Chapter Five
“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”
—The Changeling
I THINK SCANNER was plotting to have me assassi-nated. Merete was contemplating my mental condition, and Dr. McCoy was shaking his head a lot. So, after another smooth escape disguised as a dramatic exit, I spent much of the next day’s travel tucked safely in my quarters, gazing into the computer access screen.
I’d been in there alone for three hours before anybody missed me during the next day-cycle. No surprise it was Merete who finally opted to peek in.
“Disturbing?” she asked.
My eyes flipped up from the computer screen—my only movement.. My preoccupation held for a long moment as I gazed at her, then I moved my hand from its parking place against my lips and said, “No. Come on in.”
She invited herself into the chair beside the bunk and looked at the screen. “Tech manuals?”
“Look at this,” I said flatly, punching the controls on the side of the access screen. The screen went blank for a moment, then flickered with new data. “I’ve been through this a dozen times already and I st~~l can’t fathom it.” “What is it?”
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“Vulcan training.”
She inhaled, held it, and sighed. “Oh. Sarda’s still on your mind. Any particular aspect this time?”
“Sarda’s clan.”
Her delicate eyes narrowed. “Sarda’s clan specifically? How did you ever find data that obscure?”
I made a guttural sound to double the impact of her question. “Obscure is right. The Vulcans are noto-riously secretive. However, Doctor dear, the Federation’s liaison committee to the Confederation of 40 Eridani isn’t without its muscle. They convinced the Vulcans to loosen their grip on cultural secrets at least enough that off-worlders could understand enough about them to respect them at a little less distance. I’ll bet that day saw logic fly.”
“Even so,” Merete countered as she sat at the end of my bunk, “Sarda’s clan isn’t exactly the visible elite of ShiKahr City, like Mr. Spock’s. Isn’t Sarda from somewhere below the Vulcan equatorial zone?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. I’ve been hunting through the library systems for weeks. Before 1 put out to sea on the Keeler, I left a search worm in the mainframe library computer at Starbase One. It’s been picking through its indices, looking for information on Sarda and his tribe, or whatever they call themselves. All 1 had to do was key into that system from here to get the results of the search.”
“So Mr. Spock’s new computer for this ship is coming in handy.” “Sure is.”
“What have you found?”
“I found,” came the answer, “the Lyr Zor.” My revelation was lost on her. “Clan or region?” Self-consciously, I clarified. “Clan. The region is called Lyr T’aya, as closely as the computer can put it into English alphabet. It’s way south, in the Vuldi Gorge. The nearest city is Jia’anKahr. Does that mean anything to you?”
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She nodded, eyes widening. “It means remote. I knew Sarda wasn’t from the city clans who usually gravitate to Star Fleet, but I had no idea…”
I leaned forward. “Can you imagine the pressure it would take to force a Vulcan from a clan that remote to venture away from the planet? Do you realize how alone he must have been? And he knew he’d stand out at Star Fleet too. We don’t exactly see fair-haired Vulcans every day.”
“And all this is teaching you something,” Merete prodded gently, probably thinking my state of mind was as delicate as Sarda’s.
I took a deep breath. “I’ve found that Vulcan clans pretty much keep the teaching of their respective children as a private matter. Only when a Vulcan child reaches what they call Norn-La-Hal do they take on the blanket training of all Vulcans. So there’s a plane-tary unity, but only after a certain point, if you get what I mean.”
“I do,” she assured me. “And you’re angry at the Lyr Zor for their particular method.”
This earned her a good long stare. How did she know? Was it etched so clearly in my expression? A passing flush of denial swept over me, a self-defense mode of pretending to keep an open mind—oh, what the hell. She saw through it anyway.
I waved her closer to the computer screen. “Well, look at that. Just look.”
Together we read the rare data from Vuldi Gorge, the air around us heavy with implication.
TRAINING FILE UI-77. LYR ZOR CLAN, LYR T’AYA REGION, VULDI GORGE CRESCENT, VULCAN. CONTACT: SUNVAR, MAGISTRATE OF INTERPLANETARY RELATIONS, JIA’ANKAHR, VULCAN.
NEWBORN-4 YEARS. VISUAL MATHEMATICS, BASIC CALCULATION, BEGIN NEUROLOGICAL ORGANIZING. LYR ZOR IDENTITY MELD.
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FOUR YEARS. MATHEMATICS AND SPECIES IDENTIFICATION, PHYSICAL COORDINATION, ALGEBRA, GEOMETRY, PHYSICS.
EIGHT YEARS. PRELIMINARY TELEPATHIC COMMUNICATION AND ETIQUETTE. LYR ZOR CLAN HISTORY. VULCAN AN-THROPOLOGY. CALCULUS. QUANTUM PHYSICS.
TEN YEARS. SUPPRESSION OF CORTICAL STIMULAE IN DOMINANT HEMISPHERE. VULCAN CULTURAL HISTORY. STUDY OF VULCAN RITES OF PASSAGE.
ELEVEN YEARS. PRESSURE POINTS OF MIND MELDING. MEMORY ACCURACY. INTERNAL-TIME COUNTING. INTRODUCTION TO LOGIC AND DEFINITION. PRINCIPLES OF
ANALYSIS. CONCRETEHESS OF THOUGHT. PHYSICAL DEPORTMENT.
THIRTEEN-FIFTEEN. FORMAL TRAINING BEGINS.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” I blustered, deep in useless empathy. “That’s what a Lyr Zor child goes through.”
“Have you got that in VulCan years or Earth Standards?”
“Earth Standards. But, my God, Merete, look at the pressure. Think about the incredible mental discipline involved. Not only that,” I said, turning to her, “but notice how much of it involves social approval. Look ú.. cultural history, physical deportment, no less… and that’s supposedly before formal training. It’s practically child abuse.”
Merete leaned back in her chair, her medical training showing as she gave me both the benefit of the doubt and a moment to cool off. “You’re right,” she said patronizingly. “But don’t forget they’re born to it. Chances are a Vulcan child would be mentally unbalanced if those tremendous brains of theirs weren’t given something to grasp, even early on.”
I held out my hand to argue, then shook it and said,
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“All right. Just keep watching and see what you think. Computer, continue rundown of Lyr Zor training.”
The screen unit buzzed, then moved ahead with colored letters on the screen.
FORMAL TRAINING. TAL T’LEE. FIRST MEDITATION ASSISTED BY AN ADEPT OF LYR ZOR COUNCIL. CONTROL OF SUBDOMINANT CORTICES. DWEMISH HI-AN. IDENTITY ISOLATION. BRAIN CONTROL WITH NUMBERS SYSTEMS AND EQUATIONS. MULTIPLICATION LEFT TO RIGHT. ENOK-KAL FI LAR. PROCESSES OF DEFINITION. CONCEPTS OF GIVENS.
SIXTEEN-NINETEEN. AN-PRELE. PAIN CONTROL MEDITATION WITH COUNCIL ADEPT. READINGS INCLUDE ESSAYS OF DISCIPLINE BY SURAK AND ANALYSIS OF PSEUDODOXY BY T’VEEN OF JlA’ANKAHR. LOBE SEGREGATION OF BRAIN.
“Piper,” Merete interrupted patiently, “why are you doing this to yourself?. Your becoming an expert on Vulcan training won’t help Sarda.”
“Won’t it?” I countered. “As I understand it, Sarda should have already gone through the stage called Venlinahr. That’s the stage a Vulcan should have finished by Sarda’s age in Earth years. It’s the stage of most Vulcan adults, and it’s two stages ahead of— well, let me show you. Look. Here’s the part about the Katra. Now just watch.”
With reluctant tension, Merete looked into the screen. Its faint blue lights played across her skin.
TWENTY-TWENTY-FOUR. THE RUNES OF T’VISH, LOGIC PARADIGMS. BEHAVIORAL MODIFICATION. MULTiPLICA-TION RIGHT TO LEFT, DIAGONAL, AND CROSS-MULTIPLI- CATION. ISOLATION OF THE KATRA.
TWENTY-FIVE-TWENTY-NINE. SELE-AN-T’LEE: COMPRISED OF LESSONS IN SUBDOMINANT BRAIN ORGANIZATION, ADVANCED PHILOSOPHY AND LOGIC, MUSCLE COORDINATION, AND CONTROL OF WILL. FIVE STEPS. BELIEF DISCI-
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PLINE, REALITY AWARENESS, SENSORY ACUTENESS, VISUAL CALCULATION, FACT ANALYSIS. READINGS INCLUDE LOGIC AND DEFINITION BY LYRAS, THE INTERIOR BY TAL LUXUR OF ROMULUS, EQUATIONS BY SCORUS, SYSTEMS OF LOGIC BY SURAK, PURPOSE AS PRIME MOTIVATOR BY SURAK. ALSO INCLUDES ADVANCED MIND MELD TECHNIQUES.
“Now, that’s where Sarda was when he was trying to teach himself the Vulcan controls,” I told her. “Sele-an-t’lee, he told me. Can you imagine trying to do all that by himself? It was probably tearing him apart. How was he supposed to learn the techniques for advanced mind melding if there was no one to meld with? And he was still two stages behind. No, don’t talk. Read.”
THIRTY-THIRTY-FIVE. NORN-LA-HAL. SUPERIOR CONTROL MEDITATION AND NEUROLOGICAL ORGANIZING. IMPORTANCE OF DIGNITY AND TRADITION IN VULCAN IDENTITY. CONTEMPLATIONS OF INFINITY. VENLINAHR. STATE OF MOST VULCAN ADULTS. MEDITATION BY INDIVIDUAL DISCRETION. FURTHER STUDY OF VULCAN DHARMA. ADVANCED READINGS OF THE MYSTAGOGUES SURAK, SCORUS, T’ENNE, T’VISH, PRISU, AND SELTAR.
“See?” I said, tapping the place on the screen with one cracked fingernail. “That’s when they can relax. Venlinahr. That’s when they’re true Vulcans by their own standards. Sarda should have reached that by now. Then there’s the next one, the real killer.”
“I see it.” Merete’s voice was funereal. Just as the words on the screen were.
KOLINAHR. FINAL DIVORCE OF THE BRAIN, BODY, AND KATRA FROM ALL EMOTIONAL RESPONSES. IF NECESSARY, KOLINAHR WILL BE ACCOMPLISHED BY MEMORY ABERRA-TION.
LIST COMPLETE.
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I leaned back. “Computer off.”
The screen went blank. The blue glow was gone, fallen off Merete’s delicate features like shimmering leaves from a scale tree on Proxima. The fleeting thought of home gave me no comfort today.
Neither of us cared to rupture the dangerous silence we’d fallen into. Only Merete’s calm courage allowed her to finally bridge the deepening gap. “Rigorous,” she commented, curbing her tone of empathy.
“Killing,” I corrected. “There’s no excuse for that. And even worse, what’s the excuse for denying that training to someone who was born to need it? Why would they do that to him? A half-trained Vulcan could go mad just trying to fill in the gaps.”
She looked at me, and I could see her mind working as she tried to slowly reassess the information that had flashed by us in truncated form. Years and years of relentless mind training encapsulized on a computer screen, yet every bit as burdensome as those big words and wide concepts implied. Merete tipped her head, feathery brows lowering. “Is that what you think might have happened to Sarda?” Silence this time was a noisy answer.
“Piper, you saved him from it,” she said. “You set him up with Mr. Spock, and Spock arranged for a Vulcan teacher for him. It’s only a matter of time BOW.”
“No, not now,” I snapped. “Now is the whole issue. Now, he’s in some kind of trouble, and it doesn’t make sense. Espionage? That’s not Sarda. Not a healthy Sarda, anyway. Maybe …” I paused, hunting for the hurt, “maybe I was too late. Maybe, when he went back into training with another Vulcan, it was too much. Maybe he snapped.”
Instantly Merete got up and stepped out into the skinny corridor to the food dispenser and came back with two cups of steaming coffee, sweet, with cream. She pressed my fingers around one of the cups, then
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sat down very slowly, taking every last possible sec-ond to let time slide between me and my paranoia. “Piper, listen to me,” she said. “You could be right.” I looked up. “What?”
“You could be right.” Her tone was tolerant, not patronizing. “But don’t rule out another possibility. There are still many things about this that we simply don’t know yet. And one run through the computer library about Vulcan training doesn’t make either of us experts on Vulcans. We’re not Vulcans. It may be as normal for them as learning to fly a skimmer is to us.”
“Then why was it tearing him apart?” My palm connected with the bulkhead. In my other hand, the coffee sloshed. “What’s he doing in the middle of this, Marete? Did he snap?”
She shrugged one shoulder and sipped her coffee. She swallowed deliberately, stalling for more time. Her rotten tactic was working too. I was starting to realize the truth in her words, and the damning fact that I would just have to wait.
“What do you think?” Merete asked after several long moments. “What do you really believe?”
More moments. They were beginning to sap me dry. Kill me, but don’t make me wait anymore.
“I don’t know,” I murmured, staring. Coffee steam wreathed my face.
I was rescued from myself by the intercom whistle, and Scanner’s voice coming on before I could respond.
“Piper, we’ve got a ship on scope. Approaching rapidly, no identification, no signals, won’t answer a hail, and the design is unfamiliar. You want me to slow down?”
I dived for the intercom button and mashed it. “No! Don’t touch anything. Does Rex have shields?”
“Kinda. Enough to put off maybe one phaser shot. We just didn’t figure—”
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“Put them up. Don’t alter course or speed. I’ll be right there !”
Whoever it was, they had a fast ship. In the few seconds it took Merete and me to skim through the Rex’s walkways, the triangular gold and red shuttle had pulled alongside and was matching our speed. “Anything?” I asked.
Dr. McCoy, who had been lounging in the captain’s chair, wheeled out of it and out of my way in the same movement. “Not a peep. Yet.” “No classification on that design, Scanner?”
He looked nervous. “Nope.” The communications receiver hung in his ear as he stared, shoulders hunched, out the portal at the large shuttle. “Beats me what it is.”
“What they are,” I corrected. Anticipation hung on me like sweat. No… that really was sweat. Sticky. A captain shouldn’t be sticky. Damn. “Ship to ship.” “Channel open. Fire away.”
I cleared my throat. “This is the S.S. Banana Republic requesting your identification and purpose. Translator is tied in. Please respond.”
The board crackled on my echo. The massive gold wing dwarfed our main viewing portal, making us all strain upward to see it. It was imposing, and we felt adequately imposed upon. Scanner stiffened. “Something .yeah… static…”
“Pull it in.” I knew he was trying, but I still had to say it.
Merete and Dr. McCoy huddled together near the port viewing slots, peering out at the unidentified vessel, their silence an ominous reminder of the un-avoidable dangers humankind had given to ourselves when we first ventured out into space. We could live in space, we could keep ourselves alive with the most
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basic of methods, but we could never be completely safe.
Scanner listened, lightly touching the audio receiver in his ear. “They’re requesting visual contact.”
I thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Visual on.”
The screen flickered, an ominous instant of seeing the screen superimposed against the unidentified ship that hung half-visible beside our bridge portal. Then it settled down to a somber, elegant face, familiar in its saturnine reserve.
“Spock!” McCoy blurted. Yet I could tell he wasn’t altogether surprised.
While Kirk’s face was built on curves and McCoy’s on squares, Spock’s features were a montage of triangularities framed by trim black hair and those orna-mental Vulcan ears. The flush of comfort I felt at the sight of him was banked by fresh thoughts of Sarda.
“Permission to come aboard, Commander,” he requested.
“By all means, come aboard,” I said.
“Thank you. I shall arrange hookup and be there momentarily. Spock out.” The screen went blank.
Merete reached over for a generous squeeze on my forearm. “Time for answers,” she said quietly.
Scanner grunted. “Good, ‘cuz we sure got the questions.”
We waited with false patience as Spock organized his shuttle to dock with Banana Republic. His ship moved out of our main view, now visible only through the ribbed portals on the side of the ship. Rex moaned and bumped hollowly as the ships joined and the breezeway was sealed off and pressurized. By the time the starboard loading-dock door slid open, we were already there, waiting. The doors parted. Commander Spock stepped in. We gaped at him. He no longer wore his usual Star
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Fleet colors. This was an altogether different Spock. A dun-colored cowl framed his jawline, his shoulders broadened by a burgundy thigh-length cape. His lean form was even further elongated by dark azure vel-vet—a belted tunic. Those, simple leggings, and calf-wrap boots made him look like a planet-traipsing ven-dor or someone out of a medieval story, depending on who was doing the imagining. Only his fluid dignity reminded us that he was who he was. That and the fact that he carried a handful of computer cartridges— cookies to feed Rex’s new main frame library.
“Sir,” I began, “you’re…” “Out of uniform,” McCoy supplied boldly.
Spock looked at him with an almost quizzical twin-kle in his eyes. “Astute reckoning, Dr. McCoy,” he drawled. He strode onto my bridge, the cape swinging. “A gift from the Organians some time ago.”
“Thought that getup looked familiar,” McCoy replied.
“It proved convenient,” Spock said. He obviously didn’t care for his current apparel in lieu of Star Fleet issue. “Once on Argelius, we must not divulge our military attachments. Our mission there requires that we travel incognito.”
McCoy frowned. “You mean I’m going to have to dress like that?”
Spock had been scanning the bridge controls as though to refamiliarize himself with them, but now he straightened and natled the doctor with his gaze again. “Doctor, I am actually anticipating the spectacle.”
I felt my eyes widen, and ridiculously squinted in an attempt to curb it. McCoy folded his arms and cocked his head, but said nothing more about Spock’s unlikely raiment.
Spock deposited his computer spools on Rex’s main navigational board and turned to me, markedly casual in spite of the circumstances. His presence, entirely unforeseen as it was, had a pronounced effect on mo—
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a rush of apprehension, curiosity, the sense of teetering on some tightly stretched wire just about to fall into a pile of very spiny answers. I might know soon what was going on, but I was ready to bet I’d come out with bruises.
“Sir,” I began, “can you tell me what’s going on?”
He frustrated me and entertained McCoy with a thoroughly Vulcan response: “Yes.”
My palms started to get moist. I rubbed them against the ivory fabric of my flight suit and licked my lips. McCoy surveyed me, rolled his eyes, and murmured, “You’ll get used to it.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Spock said tersely. “I shall explain fully once I’ve released the navigational programming to Commander Piper’s control. It will be necessary to have manual control to maneuver into orbit.”
Scanner coughed and hid behind Merete.
I didn’t have anybody to hide behind. Although I do confess to a quick glance around the bridge for any handy camouflage.
McCoy came once again to life, approaching Spock with a noticeable swagger. “Don’t bother, Mr. Spock.”
Spock rewarded him with a perplexed gaze and waited patiently for the explanation McCoy was bubbling to give. I think my feet were sweating by then, too, but they were too numb to tell.
“The controls are all freed up,” McCoy said. A grin tugged at his lips.
Spock’s brows lowered. “I… beg your pardon?”
“Free. Unlocked. Piper did it.”
Any previous beliefs that a Vulcan couldn’t be stricken speechless were quickly flushed. Spock held his gaze on McCoy for a moment of incredulity, then turned to the controls, spidering one square-fingered hand over them, and ran headlong into one of the snags of being Vulcan. Surprise flared, tempted him,
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pushed up one Panish eyebrow, then fied. “Remarkable,” he uttered. When he turned to face me, he was in control again.
However, that didn’t stop his expression from freez-ing my blood.
“I’m impressed, Commander, though mystified,” he admitted. “How did you manage it?”
“She outhumaned you, Spock,” McCoy crowed, delighted.
Spock appeared annoyed—and I use the word tenderly. He looked one more time at the navigation board, as one looks at a pet who suddenly turned wild. After a steadying moment, he breathed deeply and said, “Obviously there was some element I failed to consider. I shall anticipate your giving me a full description, Commander, once our mission is completed.”
Whew! Lifted off the hook by the Vulcan sense of priority. I started to feel my feet again. “Yes, sir. Won’t you sit down?”
It was clearly an invitation to do more than relax. Spock knew that, and swiveled his chair to face us all. I settled into the helm chair beside him, while the three others took passenger seats, and we became–pardon the punwall ears.
“Captain Kirk was apprised of the current situation by Dr. Boma,” Spock said, typically direct, “who, you’ll recall, was involved in the science behind the dreadnought project.”
“Believe me,” I said with guttural inflection, “I remember.”
“Doubtless.” Spock nodded, and not without empathy. He spoke to me with an easy clemency he could only have learned from humans, and only have learned to express without Vulcan shame after years of hard experiences among humans. As he spoke, I was the one to be impressed. “Those involved with the dreadnought project were a select few,” he went on.
“The late Vice Admiral Rittenhouse used only people he trusted or people whose expertise he could not do without. He tried to keep his choices to a minimum.”
“And the minimum included Sarda?” I guessed.
“Yes,” his voice rumbled, giving away his innermost regrets. “Lieutenant Sarda’s innovative skill
with weapons technology made him indispensable to a
man who was trying to trigger a galactic conflict.
Rittenhouse wanted Sarda’s image projector. Along
with Sarda, there were three others in the dreadnought’s special science team who were not killed
aboard Rittenhouse’s ship when it exploded.” He
slipped one of the library cookies into the slot and
touched the controls lightly. A picture blinked
onscreen, a dignified black man with a iongish face and
cutting eyes, his age shown only by a frost of silver at
his temples. “Dr. Samuel Boma, of course, who developed the dreadnought’s actual hull material and structural design. Charges of conspiracy against him have
been greatly reduced due to his cooperation with Star
Fleet of late.” Spock tapped the controls again and the
face changed. A woman this time, human, midfifties.
Her hair was pitch-black, short but shaggy, framing a
translucent complexion and small blue eyes. She
looked like she could be many things, none of them
scientific.
“Professor Ursula Mornay of the University of Tar-rigor, Altair Six,” Spock introduced. “She perfected the theory for transwarp, and is one of the top theorists in the Federation. Professor Mornay is known for her unscrupulous behavior. We believe she is the key agent. The determinant.” “Of what sir?”
He swiveled his chair to face me again, shifting our attention from the viewscreen to his words. Everything he did, every movement, smacked of poignance for us who had been waiting. “The transwarp technology has been stolen.”
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He said it so simply that its full implication didn’t hit any of us at first. Seeing that, he went on. “Mornay contacted Boma with an ultimatum. She said she and the ‘others’ were appropriating all information about transwarp and evacuating their lab.”
McCoy leaned forward. “But why?”
Spock had anticipated the simple question and was right there with an answer. “Mornay is a subversive. She has never displayed loyalty to any system or person, and has accepted funding from dubious sources, intent only on her own personal advance-ment. She is known for her contempt of governmental systems.”
“The Federation government?” McCoy asked.
“Any government, Doctor. She is not particular.”
“Then why was she working on a top project like this?”
“Because, Doctor, she developed the theories.”
“And nobody watched her more closely?”
With a Vulcan version of a sigh, Spock carefully outlined the reason. “Until now, she has done nothing overtly threatening. Therefore, she has enjoyed safe haven as a Federation citizen and scientist. She was, however, openly committed to Rittenhouse and his plan to aggregate the galaxy into one ideology. She fears for her life and status now that Rittenhouse is dead. This is her attempt to preserve that status.”
I leaned forward, barely able to keep from clawing the arms of my chair. “She means to ransom the transwarp technology?”
“Virtually. And more. The scientists intend to throw it open for purchase by any bidder, knowing the galactic powers will welcome such opportunity and that the Federation dares not allow itself to be outbid. Unfortunately, Professor Mornay’s understanding of politics is simplistic. If she succeeds in throwing the technology up for grabs, as it were, she will likely
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instigate something too forbidding for her to conceptu-alize. A cosmic scramble.”
The phrase was unfamiliar to me, yet it hit me like the smell of bad weather. Sensitive to the glances of Scanner and Merete, who were taking all their cues from me, I squinted and forced myself to add up the sketchy evidence and paste it into something familiar. Galactic powers plus hot technology plus trigger-brained scientists equals …. “A feeding frenzy.”
Spock pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “An apt comparison. Cosmic scramble is a colloquial term, of course, but an accurate one. Mornay underestimates the severity of her actions. When cosmic scramble begins, individual lives and galactic peace are forfeit. Mornay is virtually sentencing herself and the other scientists to violent deaths.”
“And Boma wants to head it off, but the other scientists wouldn’t listen to him.”
“In a word, yes. Boma approached Captain Kirk because—”
“For the same reason Paul Burch did when he wanted to foil Rittenhouse’s plan,” I guessed. “He knew Captain Kirk would be dependable and discreet. Right?”
“Correct. He also knows the consequences of cos-mic scramble. A dozen petty wars could erupt that could pull down the structure of the galactic order as it now stands. If a hostile government gains the transwarp technology, the balance of power could shift drastically. Whoever has it could become a super-power, both economically and militarily.”
“It’s that special?” McCoy interrupted. “Isn’t it just another form of propulsion?”
Spock frowned. “In simplistic terms, it is. However, the added complexity is this: Mornay and her team were spearheading special research for a process for the extreme refinement of dilithium into trilithium.”
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He stopped talking, his black eyes landing on Dr. McCoy. I watched the exchange in silence, as did Scanner and Merete, and recognized a sort of repartee going on. Spock remained silent, obviously waiting, punishing McCoy for his earlier jibes and forcing him to betray his own ignorance.
McCoy shifted uncomfortably, pursed his lips, and glanced around. He soon broke under the you-igno- rant-boor treatment. “Well, all right,” he blurted. “Go ahead.”
“Trilithium,” Spock said, hiding his victory and thus doubling it, “existed only theoretically until four years ago. It is the compound that allows the advanced flow of energy to be compacted into transwarp drive. Dr. Mornay managed to synthesize it in solid form, but it exists only in a matter/antimatter-fiux environment. In other words, once the power source is turned off, the trilithium instantly degenerates. Last year, Mor-nay, Perren, Boma, and Sarda combined their abilities and devised the mechanism that would allow trilithium to retain its integrity for a workable period even when the system was not in flux. And that, Doctor, is far more than just another form of propulsion.”
Spock spoke his words carefully, knowing the situation had become tangled. It was imperative that we understand; he knew that too. And because of the way he spoke, with concise eloquence, we accepted the cruciaiity. Slowly I began to understand. ff the Klingons, the Romulans, the Orions, the Tholians, the K’zinti, or any of a handful of hungry governments thought they could get this new high science… truly a feeding frenzy. And the Federation would participate just to keep the science out of hostile hands. It would have no choice. Just as Rittenhouse had believed the Federation could win any war he induced, Mornay was probably making the same bet.
I licked my lips. “Her deal includes unconditional amnesty for herself and the others?”
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Spock’s chin went up a little. “How did you know?” I shrugged. “It makes sense.” I declined to tell him it was what a desperate human would do. I didn’t need any more embarrassment.
Nodding slowly, Spock once again touched the control, and once again the face dissolved into a new face. The consummately human features of Ursula Mornay fizzled and reformed into the angularity of Vulcan features. Resisting those plaguing thoughts of Sarda, I forced myself to get familiar with the new person. He was a young Vulcan, though not as young as Sarda, and his hair was the same black as Spock’s, but untrimmed. It hung almost to his shoulders, caught back only by Vulcan ears that were slightly more backswept than Spock’s. His silver-gray eyes bore a glimmer of defiance—or was I imagining it?
“The third team member,” Spock continued. “His name is Perren. He is a specialist in interspace physics. He and Mornay have worked closely for eight years on the science of transwarp. While Mornay is the theorist, Perren is the applied scientist. She refined the concept, and he developed the actual hardware for transwarp, the engineering itself.”
“Another Vulcan working on an instrument of violence?” Merete asked.
Spock acknowledged her with a tip of his head. “The transwarp is not an instrument of violence in and of itself. However, you’re correct in implying that Perten has deviated from approved Vulcan lines of morality.”
“You mean he’s like Sarda,” I bridged. “Ostra-cized. He doesn’t fit in on Vulcan because of his propensities.”
“He is like Sarda,” Spock agreed, “but only to a point. Sarda regrets his … divergence from Vulcan practices and is trying to mend it. Perren,” he said, “makes no apologies.”
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I was only half listening as Spock explained our reasons for being at Argelius. That Mornay and her team had escaped to this distant planet, near the edge of disputed space, to use the passionless culture and neutral standing of Argelius as a fortress against everybody. Odd. The threat of cosmic scramble on the most sedate planet in the known galaxy. It was posi-tively poetic.
“Even the Federation is not formally aware of the theft as yet,” Spock was saying. “So far, Mornay has made no announcement, but time is of the essence. Boma wanted Captain Kirk to get here first. He wants the captain to convince the science team of the danger they’re causing and find some other means of negotia-tion before the major powers go into scramble.”
I straightened my back and it cracked. But I had to ask. “And me?”
“You, Commander Piper, are the captain’s ace in the hole, as you say. Sending Enterprise to Argelius would be rather conspicuous—”
“Yeah,” Scanner grunted, only then pointing out how quiet he’d been. “Like a battleship in a bath-tub.”
Spock paused, trying to visualize that, and finally opted to ignore it. “I will return to my shuttle and we will approach the city in question from two directions. Your assignment is to locate Lieutenant Sarda and separate him from Morhay and Perren. I will then attempt to isolate Perren, leaving Professor Mornay for Captain Kirk to handle.”
“Divide and conquer,” McCoy said.
“Essentially. Also, if the scientists are separated, they will be unable to give over the complete technology. The threat will be effectively cleaved.”
The edge of my chair creased into my thighs. “But Captain Kirk is back on Earth,” I protested. “He was yanked right off the schooner and taken under guard for questioning—”
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“Captain Kirk,” Spock said, “will be here when the time is right, Commander.” “Butre”
His confidence in Kirk, even lacking the explanation I craved, squeezed away every last suspicion that I might be part of a plan that hadn’t been thought out and carefully executed, with me playing the part of some cog in the middle of the mechanism. Spock’s glare bored through me, and when it was disrupted by a slow blink, we both understood our concepts of Captain James Kirk.
I let it go. Part of command was learning to live with half the answers.
“Sir,” I began slowly. “I know things look bad for him, but I can’t—I don’t believe Sarda is a willing part of all this. He’s a victim of circumstance. I’m sure of it.”
“Based on what, Commander?”
Now I froze. Had it been Kirk asking me that question, I’d have given him an unqualified “intuition.” But this was Spock. Spock, who required all parts to all equations. Whose manner demanded preci-sion from me. Why did I feel Sarda was innocent?
Finally I said, “He’d have no reason to run, sir. He’s a Federation honoree. He’s been on the ‘right’ side all along.”
“And?” The steady eyes probed me, Unfiltered and discerning, cutting straight through to the most human part of me.
So I said it.
“And I trust him.”
Spock nodded, evidently satisfied by something a Vulcan shouldn’t really understand at all. He slowly said, “I agree with you.”
In my periphery, I saw Scanner’s jaw slacken as he stared at Spock. Whether his awe came at my sudden credibility or Spock’s almost human display of faith in
Sarda, I couldn’t tell. Guilt stabbed me. Doubt came rushing back upon me from my conversation with Merete. Now that I’d spoken my piece, could I back it up? Or, more crucially, would Sarda back it up?
“However,” Mr. Spock went on, “we must maintain our caution. You know of Sarda’s struggle to become fully Vulcan, and of the intense strain he was under until you brought the problem to me. I must take partial responsibility for his welfare, since it was I who recommended a Vulcan tutor for him and bridged the relationship.”
My skin bristled as I added up the infinitesimal clues in his tone. My teeth sank into my lower lip, and I tasted the dryness of complication. Quietly I said, “Perren.”
A deep silence fell behind my voice. Suddenly the situation took a dive for the intricate. Its entangle-ments shone in Spock’s expression as he watched us all add it up in our minds, for he more than any of us knew the labyrinths of being Vulcan.
He shifted his long legs and started talking again. “Sarda and Perten knew each other already. Perren had the advantage of not possessing typical Vulcan prejudices against Sarda’s talents. Yet, while he is a renegade in his own way, Perren is older than Sarda and had already advanced through Vulcan training. He was the logical selection.” Spock fixed his eyes on nothing for a fleet moment. Was he apologizing, in his way? He knew we had both interfered with Sarda’s life and, no matter the noble purpose, may have placed him in a compromising position. Or a position whose temptations were too much, even for a Vulcan.
Spock jarred me out of those gray thoughts when he asked, “May I speak with you privately, Commander?”
“Oh.. 2’ I glanced sheepishly at the others.
“Right.”. Scanner slapped his knees and stood up.
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Merete and McCoy tried to disguise their curiosity in a casual stroll aft, and I longed for their presence once we were alone.
“Commander, this is rare information I must give you now,” Spock began, steeping me in the elegance of his control. “There are certain things you must know before you can effectively deal with Lieutenant Sarda.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
This wasn’t easy for him. I could see that. He evidently had put much thought into whether or not to tell me whatever it was. Finally he made his commitment. “Vulcan training methods are matters of great privacy. They are more than simple passings-on of information. They provide my only cause to question Lieutenant Sarda’s part in this incident.”
He was stalling. He might even be hoping I would come to those unspeakable conclusions on my own, to spare him the trouble of speaking them. In deference to him, I tried.
“You’re saying,” I began, “Sarda might be loyal to Perren in some way?”
My question made him uneasy. He gazed downward at nothing, saddled with a decision no Vulcan wants to make: whether or not to let a non-Vulcan in on the privacies they guard so dearly. Yet there was another perception pressing him, beyond just the rupture of Vulcan privacy; we both felt it. A human who could be friends with a Vulcan is an instant complication. The weight sat on me now.
Slowly he said, “The mental training of young Vulcans cannot be simplified, Piper. It cannot be reduced to a matter of mere words.”
“But, sir, it’s a matter of computer record,” I told him. “I was just reading the library tapes—”
“The computer record,” he interrupted, “is not Vulcan.” Troubled by what he was trying to say, or not to say, Spock indulged in a sigh and sought for words
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to explain what could not be explained. Something too deeply personal for words. “On the screen, there are words in print,” he said. “There is no clinical way to convey the depth behind the words. It is the difference between a dictionary definition and the intimacy of personal interaction.” He looked at me now to see if I understood, and his eyes no longer wavered.
I nodded for his sake. “You mean a kind of symbi-otic relationship, beyond the learning of facts and controls? Something social?”
The eyebrows, their change of position on his stately face, gave me my answer.
“Vulcan training involves a mental endowment, tu-tor to pupil and vice versa. A… spiritual bond, if you will. And it is accomplished by meld. Under normal circumstances, I consider it illogical that Sarda would willingly take part in espionage. However, his liaison with Perten, at so crucial a time in his disciplines, does change the facts.”
For the first time my doubts, my questions, about Sarda took body. To my shame, I had to fight through an ugly twinge of jealousy in order to think with a clear head. “A sympathetic relationship,” I murmured.
Spock nodded. “And potentially dangerous now. Quite frankly, I am dubious of Perren’s state of mind also. Ordinarily, a Vulcan would never condone the conditions Mornay has presented, would never so offhandedly gamble with countless innocent lives. If Perren’s Vulcan attitudes have so completely con-torted, there is cause for worry.”
With a deep breath I concluded, “Meaning we have no idea what mental condition Sarda’s in right now.”
His tone of voice sank low. “Yes.”
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