubbing a hand over his face, leaving

 

smears across his forehead. "Damn, but what I've seen in the past

 

twenty-four hours almost makes me regret spending the past month

 

studying Klingon anatomy and medical procedures."

 

 

"The Empire is in chaos, Bones," Kirk said. "Any time you get a

 

situation like this, you find terrorism on the rise.

 

 

Any time you try paring down a huge standing army, you get soldiers that

 

don't want to give up war."

 

 

"Especially considering that war has been the main focus of the Klingon

 

culture for several thousand years," Spock said, quietly. "If the--" The

 

Vulcan broke off as his communicator beeped. "Spock here," he said

 

crisply.

 

 

"Mr. Spock, I'm receiving a Priority One personal message for you, sir,"

 

Commander Uhura's voice reported. "It's from your father."

 

 

"Relay it on screen, please, Commander." Kirk tensed as he watched the

 

Vulcan scan the message on the tiny camp computer screen, noting the way

 

his friend's eyes narrowed and the skin over his jaw tightened. When

 

Spock looked up, he took a step forward and touched his friend's arm

 

lightly with his fingertips. "What is it, Spock?" The Vulcan took a deep

 

breath. "It is my mother, Jim. I just received a message from my father,

 

saying that she is seriously ill." He paused, then seemed to force the

 

words out, as though speaking them caused him pain. "Actually, Sarek

 

used the word 'terminally' ill." Kirk had lost his own mother a few

 

years ago ... Spock's words brought back the grief of those days all

 

too vividly.

 

 

"Spock, does it say what's wrong?" McCoy asked, his blue eyes filled

 

with concern.

 

 

"She has contracted a blood disease." Spock's normally even tones were

 

strained. "Reyerson's disease is somewhat rare. It is extremely serious,

 

especially to the very old or the very young. My mother," the Vulcan

 

finished bleakly, "is in her nineties." Kirk's mother, Winona, had been

 

in her late eighties at the time of her death. In the twenty-third

 

century the human life span was longer on the average than it had ever

 

been, but only ten percent of the population lived for a century or

 

more. Kirk drew a deep breath. "Go home," he ordered. "Go now. Take the

 

shuttlecraft to Starbase Eleven. You can get a transport from there, and

 

reach Vulcan in five days," he said.

 

 

Spock hesitated, glanced around him. "But we are on a mission ... my

 

duty is to my ship ..."

 

 

"Dammit, Spock, this is a medical mission," McCoy said.

 

 

"If you've got a medical degree it's news to me. Go. We don't need you

 

here. Your mother does." The Vulcan finally nodded. "Very well. Thank

 

you, Captain.

 

 

I will depart immediately." Moments later, Kirk and McCoy watched the

 

last flicker of maroon vanish in the transporter beam, and knew the

 

Vulcan was on his way.

 

 

"Jim, this is terrible," McCoy said, his eyes shadowed.

 

 

"We've known the Lady Amanda for so long ... and now we're all going to

 

lose her? It's ... not fair."

 

 

"How many times have you said that when you're confronted with death,

 

Bones?" Kirk asked.

 

 

McCoy gave him a grim smile. "At least ninety-five percent of the time,

 

Jim. But that doesn't keep me from feeling it again, each time."

 

 

"After that hospital ship relieves us here," Kirk said,

 

 

"we're heading for Vulcan."

 

 

McCoy nodded. "Good. But how are you going to justify a trip to Vulcan

 

with Starfleet Command?"

 

 

"Scotty has performed his usual miracle patching up the ship after Chang

 

used us for a skeet target," Kirk replied,

 

 

"but he told me yesterday that he's completed all the repairs he can,

 

working on the ship from the inside out. He said we'd have to put into

 

spacedock for him to finish with the structural repairs and pressure

 

checks. Vulcan has an excellent spacedock."

 

 

McCoy nodded, then wearily straightened his back. "No rest for the

 

wicked," he said. "I've got a patient to check on."

 

 

Kirk looked at him. "Could you use one more pair of unskilled hands,

 

Bones?"

 

 

"You bet," the doctor said. "C'mon, and I'll order you around for a

 

change ... "

 

 

Together, they headed for the nearest bubbletent.

 

 

"Enough, Peter, enough!" Lisa Tennant insisted, getting out of the

 

old-fashioned hard-backed chair and stretching her spine. "You're worse

 

than Rosa. I never thought I'd find anyone who could work as hard as she

 

did. How about some coffee?"

 

 

Peter nodded. "Sure, Lisa. Coffee's fine." He could use a cup right now.

 

It was nearly midnight and because of the time he'd spent here, he'd

 

have to pull an all-nighter to cram for his exam tomorrow. He rubbed his

 

face tiredly. He

 

 

wasn't eighteen anymore. Staying up all night studying would take its

 

toll ... and what did he have to show for it?

 

 

He'd been coming to this dingy basement room nearly every day since that

 

Saturday. That first day, he'd thought that he'd be able to garner

 

enough information to take to Starfleet Security once he got into the

 

KEHL files. But that Saturday, he never got near the computers. Instead,

 

he'd ended up helping Lisa with the technicalities of bailing out most

 

of the demonstrators.

 

 

He'd been right about her, too. She was interested in him, and kept him

 

close by her side most of the time, flirting lightly, never saying or

 

doing anything too forward, too aggressive. He played along in the same

 

vein, waiting and hoping to get access to their computers. When that

 

didn't happen, he'd ended up coming back the second night, and the

 

third. Last night, he'd finally gotten into the machines, but the only

 

thing she'd let him work on was a tedious reworking of the data

 

structures, which told him little.

 

 

He promised himself that tonight was the very last time he'd come here.

 

If he didn't get any information valuable enough to bring to Starfleet

 

Security, he'd forget his brief sojourn into the world of

 

cloak-and-dagger and force him self to focus on the really important

 

matters in his life.

 

 

Like the Kobayashi Maru.

 

 

Peter groaned at the very thought of that test, only a little more than

 

a week away. Just today, one of his friends had confided that the odds

 

against him were mounting steadily.

 

 

Peter wasn't surprised. If he had been a betting man he'd have bet

 

against himself, too. Was he studying the old scenarios to see how

 

others handled them? Was he reading up on the theory behind the test

 

itself, to get a handle on what the new scenario might require of him?

 

No, he was hanging around a subversive organization, flirting with its

 

leader, and coming up with nothing for all his efforts.

 

 

A cup of steaming coffee suddenly appeared by his elbow, along with a

 

sandwich. "You've got to be starving," Lisa said quietly, sitting beside

 

him. "You've been working steadily since you got here. I'm afraid I

 

haven't been taking very good care of you."

 

 

"I didn't think that was your job," he replied. "As your impromptu

 

assistant, I thought it was my role to take care of you."

 

 

She brushed against him, and the faint scent of her perfume made his

 

nostrils twitch with the faintly musky, exotic odor. In the few days

 

he'd been associating with her, he'd found her an enigmatic person. She

 

was bright, sensitive, and quite intellectual. In many ways she was an

 

intriguing, exciting woman, not the kind of person to spout the bigoted,

 

paranoid nonsense she obviously believed wholeheartedly.

 

 

He thought more clearly when she wasn't quite so close to him. Finishing

 

his sandwich, he eased out of the chair and wandered around her small,

 

spare office. Curiously, he browsed the shelf of real-paper books she

 

had prominently displayed.

 

 

There was a mint-condition volume of Wuthering Heights, a slightly

 

battered edition of Have Spacesuit, Will Travel a collection of Edgar

 

Allan Poe's poetry, and ... He paused, staring at a slim volume perched

 

neatly between the others. The Diary of Anne Frank.

 

 

"It's a nice collection," Peter said softly. "Do you read them?" Unlike

 

his Uncle Jim, many collectors did not.

 

 

Lisa nodded proudly, coming to stand beside him. "I don't read the

 

volumes themselves, of course--they're much too fragile. But every book

 

I buy, I look it up in the library files and read it."

 

 

"That's great," Peter said, his voice low. He tried to imagine how she

 

could've ever read the words of Anne Frank and still become so involved

 

with the KEHL. "It's nice to meet someone who appreciates books."

 

 

She gave him a smile, and a spark of warmth touched her huge, obsidian

 

eyes. "Are you a collector, too?"

 

 

"Not exactly," Peter admitted. "But my uncle is, and I enjoy his books."

 

Peter hesitated, then bit the bullet. "You know, I've never gotten the

 

chance to ask how you got so involved with the KEHL."

 

 

Lisa showed no sign of self-consciousness as she replied,

 

 

"I haven't been a member that long, Peter. Just a few months. It's funny

 

... I'm a sociology student, and I know something about how groups like

 

this start ... Usually there's one charismatic individual--like

 

Induna--who founds such a group, and he or she finds followers along the

 

way, people who think along the same lines. But the KEHL, at least here

 

in San Francisco, wasn't like that at all." She glanced at him, her

 

black eyes earnest. "Which leads me to believe that we were just

 

destined to be--that it was time for us to rise and make our voices

 

heard."

 

 

"Have you always disliked aliens? Particularly Vulcanst' Peter was

 

careful to keep his tone one of polite, if casual, interest.

 

 

She frowned a little as she thought. "It's funny, Peter. Up until a few

 

months ago, I scarcely ever gave the matter much thought. I'd never

 

known an alien personally, and only met a few as casual acquaintances.

 

I'm from a little town in Indiana, and we don't get many

 

outsiders--human ones, much less extraterrestrials. I guess it was just

 

a subconscious decision I made back in August ... that humans evolved

 

on Earth, so it's our planet, and they don't have any place here."

 

 

"Do you think Earth should stay in the Federation?"

 

 

"I don't know ..." She chewed on her lower lip, hesitating.

 

 

"Since Earth is the most powerful planet in the Federation, with only

 

the Vulcans capable of posing a serious challenge to us, I suppose we

 

shouldn't dissolve the Federation until the Klingons and Romulans have

 

been dealt with.

 

 

As long as we can get the Vulcans out, that is."

 

 

Peter was having a difficult time staying civil. "Why?" he asked,

 

struggling to keep the edge out of his voice.

 

 

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

 

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.

 

With a sigh that was almost a moan, Sarek sagged against the railing,

 

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

 

it."

 

 

"For heaven's sake, Sarek," Amanda said, her eyes flashing with

 

indignation, "I've lived here most of my adult life! I know it's hot

 

outside! But I have been cooped up in this house for nearly a week, and

 

I am tired of seeing nothing but these four walls, tired of resting. I

 

want to sit in my garden, damn it!" Her voice gained strength and volume

 

as she spoke, but faltered and cracked on the last line.

 

 

Sarek was taken aback at her vehemence--he knew Amanda had a temper, had

 

known that since before their marriage, but he could have numbered on

 

one hand the occasions when his wife had resorted to profanity.

 

 

"Amanda ..." he began softly, then stopped.

 

 

"Besides," she added, her eyes filled with weary resignation,

 

 

"what difference will it make, really?" The ambassador gazed down at

 

her. Under the circumstances, he could not find it in himself to deny

 

her wish. It was such a small request ...

 

 

"Very well," he agreed. "Do you have your respirator with you?" Smiling,

 

Amanda patted the pocket of her robe, indicating that she did. "What

 

about the logic of following the Healer's orders?" she asked him.

 

 

"Logic tells me that you will expend far more energy arguing about this

 

than you will in a brief interlude outside," Sarek retorted as he bent

 

over and scooped her up as he would have a child. She was hardly heavier

 

than one.

 

 

Perhaps, Sarek thought, a brief excursion outside would bolster her

 

flagging appetite.

 

 

When Sarek reached the garden, he carefully lowered his wife's slight

 

form onto a stone bench, then seated himself beside her. Amanda's eyes

 

shone as her gaze took in the beauty of the night, the garden, and the

 

hovering planet that dominated the sky. "It is lovely," she breathed. "I

 

knew it would be."

 

 

"It is good to see you here again," Sarek said. "The garden's appearance

 

is not aesthetically complete without its creator." Amanda, recognizing

 

the compliment despite its subtlety, smiled roguishly at her husband.

 

"Sarek, I do believe you are getting sentimental," she teased.

 

 

Her husband's lips curved upward as he permitted himself the faint,

 

answering smile that few besides his wife had ever seen. "Nonsense, my

 

wife. My comment was entirely logical. This is your garden; you designed

 

it, planted it, and nurtured its growth. It is a reflection of your

 

creative instincts, so, logically, it appears at its most attractive

 

when you are present to complement and complete it. There is nothing

 

'sentimental' about that--I was merely stating a fact." Amanda chuckled,

 

and to Sarek's ears the sound was more welcome than any strain of music.

 

"Now you're rationalizing, my dear--as well as teasing me. It is a good

 

thing our son isn't here to hear you. Spock would be shocked." Despite

 

Sarek's control, the muscles in his jaw tightened fractionally at the

 

mention of his son's name. Amanda was watching him intently, and her

 

husband realized that she had not missed that tiny betrayal. Her smile

 

faded. "Have you heard from Spock?" she asked anxiously. "You didn't--"

 

She broke off at her husband's nod, and her eyes flashed again, this

 

time with anger. "You didn't!" she exclaimed. It was an accusation, not

 

a question.

 

 

Sarek gazed up at T'Rukh fixedly. "I sent a subspace message to Spock

 

before I left the Freelan system," he admitted quietly.

 

 

"How could you?" Amanda was furious--as he'd known she would be. "We had

 

a bargain! You gave me your word! I did not want him told, you knew

 

that! I--" She sputtered indignantly for a moment, then subsided, too

 

angry to speak. Finally, her chin lifted and she glared at him, her eyes

 

now cold. "Your action was entirely illogical, my husband," she said in

 

slow, careful Vulcan, using one of the ancient, formal dialects. Then

 

she turned away, staring fixedly at The Watcher. It was no longer full;

 

its upper limb was now shadowed.

 

 

Sarek was taken aback by her accusation--in ancient days, it would have

 

constituted an insult. "Amanda--" he began, then waited patiently for

 

two point six minutes until she finally looked at him. "My wife," he

 

said softly, hearing the tension in his own voice, "Spock had to be

 

informed. If anything happened to you, and I had not told him, he would

 

never speak to me again--and I could not fault him for his decision."

 

Amanda sighed, and Sarek immediately knew that her anger had turned to

 

resignation. "You're probably right," she said quietly.

 

 

"Amanda," Sarek said slowly, "I regret going against your wishes, but

 

logic and duty demanded that I make my own decision."

 

 

"But our son has been through so much in the past couple of years!" she

 

murmured, twisting her wasted hands in her lap. "He lost his ship,

 

Valeris betrayed him, my god, he lost his very life--he needs to finish

 

putting the pieces back together, not have other concerns added!"

 

 

"Would you deny him the chance to see his mother again?" Sarek said, and

 

the phrase "for the last time" seemed to fill the quiet garden.

 

 

It was a long time before Amanda replied. "No, I suppose not. I suppose

 

you did the right thing, as well as the logical thing. But I wanted

 

Spock to--" She broke off on a ragged breath.

 

 

"You wanted him to what?" Sarek asked, quietly.

 

 

"I don't want him to see me," she admitted, dully. "I thought it would

 

be better if he remembered me the way I used to be ... "

 

 

"That' never occurred to me," Sarek said, slowly. "Your attitude is

 

illogical, Amanda ... and vain. Human vanity, I believe, is as foreign

 

to my son as it is to me."

 

 

"I know that," she said softly. "I've lived here for decades, and never

 

yet managed to figure out how Vulcans can be so arrogant without being

 

at all vain."

 

 

"You have learned much about my people," Sarek conceded, quietly. "It is

 

possible that no human understands us better."

 

 

Sarek crossed her fingers with his, but, in addition, he gently traced

 

the contours of her face with two fingers of his other hand. The

 

intimacy of the caress, outside of their bedroom, made Amanda's eyes

 

widen; then she closed them, concentrating on their bond, and the

 

closeness it gave them.

 

 

Finally both stirred, and Sarek dropped his hand. "We should go in, my

 

wife," he said gently. "I sense your fatigue.

 

 

You must rest."

 

 

Amanda nodded, but, when he would have risen, put out a hand to

 

forestall him. "Just five more minutes," she pleaded. "Who knows ...

 

when ... or ..." She hesitated, but did not say "if" aloud. "Anyway,

 

there is no way to know how long it will be before I'll be able to be

 

with you in the garden again. Five minutes more, Sarek ... please?"

 

 

Sarek gazed down at her, then nodded. "Very well," he said. "But you

 

must agree to put on your respirator, Amanda."

 

 

She frowned, but then her features smoothed into serenity once more, and

 

she obediently slipped the little mask over her mouth and nose.

 

Together, fingers once more touching, they gazed at The Watcher, while

 

the night breeze caressed their faces.

 

 

Spock felt the surrounding heat even before his body was completely

 

rematerialized. Nevasa was almost directly overhead, blazing furiously.

 

 

The transporter chief had beamed him down into the gardens behind his

 

parents' mountain villa. It had been nearly five years since his last

 

visit here, and Spock noted absently that Amanda had expanded the cactus

 

garden to include species from the deserts on Andor, Tellar, and Rigel

 

VI. The plants were brilliant shades of lime green, amethyst, and

 

turquoise, doubly arresting next to the dusty greens and reds of the

 

Terran and native Vulcan plants.

 

 

He walked slowly up the crushed stone path, feeling the heat envelop him

 

like a blanket. He welcomed the hot caress. Vulcan. No matter that he

 

had spent more of his life with deck plates beneath his boots than he

 

had treading the sandy soil of his homeworld--when he was back on

 

Vulcan, he knew he was home.

 

 

The mountain villa was a low, redstone building with solar panels set

 

into its flat roofs. Its design was deceptively simple and austere; from

 

outside it appeared smaller and more rustic than it actually was. The

 

surrounding foothills and the paths leading up to the mountain crests

 

were as familiar to Spock as the corridors of his starship.

 

 

Just as he reached the kala-thorn hedge that enclosed the garden, a door

 

opened onto the rearmost of the roofs and Sarek emerged. At his father's

 

signal, Spock halted and waited for him. Sarek took the side ramp down

 

to the ground, then skirted the edge of Amanda's garden until he stood

 

before his son.

 

 

The Vulcan officer held up his hand in the salute of his people.

 

"Greetings, Father," he said in their native tongue.

 

 

"I trust you are well?"

 

 

Sarek nodded. "Greetings, my son. Yes, I am well. It is good to have you

 

here."

 

 

Despite his father's reassurance, Spock was concerned about the

 

ambassador's health. The lines in Sarek's face had deepened, and his

 

hair was grayer than it had been a month before. His shoulders seemed

 

smaller, and the flesh of his hand, as he returned his son's salute, was

 

tightly drawn over the bones of his fingers.

 

 

"How is Mother?" Spock asked.

 

 

"Sleeping," his father replied. "The monitoring devices will indicate

 

when she awakes. The Healer has stressed her need for rest." The

 

ambassador glanced around. "We should go in."

 

 

Spock nodded. "Nevasa is ... formidable today. One forgets, after years

 

away."

 

 

Together they went into the villa, then sat down in the living room

 

Amanda had decorated with handwoven wall hangings. Spock sipped

 

appreciatively at a cup of relen tea, covertly watching Sarek as his

 

father paced restlessly around the room, gazing at the bone-white walls

 

and the desert-hued hangings as though he'd never seen them before.

 

 

Finally, Sarek turned to face his son. "Your mother ..." he began, then

 

he fell silent.

 

 

"She ... is dying?" Spock asked, feeling his throat contract over the

 

words.

 

 

"Yes," Sarek said, seeming relieved that his son had spared him having

 

to say it aloud. "The Healer holds out little hope of recovery, even

 

though she is being treated for Reyerson's disease. The illness, in one

 

of her age, is too debilitating."

 

 

Spock nodded silent understanding.

 

 

Father and son occupied their time while waiting for Amanda to awaken by

 

sharing a simple lunch. It had been years since he and his father had

 

been alone together long enough to share a meal, Spock realized, and he

 

found himself enjoying Sarek's company. They spoke of the Klingons and

 

the Khitomer Conference, of the current political situation in the

 

Federation, and a host of other diplomatic concerns.

 

 

Spock rose from his seat and wandered over to examine the water

 

sculpture in the corner of the room. Every time he came home, its design

 

and flow were slightly altered--Amanda changed it periodically. This

 

time, there was something different about it--the flowing lines were

 

sharper, more angular than before. The water ran in clear perfection,

 

instead of taking on colors from the underlying crystal and stone.

 

 

"It is different," he said to his father, indicating the sculpture.

 

 

Sarek nodded. "I programmed it this time. Your mother did not have the

 

energy to do the work herself, but she was tired of the old design."

 

 

Studying the piece of art, Spock finally nodded. "Yes, I can see that.

 

This design is far more ... logical." He hesitated, trying to frame the

 

rest of his thought in a way that would not offend.

 

 

"But not as aesthetically pleasing," Sarek finished for him. Taking in

 

Spock's surprised glance, he nodded. "I saved the old designs, every one

 

of them. As soon as Amanda grows tired of the current design, I will

 

reactivate one of her programs."

 

 

Sarek hesitated for a long moment, then continued.

 

 

"There is something that has been concerning me for some time now. I

 

need your advice on a problem I am facing."

 

 

Spock's gaze sharpened with curiosity. "A problem?" he prompted. Never

 

before had Sarek asked him--or anyone else, insofar as he knew--for

 

advice.

 

 

"Recent events have convinced me that a serious problem

 

 

is facing the Federation from an unsuspected quarter," Sarek said,

 

steepling his fingers on the table before him.

 

 

"What do you know of the Keep Earth Human League?"

 

 

Just as Spock opened his mouth to reply, the monitor in the corner

 

beeped softly. The ambassador quickly rose to his feet. "Your mother is

 

awake."

 

 

Soft-looted, Spock followed his father down the hall to his parents'

 

bedroom. Even though he had thought himself prepared for his mother's

 

illness, he was shocked by her extreme pallor and thinness, as she lay

 

in the middle of the huge bed.

 

 

"Mother ..." Spock said gently, leaning over her to take one of her

 

hands in his own. The bones beneath her papery skin seemed no more

 

substantial than those of a songbird.

 

 

"Spock ..." she whispered, even before her eyes opened.

 

 

Her familiar, loving smile shone out of her face, transforming it,

 

making it suddenly familiar again. "Oh, Spock, it is so good to see you

 

... "

 

 

The first officer stayed with his mother for nearly an hour, talking

 

quietly to her. When Amanda's eyes began to close, he squeezed her hand,

 

then left.

 

 

Sarek was sitting at the table when his son reentered the dining room.

 

Spock sank into a chair, and took a deep breath. "I did not want to

 

believe it," he said, dully.

 

 

"I know. I experienced the same reaction," Sarek said quietly.

 

 

Father and son gazed at each other in silent accord.

 

 

Laser torch in hand, s'kara straightened up slowly from her crouch

 

beside the massive combination planter-harvester.

 

 

Overhead, Kadura's small orange sun, Rana Delta Eridani), was trying to

 

break through the winter cloud cover ... and almost succeeding. s'kara

 

turned her face up, enjoying the brush of warmth against her dark green

 

Orion skin. Her short, curly black hair, liberally shot with the gold

 

threads of age, stirred in the chill breeze that cooled the sweat on her

 

forehead.

 

 

Looking off across the fields, rusty brown instead of summer blue-green,

 

s'kara let her gaze wander to her village of Melkai. There were snug

 

little homes, painted in shades of blue, yellow, green, and mauve, their

 

rooftops black and studded with solar collecting cells.

 

 

The Orion woman grimaced a little as she rubbed her back with one hand.

 

Squatting beneath the combine all morning while she tried to weld its

 

sequencer into position again was a sure guarantee of a backache to

 

come. Still, the combine would have to be used soon for planting, for

 

spring, despite the cold grayness of the sky, was only a few weeks away.

 

 

With a heartfelt groan, s'kara bent her knees and prepared to squat

 

beneath the machine again, laser torch poised.

 

 

Just as she ducked to crawl beneath the combine, a dark shadow loomed

 

overhead. s'kara caught it out of the corner of her eye and

 

involuntarily looked up.

 

 

What was that? she wondered. It almost looked like a ship going by.

 

 

s'kara's heart pounded as she slid back out into the open and stood up.

 

Her eyes widened with fear.

 

 

A ship was swooping in for a landing not half a tern away--a Klingon

 

ship. Klingons! Great Mother of us all, help your children! Klingons.t

 

Heart slamming so hard she could scarcely breathe, s'kara fought the

 

impulse to crawl back beneath the combine and hide.

 

 

Stories of rape, murder, and stomach-churning atrocities ran through

 

s'kara's mind as she began to run toward the settlement. She had to warn

 

them!

 

 

Hearing a shout from behind her, she forced her legs to an even swifter

 

pace, the chill air hurting her lungs. The whine of a stun ray filled

 

her ears. Dodging frantically, she raced across the field, her feet

 

flying so fast that she feared she'd overbalance and fall, breath

 

sobbing in her chest.

 

 

The whine came againm and, without knowing quite what had happened to

 

her, s'kara found herself lying on her face in the field, completely

 

helpless. Her eyelids were closed, and she couldn't open them.

 

Frantically, she tried to pray as she lay there, wondering how long the

 

stun beam would hold her. Her muscles screamed with pain, but she

 

couldn't adjust her position by so much as a sendisat.

 

 

Time went by ... s'kara finally began countin g her own heartbeats, and

 

had reached 412 when she heard footsteps approaching. A voice barked an

 

order in Klingonese, and the whine came again. Abruptly, she could move,

 

and her entire body convulsed in agony as all her muscles went into

 

spasms. Rough hands grabbed her, hoisted her up.

 

 

Flingohs ... five of them, all armed. One of them grinned, showing a

 

mouthful of snaggleteeth, and reached for the front of her insulated

 

coverall, clearly intending to rip it open.

 

 

s'kara closed her eyes tightly. She braced herself--only to have another

 

of the Flingons reach out and strike down the hand of her would-be

 

attacker. He snarled something that sounded like an order, and the other

 

Flingon reluctantly stepped back.

 

 

This Flingon was wearing a more elaborate metal sash across his broad

 

shoulders. He eyed her, then said, with a strong accent, "Do you speak

 

Standard, woman?" s'kara nodded. "Yes, I do."

 

 

"Good. We talk, you translate. Help us, and you will not be harmed."

 

 

A shrill shriek rent the air, and s'kara darted an anguished glance in

 

the direction of the village. Another scream followed.

 

 

"We are under Federation protection, here," s'kara told the leader.

 

"When they find out what you are doing, it will mean war with your

 

government."

 

 

The leader uttered a short, ugly bark of laughter. "We have no

 

government, woman. We are our own law, our own government. I am

 

Commander Keraz. You will address me as 'my lord." Is that understood?"

 

 

s'kara nodded sullenly. One of the Klingons holding her cuffed her

 

sharply. She took a deep breath. "Yes, my lord."

 

 

"Better."

 

 

All of them glanced up as yet another Flingon bird-of-prey hurtled out

 

of the sky. Keraz gave an order to one of his men, and the Flingon

 

trotted off.

 

 

"We will go into the village," Keraz said to s'kara. "We will assemble

 

the people. You will speak to them in your own language. What you will

 

tell them is this We are in control, and we will stay in control. As

 

long as they obey us, they will not be harmed. Resist, and we will kill

 

them--or worse. Is that clear?"

 

 

s'kara stared at him, wanting so badly to spit right into his swarthy

 

face that her jaw muscles worked. He watched her as though she were some

 

kind of mildly interesting insect. After long seconds, s'kara nodded,

 

then, as one of her guards raised his hand, said hastily, "Yes, my

 

lord."

 

 

Another scream rose out of the villagema scream that was cut off in the

 

middle by a whine of disruptor fire. s'kara tensed, her throat an aching

 

knot of despair. Keraz nodded at her guards, and they all started across

 

the field, passing the big combine.

 

 

I will survive this, Klingon, s'kara thought grimly. When this is over,

 

I will be alive, and free--and you will be sorry. By the Mother Goddess,

 

I swear it ...

 

 

As the little party entered the village, s'kara forced herself to note

 

every horror they passed, so she could tell the authorities when they

 

came. They would come, she told herself. The Federation took care of its

 

own. They would come ...

 

 

But would anyone still be alive to be rescued?

 

 

"What is this threat to the Federation, Father?" Spock asked, later that

 

same day, as he and Sarek walked in the gardens behind the villa.

 

Sarek's young aide, Soran, was watching the monitors that would signal

 

when Amanda awoke again. "You aroused my curiosity with your reference

 

to the Keep Earth Human League."

 

 

Overhead, Nevasa was past its zenith, declining toward the horizon, but

 

sunset was still more than an hour away.

 

 

Sarek glanced about him at the stark beauty of his wife's garden. Then

 

he quietly spoke of the Freelans, summarizing his discovery that they

 

were actually Romulans in disguise, and speaking of his discoveries

 

aboard the Freelan space station.

 

 

"I have been collecting data for over a year," he finished.

 

 

"I would appreciate it if you would review it for yourself tonight."

 

Spock nodded. "If it were anyone else telling me of this, I would

 

dismiss his words as illogical paranoia," the Starfleet officer said

 

slowly. "That you have seen proof of your theory convinces me, but ...

 

how did you know? What made you suspect the Freelans?" Sarek had known

 

that Spock would ask. The ambassador drew a deep breath, steeling

 

himself. "It is a long story," he began. "One that I did not think I

 

would ever speak of to another." His son raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

 

"Obviously you have access to information the rest of the Federation

 

does not. How did you obtain it? The Freelans are the most secretive of

 

beings No one has ever seen a Freelan

 

 

his or her mask " Slowly, deliberately, Sarek shook his head from side

 

to side.

 

 

"Not true," he said, heavily. '7 have seen the face of a Freelan.

 

 

When the incident first occurred, I remained silent about it for nearly

 

seventy Standard years, because I could not be sure of what I saw that

 

day. But now ... now the puzzle is complete, and I must inform the

 

authorities of what I have discovered."

 

 

"Seventy years?" Spock was clearly taken aback. "Please elucidate."

 

 

to the bench that faced T'Rukh, Sarek sank down, arranging his robes

 

meticulously while he searched for words.

 

 

"It began when I was a diplomatic attache at the Vulcan Embassy on Earth

 

... some seven years before I met your mother. I had been bonded to

 

T'Rea, the priestess"--the ambassador used the archaic Vulcan word

 

reldai, which in the old days, when Vulcan was ruled by the theocracy,

 

meant both "female religious leader" and "female ruler or princess"--"as

 

was traditional, when we were both seven years of age. I had not seen

 

T'Rea since we were children; she was a stranger to me." Sarek paused,

 

remembering his first wife as she'd looked the last time he'd seen her

 

... her intense black eyes, her

 

 

beauty, her proud, stern features. Mostly he remembered her hair, a

 

rippling obsidian curtain that had hung down past her hips. It had felt

 

as silken as her diaphanous wedding robe.

 

 

"As the newest of the diplomatic attaches on Earth, many of the routine

 

or less-desirable tasks fell to me," Sarek continued after a moment.

 

"One of those was being appointed the diplomatic liaison to Freelan. I

 

was fifty-nine Standard years old, and had not yet experienced my first

 

Time. I knew that most males undergo their first Time in their thirties

 

or early forties, so this delay was somewhat unusual ... "He shrugged

 

slightly. "But I also knew that residence off-world could affect one's

 

cycle, and I had lived much of the past fifteen years on Tellar, Earth,

 

and several other worlds.

 

 

Many factors, as you know only too well, Spock, can affect the onset and

 

frequency of our Times." Spock nodded gravely.

 

 

"It was raining that day in San Francisco when the ambassador summoned

 

me to his office," Sarek continued, his voice deepening as the memories

 

took hold, transporting him back to the past. "I was still new enough to

 

Earth to find such an abundance of precipitation fascinating ... even

 

mesmerizing.

 

 

"I been the liaison to Freelan for three years at that time. Freelan had

 

only come to the attention of the Federation shortly before I was

 

appointed, so, as it happened, I was the first person to travel to that

 

distant world to discuss trade policies."

 

 

"How many trips had you made?"

 

 

"Over the course of three years ... seven in all," Sarek said, after a

 

moment's thought. "Naturally, of course, I was not permitted to set foot

 

on Freelan soil. I stayed on board their space station."

 

 

"Had you ever met a Freelan personally?" The ambassador shook his head.

 

"No. At that time, no one had.

 

 

They did not leave their world until decades later. All contact was by

 

comm link. Despite all this, my contact on Freelan, a diplomatic attache

 

named Darov, was someone I had come to know and respect over the years.

 

Darov and I had fallen into the habit, following a day's negotiation, of

 

playing chess after our respective evening repasts. Darov was a

 

challenging player," the older Vulcan continued after a moment. "Many of

 

our contests ended in a draw, and, more than once, I lost."

 

 

His son raised an eyebrow in surprise. "That is indeed ... impressive,"

 

he murmured. It had been many years since father and son had sat down to

 

a game, but the last time they had played, Sarek had still been able to

 

win more than half the time.

 

 

"As we played, we talked ... about many things. Darov was careful not

 

to reveal much in the way of information about his people, or himself,

 

but, over the years, I learned some things about the Freelans that

 

outsiders did not know.

 

 

For example, I knew that Darov was young, about my own age, that he was

 

married, and had a family that he was quite ... devoted ... to. A son

 

and two daughters, I believe."

 

 

"Did you gain any knowledge of Fredan society and culture?"

 

 

"Yes, though Darov was extremely cautious and secretive.

 

 

I gathered that his political leanings tended toward the moderate. Darov

 

favored increased contact with other worlds ... while the Freelan

 

government's official position was that outsiders constituted a

 

potential threat to the Freelan way of life."

 

 

"Darov wanted to change the way his world interacted with others?"

 

 

"I gained that impression over the years," Sarek said,

 

 

"though he never said so specifically."

 

 

"Fascinating," Spock murmured. "You did indeed learn more than is

 

generally known even now about Freelan and its people. I had no idea the

 

Freelans had political parties, or that not all Frcelans favored their

 

isolationist policies."

 

 

"There are many things you do not know about the Freelans," Sarek said

 

gravely. "That day in San Francisco, Ambassador Selden assigned me to

 

travel to Freelan to conduct trade negotiations concerning ore that had

 

recently been discovered on a moon in the Freelan system. This ore,

 

 

crysium, was a vital element in the construction and use of a new

 

diagnostic and treatment machine recently d eveloped by the Healers at

 

the Vulcan Science Academy."

 

 

Sarek's mouth quirked ironically. "At the time the ambassador spoke with

 

me, I was experiencing some minor physical symptoms of illness ... I

 

had not been sleeping or eating well. I considered asking him to send

 

another in my place. But I told myself that my symptoms were simply

 

those of mild fatigue due to overwork, and that a chance to rest aboard

 

ship would be beneficial ... "

 

 

As Sarek talked, the memory of that fateful voyage and its aftermath

 

grew in his mind, eclipsing for the moment his surroundings. Amanda's

 

garden faded into the neutral-colored walls of his tiny cabin aboard the

 

freighter Zephyr ...

 

 

Soft skin beneath his hands, long, silken hair spilling over his body,

 

the brush of a mind that inflamed him past all ability to resist ...

 

Sarek groaned aloud as he reached for T'Rea. She wore only the

 

diaphanous overtunic of her wedding garb, and he could clearly see her

 

body beneath the silken fabric.

 

 

The sight of her made him gasp and tremble; his mind and body were

 

aflame, hot as the sands of Gol, burning like the volcanoes that

 

tormented T'Rukh, searing him beyond all ability to resist. Sarek

 

reached for his bride, his hands catching in her garment, ripping it,

 

and then he was touching her flesh ...

 

 

With a gasp and a muffled cry, he sat upright on his narrow bunk aboard

 

the Zephyr, realizing that he had been dreaming. He was shaking

 

violently, so aroused that it was several minutes before he could

 

discipline his mind to overcome the fever racking his body.

 

 

So this is what it is like, Sarek thought finally, when he could once

 

more think rationally. Port farr ... and I am parsecs away from Vulcan,

 

and T'Rea ...

 

 

Through their bond, he could sense her, knew that her body was

 

experiencing that drawing, even as his was. For a moment he wondered

 

what it would be like to be married to her for the rest of his life, but

 

the rest of his life seemed like an insubstantial, faraway thing in

 

comparison to the heat of his desire.

 

 

The drawing was physical pain, his need to mate was torture. How long

 

before he succumbed to the madness, the plak tow? Grimly, Sarek set

 

about using biocontrol techniques to subdue the pon farr so he could

 

reason logically.

 

 

Minutes later, he rose from his bunk, outwardly composed, inwardly more

 

at peace It was early, yet. He had several days ... perhaps a standard

 

week ... before the blood-fever would consume him utterly.

 

 

Vulcan was five days away. Should he request that the captain take him

 

to Vulcan instead of docking at Freelan's space station in an hour?

 

 

Sarek shrank from the idea that anyone--any outworlder, any human--might

 

see him in his extremity. And yet surely he could hold out for a day,

 

maintain control long enough to meet with Darov and formalize the

 

ore-trade agreement. Much of the negotiation had already been

 

accomplished via subspace messages back and forth.

 

 

Surely Sarek could handle one day's work before sealing himself into his

 

cabin and preparing to wait out the agony before he could reach Vulcan

 

and his wedding T'Rea ... He had met her only a few times, and not ever

 

in the past twenty years. T'Rea had become an Acolyte of Gol, and her

 

mental skills were formidable. People spoke of her with respect, and a

 

little awe. Rumor had it that she was a candidate to ascend to the rank

 

of High Master.

 

 

Was she now High Master? What would it be like to be wed to the High

 

Master of Gol, someone whose telepathic skills greatly exceeded his own

 

modest ones? What would it be like to be wed to someone who had achieved

 

kolinahr--a person who had succeeded in purging all emotion from her

 

being? Someone who lived by Perfect Logic?

 

 

For a moment something in Sarek rebelled at the realization that there

 

could be no personal sharing between himself and such a woman, no

 

intimacy, no ... companionship. No warmth. No ... kindness, no

 

gentleness.

 

 

After a moment he pushed the thought away, rejecting it as illogical.

 

His work was in the diplomatic corps ... he lived on his homeworld only

 

a few days each year. He and T'Rea would live apart, that was the only

 

logical solution.

 

 

They would meet during their Times, and that would be all.

 

 

And children? a voice whispered inside him. What if there are children?

 

 

It was unlikely that the High Master of Gol would have either the time

 

or the inclination to raise children, Sarek decided. If a child should

 

be born as a result of this Time ... his blood heated at the thought of

 

the act necessary to engender a child ... then he would take that child

 

to raise. His work was difficult, requiring much traveling, but a child,

 

especially an older child, would gain much from such exposure to the

 

universe and its varied cultures.

 

 

A soft chime came from the intercom; then the steward's voice informed

 

the Vulcan that the Zephyr would be docking with the Freelan station in

 

thirty Standard minutes.

 

 

Sarek spent half of those minutes in deep meditation, checking his

 

biocontrol, verifying that the mental barriers he had set up against the

 

heat in his blood were holding, would hold long enough for him to

 

accomplish his duty. The moment the negotiations with Darov were

 

concluded, he would return to Zephyr and order her captain to take him

 

to Vulcan at the freighter's maximum warp.

 

 

Then he would lock himself in his cabin for the duration of the trip,

 

and fight to keep control over the madness that would be nibbling at the

 

fringes of his mind.

 

 

Minutes later, dressed and outwardly as cool and composed as usual,

 

Sarek walked through the short tunnel linking the Zephyr's airlock with

 

the Freelan station.

 

 

The station was empty at the moment, save for him ... there were no

 

other outworlders staying here as they met with the Freelans on the

 

planet below via corem link.

 

 

Sarek was relieved that he would be spared the necessity of engaging in

 

small talk with other beings. He did not even enter his sleeping

 

quarters--a neutral, pastel chamber as bland as any hotel room--but

 

bypassed them to go directly into the adjoining office with its comm

 

link.

 

 

Within moments, Darov's figure materialized before him.

 

 

Sarek was used to facing the cowled, swathed figure, completely muffled

 

in shimmering garments as colorless as a Taka moth's wing. Darov's

 

mechanical voice echoed in his ears. "Greetings, Liaison Sarek! I was

 

not expecting you until this afternoon."

 

 

"My ship made good time," Sarek said neutrally. "Greetings to you,

 

Liaison Darov. I trust you are well?"

 

 

"Entirely, thank you," Darov said, and Sarek imagined that he could hear

 

a touch of genuine warmth tingeing the artificial voice. "And you?

 

Perhaps you will honor me with a game of chess after we conclude our

 

meeting?"

 

 

Sarek bowed slightly. "I regret that I must respectfully decline, Darov.

 

I am ... fatigued, and am looking forward to reaching my homeworld, so

 

I may rest."

 

 

Darov's cowl jerked slightly forward, as if the Freelan had moved his

 

head suddenly to peer at Sarek's face. But the liaison said only, "How

 

unfortunate that you are not feeling up to playing. I will miss our game

 

... it has become one of the few pleasures I still allow myself, with

 

my busy schedule." He straightened slightly, briskly. "If you are not

 

well, let us by all means conclude these few points quickly, so that you

 

may rest. Shall we begin?"

 

 

"Certainly," Sarek replied, activating half of the screen to show the

 

data he had brought concerning the crysium ore.

 

 

"Now, concerning these subsidiary mining rights ..."

 

 

Hours later, they were nearly finished, when Darov suddenly turned his

 

head, then announced, "Excuse me, Sarek.

 

 

I am being summoned on a priority channel. Would you wait for a moment?"

 

 

"Certainly, Darov," Sarek said. The Freelan's image vanished, and he

 

busied himself going over the points they had negotiated. He experienced

 

a brief flare of satisfaction at his own performance. He'd protected

 

Vulcan's interests in all major areas, while giving in on minor points

 

that would no doubt allow Darov satisfaction regarding his own

 

negotiation strategies.

 

 

Halfway through the list, the Vulcan attache gasped suddenly as pain

 

lanced through his mind and body like a

 

 

phaser blast. T'Rea! Her desire called to him, reached out for him,

 

threatened to engulf him. Wait, he attempted to transmit along the bond,

 

I am coming to you ...

 

 

"Sarek? Sarek? Sarek, are you--" Dimly, Darov's voice reached the

 

Vulcan. He swayed, opening his eyes, found himself still in his seat,

 

clutching the comm board as though it were a lifeline.

 

 

"I ... am fine," the Vulcan managed after a moment.

 

 

"Perhaps a brief rest ..."

 

 

"I did not know that Vulcans could lie ... until now," Darov said

 

flatly. The shrouded figure of the alien nearly filled the comm screen,

 

as though he were leaning forward, peering intently at the Vulcan

 

attache. "Our station has a fully equipped automated med center. Perhaps

 

you should--"

 

 

Agony lanced through Sarek again, rolled over him in waves so crushing

 

that they left nothing in their wake except blackness ... a dark so

 

deep that it had no end, a dark that should have been cool, but was

 

instead an inferno of black flame, and he was burning, burning, burning

 

...

 

 

Hands on his shoulders, a voice in his ears, calling his name. T'Rea? He

 

lunged blindly at the hands, at the body he sensed hovering over his,

 

pulling at him, dragging him.

 

 

T'Rea! It had to be she, for the hands on his shoulders were not cool,

 

as human hands were, but the same temperature as his own fevered flesh.

 

It must be T'Rea!

 

 

Sarek called her name, reaching out, then opened his eyes to see a dark

 

form bending over him. Moments later he was lifted in arms as strong as

 

his own, lifted and carried.

 

 

"T'Rea ..." he gasped, only to hear a male voice say, "No,

 

 

she is not here. Come, I will help you."

 

 

Not T'Rea? A male? A rival?

 

 

He was being challenged! T'Rea had chosen the Icad-if fee--how dare she?

 

Enraged, Sarek thrashed, striking out, then found himself falling. He

 

crashed to the deck of the space station with stunning force.

 

 

Space station? Wasn't he on Vulcan?)

 

 

But he had no time to ponder his location, for his rival

 

 

was bending over him, grappling with him. With a bellow, Sarek struck

 

out, grabbing madly at the other male's dimly seen figure, his hands

 

seeking the challenger's throat.

 

 

Cloth met his fingers, impeded them from their goal.

 

 

Snarling, Sarek ripped savagely, felt the cloth give and come away in

 

his hand.

 

 

But he was on the Freelan space station, wasn't he? I, Vasn't this

 

Darov, who was trying to save him? This couldn't be a rival Vulcan.t)

 

 

But it was. As the shrouding cloth parted, Sarek saw features swim

 

before his eyes--features that nearly mirrored his own! He was right! A

 

Vulcan male was trying to take T'Rea from him! He must kill him, kill

 

him ... kill him ...

 

 

A voice crying out, a voice he recognized, despite its lack of

 

mechanical quality. Darov voice, calling his name ... and those were

 

Darov features? Slanting black brows, proud black eyes, high cheekbones

 

chiseled like his own, black hair, rumpled now from their struggle, and,

 

amid the black locks, ears that were ... that were--)

 

 

"I regret this, my friend," the dimly seen figure said, as Sarek froze

 

in shocked confusion. The arm drew back; then Sarek saw the shoulder

 

roll forward with sudden movement.

 

 

Something struck him hard on the chin, and he knew no more ... "What

 

happened then?" a voice said, pulling Sarek out of the haze of memory

 

into which he had sunk. The sun was setting behind him, and, before him,

 

T'Rukh loomed at full phase, T'Rukhemai disappearing behind it. Spock

 

was gazing at him intently.

 

 

"Obviously you survived to reach Vulcan. How did you manage it, if you

 

were deep in plak tow?"

 

 

"When I regained consciousness," the ambassador said,

 

 

"I was in the med center aboard the Freelan space station, and I was

 

alone. The automated machinery had evidently diagnosed my condition,

 

then administered sedatives and hormones that allowed me to function

 

with some semblance of normaicy. It also helped that T'Rea, unknown to

 

me, had contacted the consulate on Earth, discovered that I was several

 

days' journey away from home, and was shielding her mind, blocking me

 

from reading her ... desire ... through our bond.

 

 

"Under the influence of the medication, I reboarded my ship, which

 

reached Vulcan before the end of the fifth day.

 

 

My marriage ceremony took place less than one hour after the Zephyr

 

achieved orbit around Vulcan."

 

 

"And that was when Sybok was conceived?"

 

 

Sarek slanted a surprised glance at Spock. It wasn't like his son to ask

 

such personal questions ... but perhaps that was because he'd never

 

given him an opening before. "Yes," the ambassador replied simply.

 

"T'Rea hid his birth from me, though. I did not know he existed until

 

her death, years later. When she ascended to be High Master of Gol, two

 

years after our wedding, she divorced me. This was legal, under the

 

ancient laws, because the High Master is expected to sever all ties to

 

the outside world in order to more fully embrace kolinahr and the

 

teaching of that discipline to the Acolytes."

 

 

"Did you regret her action?" Spock asked. Two highly personal questions!

 

 

The ambassador took a deep breath. "No, I did not. I was immersed in my

 

work, and had just been appointed under-ambassador.

 

 

Besides," he added, with a glance at the villa, "if T'Rea had not

 

divorced me, I would not have been free when I met your mother. My

 

relationship with Amanda is eminently more ... satisfying ... than

 

anything I shared with T'Rea during our single, brief encounter. She was

 

..." Sarek paused, remembering." ... a typical kolinahru."

 

 

"What really happened that day with Darov?" Spock asked. "Pon farr can

 

... distort ... one's sense of reality."

 

 

"Precisely. For that reason, I dismissed what had happened as a plak

 

tow-induced hallucination," Sarek replied.

 

 

"I concluded that I must have blundered around the station, at one point

 

running into a mirror and deciding that my own reflection was a

 

challenger in the kal-ocfee ... then, by sheer happenstance, wandered

 

into the med center, where the automated equipment took over and saved

 

my life."

 

 

"Under the circumstances, that would be the most logical deduction,"

 

Spock agreed. "But now you know that is not "Yes. My first suspicion of

 

that was when your ship, the Enterprise, discovered twenty-seven

 

Standard years ago that the Romulans, whose faces no one had ever seen,

 

were plainly of Vulcan stock."

 

 

"Indeed," Spock said, obviously recalling the incident.

 

 

One corner of his mouth twitched. "I recall the first moment when our

 

viewscreen gave us a glimpse of the Romulan commander. It is odd that

 

you mention that Darov bore a resemblance to you ... because this

 

Romulan did, also. I was rather startled when I first saw his image

 

on-screen."

 

 

"Perhaps he and Darov were related in some way," Sarek speculated. "At

 

any rate, from that time on, I could not dismiss the notion that the

 

Freelans were not what they seemed. Two years ago, when the Romulans

 

began to emerge as a serious military threat to the security of the

 

Federation, I began researching Freelan exhaustively. As I did so, a

 

pattern emerged."

 

 

"What kind of pattern?" Spock asked.

 

 

"I believe that the Romulans are behind the sudden popularity and

 

high-profile activities of the Keep Earth Human League," the ambassador

 

replied.

 

 

Spock blinked. "Please explain that allegation. How could the Freelans

 

have anything to do with the KEHL?

 

 

The KEHL is against all extraterrestrials ... including Romulans."

 

 

Sarek rose from the bench and began pacing back and forth as he spoke.

 

"Consider, Spock. Every time the KEHL has experienced an upsurge in

 

growth, at least one Freelan has been attending a diplomatic, trade, or

 

scientific conference within the same city."

 

 

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Every time?"

 

 

His father nodded.

 

 

"What are you postulating, Father? Some form of mass coercion? Drugs?

 

Hypnotism?" The younger Vulcan could not disguise his skepticism.

 

 

Pausing in midstride, Sarek turned to regard his son levelly. "Mental

 

influence." His words were clipped, terse.

 

 

Quickly, he summarized his encounter with Induna, and what he'd

 

discovered from the KEHL leader's mind.

 

 

"But Romulans do not have the ability to meld or mind-touch," Spock

 

protested. "It could not have been a Freelan who influenced the KEHL

 

president."

 

 

"I know that Romulans do not share the Vulcan telepathic ability," Sarek

 

said, somewhat sharply. "I am not suggesting that they are influencing

 

KEHL members personally. During the past three years, Freelans have

 

begun using Vulcan secretaries and aides in increasing numbers. Have you

 

noticed this?"

 

 

He watched his son in T'Rukh's lurid illumination as Spock mentally

 

reviewed the data stored in his mind. "I have only recently begun

 

attending diplomatic conferences, but you are correct. Every time I have

 

seen a Freelan envoy, he or she has been accompanied by a Vulcan

 

secretary or aide. The Khitomer Conference is a case in point."

 

 

"Yes," Sarek said. "Soran was rather taken with the Freelan aide he met

 

there."

 

 

"Father, the practice of hiring Vulcans as administrative aides is

 

hardly unusual."

 

 

"True," Sarek agreed. "Many young Vulcans take employment on other

 

worlds as a way of traveling after completing the first stage of their

 

education. However ..." He fixed his son with an intent gaze, his voice

 

dropping to a near-whisper.

 

 

"None of those Freelan secretaries or aides were born on Vulcan."

 

 

"Indeed?" Spock blinked, then his eyes narrowed.

 

 

"Fascinating ..." he murmured, suddenly comprehending what the other was

 

saying. "None of them?"

 

 

The elder Vulcan shook his head. "None. Including the young woman named

 

Savel. I have traced every young Vulcan traveling off-world for the past

 

five years ... and no records show that any of them have been hired by

 

Freelans."

 

 

"Yet I saw the Freelan envoy with her at his side myself," Spock said.

 

"I recall them clearly."

 

 

"As do I," Sarek agreed. "But whoever that young Vulcan woman was, she

 

was not born on this world."

 

 

"Then where did those young Vulcans who are influencing the KEHL leaders

 

come from?" Spock asked.

 

 

"They came from Freelan." Sarek's voice was harsh and flat, and he

 

swallowed to ease the dryness in his throat.

 

 

"Spock, the Romulans have been systematically hijacking ships with

 

Vulcan passengers for decades. I have studied the shipping reports, the

 

passenger lists, for every nearby sector, and there is an

 

eighty-six-point-seven-percent correlation between the disappearance of

 

a ship and the presence of one or more Vulcans on board."

 

 

"Continue," Spock said, his expression grim.

 

 

"It is my belief that those abducted Vulcans were taken to Freelan and

 

forced to produce offspring. Their resulting children grew up under

 

Romulan influence and training--and they serve the Romulans. These

 

children learned to use their telepathy in ways Vulcans raised on this

 

world are taught to abhor."

 

 

Spock was quick to follow the ambassador's logic. "So now we have

 

Freelan envoys, merchants, and scientists traveling to Earth and the

 

Terran colonies on a regular basis, most of whom are accompanied by a

 

Vulcan secretary, or aide. And those young Vulcans, trained in Vulcan

 

mental disciplines, but lacking our ethical prohibitions, are using

 

their telepathy as they mingle among the populace. They influence humans

 

with a buried streak of xenophobia, inflaming them into becoming prime

 

material for the KEHL."

 

 

"Exactly," Sarek said. "I must admit that at first I doubted that Vulcan

 

telepathy, which is traditionally accomp lished by touch, could be used

 

for such a purpose." He paused for a second, then continued in a lower

 

tone,

 

 

"However, recent events have convinced me otherwise."