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 washome.

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 thekala-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 ofrelen 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-footed, 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 atem away—a Klingon ship.Klingons! Great Mother of us all, help your children! Klingons! 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 again—

—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 asendisat.

Time went by…s’Kara finally began counting 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. Klingons…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 Klingons reach out and strike down the hand of her would-be attacker. He snarled something that sounded like an order, and the other Klingon reluctantly stepped back.

This Klingon 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 Klingon bird-of-prey hurtled out of the sky. Keraz gave an order to one of his men, and the Klingon 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 village—a 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. Theywould come, she told herself. The Federation took care of its own. Theywould 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 without his or her mask…. ”

Slowly, deliberately, Sarek shook his head from side to side. “Not true,” he said, heavily.“I 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.”

Pacing over 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 attaché 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 wordreldai, 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 arrogant 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 attachés 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 had 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 attaché 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 Freelan 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 Freelans 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 developed 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 freighterZephyr….

 

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 theZephyr, 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. Pon 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, theplak tow? Grimly, Sarek set about using biocontrol techniques to subdue thepon 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, anyhuman —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.

Wasshe 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 achievedkolinahr —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 theZephyr 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 toZephyr 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 theZephyr ’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 comm 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 attaché 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 attaché. “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? Arival?

He was being challenged! T’Rea had chosen thekal-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? Wasn’t this Darov, who was trying to save him? This couldn’t be a rival Vulcan!)

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…killhim…

(A voice crying out, a voice he recognized, despite its lack of mechanical quality. Darov’s voice, calling his name…and those were Darov’s 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 inplak 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 normalcy. 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 theZephyr 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 embracekolinahr 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 typicalkolinahru.”

“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 aplak 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 thekal-if-fee… 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 true.”

“Yes. My first suspicion of that was when your ship, theEnterprise, 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 shehas 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 hi-jacking 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 accomplished 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.”

Spock nodded, a shadow in his eyes mirroring the sadness in his father’s. “Sybok,” he said. “I saw him influence minds from a considerable distance. His mental powers were…unusual, however. But the ability to influence minds more subtly…I possess that capacity myself.”

This time it was the ambassador’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Really? I did not know that.”

“I have done so several times,” Spock admitted. “Though never to effect any lasting mental impression or change in the subject’s mind. But I did it on Eminiar Seven, and again on Omega Four.” He paused. “And I am only half-Vulcan. Thus I find the possibility of Vulcan offspring who possess the mental abilities, without the ethical constraints we are taught, entirely plausible. And…disquieting.”

Spock was silent for a moment; then he asked, “Did you ever discuss with Darov what happened that day you went intopon farr? You said that you were friends…. ”

“I might have,” the ambassador said. “Except for the fact that I never saw Darov again. I never discovered what had become of him. I suspect he was executed for helping me that day. Darov was replaced by Taryn. My impression of him is that he is considerably younger than Darov…though I cannot be certain, of course, since I never knew Darov’s age. He is a far different individual. Much colder…and possessing, I believe, a formidable intellect. We have never discussed politics, but I am certain that Taryn is far from the moderate Darov was.” Sarek paused, thinking. “I have gained the impression, over the decades, that the liaison is…patriotic. Possibly a zealot.”

Spock raised an eyebrow as he considered the ambassador’s words. “If he is indeed a wing commander, that would not be surprising. Many high-ranking Romulan officers favor all-out war with the Federation.”

The Starfleet officer rose from the bench to pace beside his father along the garden paths. “My final question is,why? Obviously, all of this…the Freelan base, the captured Vulcans, the KEHL—this entire plan took years…decades…to set into motion. What do the Romulans hope to gain?”

Sarek did not answer directly. Instead he asked, “What are the goals of the KEHL?”

“As I understand them…to remove all nonterrestrials from Earth itself. Especially Vulcans.”

“Not just from Earth,” Sarek said. “From the Federation itself. I have researched the KEHL, also. The organization is adamantly opposed to the continued presence of Vulcan as a member of the Federation.”

Spock nodded slowly. “That does not surprise me.” His features tightened. “If the Romulans are successful in driving a wedge between Earth and Vulcan, to the point where Vulcan either secedes or is expelled from the Federation, then Earth will have lost its most powerful ally.”

“Yes,” Sarek said. “A Federation without Vulcan would be weakened in many ways. Also consider: What is the current situation with the Klingons?”

“Extremely unstable. When I left theEnterprise, we were orbiting a planet whose colony had been devastated by a Klingon attack. Chancellor Azetbur assured us that the raiders were renegades, and that she was attempting to capture them and bring them to justice. I believe her, but many others will not. The entire Federation/Klingon situation is unstable. James Kirk referred to it last week as ‘a powder keg waiting for a spark.’ ”

“An essentially correct, if somewhat dramatic way of putting it,” Sarek said, dryly.

“Instability in the Federation could well provide such a spark,” Sarek continued. “Azetbur’s government is struggling to stay in power. She has popular support, but many of the older, high-ranking families object to having a woman as chancellor. A number of high-ranking officers have turned renegade, deserting the fleet and using their vessels to commit acts of piracy.”

“Actions which only fuel the xenophobia the KEHL is fostering.”

“Precisely.” Bathed in T’Rukh’s garish light, Spock’s features were drawn so tightly they appeared fleshless, skull-like. “It is also possible that the Freelans are using their trained Vulcans to influence high-ranking Klingons…formenting dissent, inciting the Empire into civil upheaval, and then war with the Federation. The humans have an ancient phrase for such strategy: ‘Divide and conquer.’ ”

“Indeed,” Sarek agreed. He sighed wearily, feeling himself relax for the first time in…how long? He could not tell….

“My son, it is a…relief…to speak of this all, after holding silent so long,” the ambassador said, sinking down onto another bench. “I have discussed my conspiracy theory with only two people before you—Soran, just recently, and your mother. It is difficult to know who to trust. Any high-ranking official could now be under Freelan influence.”

Spock shook his head slightly as he considered that. “A situation that might justifiably induce paranoia,” he concurred.

“Last year, when I first began to suspect that the Freelans were using telepathy to influence people, I advised all members of Vulcan’s diplomatic corps to work on strengthening their mental disciplines, so they could not only detect, but shield against, any attempt at mental influence. I traveled to Gol nearly every day for months, training with one of the high-ranking Acolytes.”

“I learned similar techniques while I was at Gol,” Spock was quick to assure his father. “My shielding is better than average.”

“Good.” Sarek gazed around him at the garden in T’Rukh’s waning light. “All indications are that the Romulan plan is reaching fruition. I hypothesize that we may have only months…perhaps less…to act to stop them.”

“What is your recommendation?”

“First, we must gain concrete proof of the Freelans’ true identity and purpose in order to expose them. Your skills with computers equal my own. It is my hope that, working together, we can break into the Freelan system more successfully than I was able to that first time. Then we can download their memory banks.”

“That would constitute indisputable proof,” Spock agreed. “We must present that proof in open session of the Federation Security Council.”

“I agree.”

“We do have time,” Spock said. “The KEHL is still a long way from influencing Earth to expel Vulcan from the Federation.”

“Do not be too sure. Elections will be held in two months, and the KEHL is sponsoring many candidates…some openly, others with secret affiliations. Some of these candidates are vying for offices at very high levels in Earth’s government.”

Sarek rubbed his forehead as fatigue washed over him so strongly it seemed to gnaw at his bones; he felt every one of his 128 years. “Something else to consider, Spock: If the KEHL keeps growing, Vulcan will not struggle to remain a member of the Federation. Our people do not react well to being…insulted.”

Spock nodded grimly. “I suggest that we discuss the matter with James Kirk and ask his help in gaining positive proof, and in bringing all of this before the Federation Security Council and the president.”

“I agree,” Sarek said.

It was full night now, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. The younger Vulcan glanced around him at the eerily lit garden and repressed a shiver. “It is late. We should go in.”

“Yes. Your mother will be waking soon.”

 

“So, you’re Jim Kirk’s nephew!” Commander Gordon Twelvetrees exclaimed, holding out his hand.

Standing stiffly at attention, Peter accepted the warm handshake from the tall, stately Lakota Indian who was Admiral Idota’s aide. The admiral was one of Uncle Jim’s friends, and while Peter hadn’t really expected to find anyone in at such a late hour, he’d hoped to leave a message for Idota with the desk clerk. He was pleasantly surprised to find the admiral’s aide still at work.

“Oh, at ease, son,” the commander said, waving him to the couch in his office. He poured a cup of fresh, fragrant coffee into the fine Starfleet china that every admiral’s office had, and handed it to the cadet.

Peter nodded his thanks, and took a sip. It wasn’t anything like the brew at the cadet’s commissary. This was a hearty, robust blend—Jamaican, probably. He relished the taste.

“You got lucky finding me here tonight,” the commander said. “Usually I keep the same bankers’ hours as the admiral.”

The young Kirk smiled thankfully at his superior. “I’m glad you could see me. Why the late hours?”

“I was here waiting for a communiqué from the Neutral Zone. Something the admiral’s been expecting. When they told me Jim Kirk’s nephew had a problem…”

For once Peter didn’t flinch at the reference to his relative. At times like this, being Uncle Jim’s nephew came in handy.

“Thank you, sir. I’m most grateful for your time.” He tugged his cadet’s uniform into place, glad he’d taken the time to change and freshen up. He hesitated, trying to find the right place to begin, then finally started from the top, telling Twelvetrees about trying to meet Sarek for lunch, the demonstration, the riot and his involvement, and how he found himself at the local KEHL headquarters.

The story didn’t take very long, and Twelvetrees never interrupted, listening to every word with complete attention. As he neared the end of his tale, Peter withdrew the three tapes with the pilfered information and showed them to the commander.

“I know it was probably a foolish thing for me to do, sir, to pretend to be a member of KEHL, but I felt it was a unique opportunity I couldn’t pass up, in spite of the risks. And I think it’s paid off. These tapes hold the entire files of their membership rolls, their agenda, and the stolen information they obtained from the Vulcan consulate. I think they’re enough to discredit this organization for once and all. They’re really getting dangerous, sir, and they’re no longer willing to work within the law. Their violation of Vulcan communications alone is proof of that.”

Commander Twelvetrees took the computer tapes almost reverently, staring at the innocuous bits of flat plastic as he turned them around in his big hands. “You certainly are a Kirk, son. That’s the same thing Jim would’ve done in that very circumstance. He must be proud of you.”

Peter was about to say that his Uncle Jim didn’t know anything about this, when a troubling realization began gnawing at his gut. Despite the commander’s words, he realized that the aide wasn’t taking him seriously. Not at all.

Twelvetrees sat back against the couch, and pocketed the cassettes. “I want to thank you for the effort you took to obtain this information, Peter. Most people—working to complete their finals, cramming day and night—would only have their own personal problems in mind, and would’ve turned their back on this. You’ve got the kind of heart, the kind of backbone Starfleet needs to bring us successfully into the future. I won’t forget what you’ve tried to do here. However…”

Peter felt as if ice crystals were forming in his stomach.

“…I have to tell you that Starfleet has had the KEHL under surveillance for quite some time. We’ve even had several people infiltrate the ranks. I can understand your alarm, but the truth is the KEHL is just a fringe-element, disorganized group. They’ve been gaining popularity due to the media exposure, and, unfortunately, we were understaffed at the consulate the day of the demonstration. But the KEHL is no threat to anyone, Peter.”

“But…those tapes…” Kirk protested.

“Oh, don’t worry, Peter…I’ll take a look at these before I hand them over to Starfleet Security—just in case there’s something in there we can use. They’ll probably decide to warn the Vulcans about the breach in their security. But don’t forget, none of the KEHL’s plans have ever come to anything. And we both know there’s no such thing as a Vulcan conspiracy.” He stood, indicating the interview was at an end. “You have your navigational final tomorrow morning, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter responded desultorily, as the commander walked him to the office door.

“You focus on that, son. I barely made it through that one myself. Don’t you worry about these tapes, the KEHL, or anything but your exam. I’ll make sure this information gets the attention it deserves, and if we find anything of any importance, I’ll let you know.” The commander extended his hand again as his doors whooshed open, practically demanding Peter’s exit.

The young Kirk took the hand offered him. “Thank you, sir. And believe me, if you really look at that information, I think you’ll be surprised…and concerned.”

“Don’t you worry, Peter,” the commander assured him, his deep voice calming and sincere. “Starfleet Security has the situation well in hand. Thanks again for your concern.”

Peter watched the doors slide closed behind him and slumped against the wall, despondently. He hadn’t been born yesterday; he knew a kiss-off when he saw one. Despite the commander’s promise, Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that the officer was probably going to toss his tapes in the nearest recycler.

The cadet shrugged.

He could still get in a few good hours of studying if he hurried. The commander was right about one thing. If he was going to ace the navigational final, he’d need to be sharp, focused. Peter straightened up and squared his shoulders.

He’d get focused, all right. As soon as he tended to one more thing.

Minutes later, young Kirk strode briskly up to the communications center that sat in the center of the massive Starfleet Security headquarters.

“Can I help you, sir?” the young man manning the desk asked.

“Yes. I want to send a message to a Federation starship.” Peter realized that he had no idea where his uncle was right now.

“And what ship is that, sir?” the operator asked casually.

“TheEnterprise. I want to send a message to Captain James T. Kirk.”

The communications clerk glanced up, faintly surprised. “Well…that ship is currently on assignment. A message could take a long time to…”

“Send it Priority One. I am Captain Kirk’s nephew. It’s regarding a family emergency.”

“Of course, sir,” the operator agreed, all business. He handed Peter a message pad and stylus. “If you’ll encode your message here it will be sent on the private-messages channel, Priority One.”

Peter picked up the pad, and, stylus poised, stood pondering just exactly what to say.

 

Spock stood waiting outside the door of his parents’ room, forcing himself to remain still, hands clasped behind his back, his expression controlled, remote. Inwardly, however, the Vulcan wanted nothing more than to pace restlessly. Movement would have aided him in dispelling some of his disquiet.

This morning, theEnterprise had entered the Vulcan spacedock, and, in response to Spock’s request that he evaluate Amanda’s condition, Leonard McCoy had beamed down to the villa.

The doctor was currently in Amanda’s room, examining his mother.

Spock’s sensitive hearing picked up the swish of the pressure curtain moving aside, so he was prepared when the door opened, framing McCoy. The doctor’s expression was somber as he walked out into the corridor.

In silence, the two officers went into Sarek’s office. When the ambassador saw them, he rose from his desk and the three walked out to the living room. McCoy sank down on the couch and glanced around. “You have a lovely home, Ambassador Sarek.”

The elder Vulcan inclined his head. “My wife’s doing, for the most part,” he said.

“The view outside is magnificent, too. I never saw anything like the Forge on any world I’ve visited.”

“It is a relatively unique configuration,” Sarek agreed.

Spock, who was sitting beside the medical officer on the couch, shifted impatiently. “Doctor…what did your examination indicate?”

McCoy shook his head. “I’m sorry, Spock. The Healers are correct. The Reyerson’s is, for the moment, in remission. But I’m afraid that when I speak to Dr. T’Mal, I’m going to recommend that she halt your mother’s treatments.”

The first officer glanced quickly at his father, then back at the human. “Why, Doctor?”

“Because they’re causing a tremendous strain on your mother’s already frail system. While I was examining her, she suffered a small stroke—and my findings indicate that wasn’t the first one.”

“A stroke?” Spock half-rose from the couch.

“It was a good thing I was there. I was able to arrest it, and prevent any significant damage. My sensor readings indicate that she’s had at least two others within the past week or so. Minor ones, but they take their toll.”

“What is your prognosis, Dr. McCoy?” Sarek spoke for the first time in minutes.

“Well, I can’t really say definitively. These things differ with individuals…” the human began, evasively.

Sarek stared levelly at the Starfleet medical officer. “With all due respect, I must remind you that you are not speaking to a human family, Doctor. Please do not dissemble.”

McCoy took a deep breath. “All right.” He stared levelly at the ambassador. “The Healer was, if anything, optimistic. I would say it’s a matter of a few weeks…possibly only days.”

Spock drew in a soft breath as the doctor’s words struck him like a blow. It wasn’t until that moment that the Vulcan realized, bitterly, that he’d hoped his old friend would be able to work some kind of miracle.Illogical, the Vulcan part of his mind whispered.Illogical, if not irrational…hope is a human emotion.

All at once he was acutely conscious of the automatic time sense marking off the hours, minutes, and seconds in his brain. Usually, the Vulcan never thought about it, unless he needed to, but suddenly, it was as pervasive as the ticking of some huge, old-fashioned Terran clock.

Time…

Amanda’s time was running out.

Without a word to the others, he rose from his seat and headed for his room. Fingers numb, he pulled on rough, outdoor clothing and desert boots. He was not thinking, he was simply obeying a strong, almost instinctive need to move, to be outside, to walk the rough soil and climb the jagged stone of his homeworld.

The heat struck him as he headed into the hills, but Spock ignored it. He was too conscious of the seconds ticking away inexorably in his head….

“Ambassador?” Sarek looked up at the sound of Soran’s voice. The ambassador was sitting by Amanda’s bedside, her hand in his, so he would be there when she awakened. On McCoy’s advice, he had engaged a Healer’s aide to monitor his wife’s condition, but he and Spock had been taking turns remaining with her during most of their waking hours, ever since Dr. McCoy’s revelation two days ago.

Now, seeing the concern in his young aide’s eyes, the Vulcan hastily left the bedroom and stepped into the hallway. “What is it, Soran?”

“Ambassador, a priority call just came in for you from President Ra-ghoratrei,” he said. “The president wishes to speak with you. He says it is urgent.”

Sarek nodded a quick acknowledgment as he headed for his office. Moments later, he was seated before his comm link. A presidential aide recognized him, nodded briefly; then the image wavered and was replaced with that of the Deltan Federation president. Ra-ghoratrei nodded a somber greeting to the Vulcan.

“Ambassador Sarek. Your aide told me of your wife’s illness. I regret having to call upon you at such a time, but I have no choice.”

“What is it, Mr. President?”

“A band of Klingon renegades has captured an Orion colony—the planet Kadura—and they are holding several thousand colonists hostage. The Klingon leader is threatening to kill the hostages unless the Federation agrees to negotiate a release and monetary settlement with him.” The president took a deep breath. “Ambassador…a great many lives hang in the balance. For this mission we need our best negotiator—and that is you. The meeting will take place on Deneb Four.”

Sarek briefly reviewed what he knew of the conference center on Deneb IV. It was at least three days’ journey at maximum warp. A week to go there and return, as well as whatever time the negotiations would require…he would probably be away from home for at least two weeks, possibly three…

The ambassador knew without consulting T’Mal or McCoy that, given her present condition, Amanda would probably not survive long enough for him to travel to the neutral site, handle the negotiations, and return. If he left his wife now, it was unlikely that he would ever see her alive again.

Nevertheless, there was only one logical course of action. The Vulcan took a deep breath.It is my duty. I cannot risk so many lives. The needs of the many …“I will go, Mr. President,” he said, steadily.

Ra-ghoratrei breathed a sigh of relief. “The Federation thanks you, Ambassador. The hostages will now have the best chance to keep their lives and regain their freedom.”

“I will need a complete report on the Klingon Commander,” Sarek said. “I will depart this afternoon, provided my pilot can ready my transport. Send the information about this Klingon via subspace message, if you will.”

“I will direct Admiral Burton, the head of Starfleet Security, to do so,” the president promised.

“Very well. Sarek out.”

“Thank you again, Ambassador. Out.”

Rising from his seat, Sarek quickly gave Soran instructions to prepare for the journey. Then, knowing it was for the last time, he went to bid farewell to his wife.

 

“Amanda.” The voice reached her in the darkness, pulling her back to light and awareness. The voice was familiar, known, beloved. An authoritative, precise voice with a faint resonance. Pleasantly deep, extremely cultured. The voice of her husband.

Amanda opened her eyes. Strong fingers grasped her hand gently but firmly. Sarek’s fingers.

“Sarek,” she murmured, gazing up into the face she had known and loved for so many years. “Have I been asleep long?”

“Several hours. My wife, I regret having to wake you, but I must speak with you…before I take my leave.”

Amanda’s eyes opened wider. “Leave?” she asked faintly, too weak to conceal the dismay his words caused her. “Why? Where are you going?”

“There is an emergency on the planet Kadura,” Sarek said. “I just finished speaking to President Ra-ghoratrei. He asked me to negotiate the release of a Federation colony that has been seized by Klingon renegades. There are thousands of colonists whose lives are in jeopardy. I must go, Amanda. It is my duty.”

Her heart contracted at his words. “How…how long will it take?” she asked, her words scarcely audible above the faint hum of the medical monitors. “Must you go?”

“Yes. I must take ship for Deneb Four within the hour. It is difficult to say how long I will be gone. Ten days, at the minimum. If the negotiations proceed slowly…” He trailed off and his fingers tightened slightly on hers.

“I see,” Amanda whispered. “Very well, Sarek. I understand.”

Her husband regarded her, his dark eyes shadowed with grief. Gently, he reached out and touched her hair, her cheek. “Amanda…if I could, I would stay here with you. You know that, do you not?”

Silently, she nodded, fighting to hold back tears. His dear, familiar face began to swim in her vision.No! she thought, blinking fiercely.I will not cry. I will not let tears steal my last sight of you. I will not let weeping mar our last farewell.

“Sarek…” she whispered, turning her fingers so her hand grasped his, returning the pressure. “I will miss you, my husband. I wish you did not have to go.”

“I will return as soon as possible, Amanda,” he promised, his eyes never leaving hers. “The instant Kadura is free, I will come home.”

But you will almost certainly be too late, and we both know it,Amanda thought, her eyes never leaving his face for a moment. She hated even to blink. In a few minutes her husband would be gone, and she would never see him again…at least, not in this life.

“I want you to remember something,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even.

“What, Amanda?”

“Never forget that I love you, my husband. Always.” She gazed at him intently, holding his eyes with her own. “You will need to remember that, Sarek, very soon now. Promise me you won’t forget.”

“My memory is typical for a Vulcan,” he said, quietly. “I forget very little, my wife.”

“I know. But remembering my words in your head, and remembering them here,” freeing her hand, she gently laid it on his side, where his heart lay, “are two different things. Promise me.”

“You have my word, Amanda,” he said, his dark eyes filled with profound sorrow.

I know that you love me,she thought, gazing up at him.But I will not embarrass you by telling you so….

“Spock will be here with you,” Sarek said. “Do not forget that, my wife.”

“His presence will be a great comfort,” she said, softly. Her gaze moved over his face, tracing the angular lines. Putting her hand up, she touched his cheek, his eyes, his lips, thinking of the many times she had kissed him there. “Sarek, hold me. I want to feel your arms around me. Hold me.”

Gently, he reached forward, scooped her up, and cradled her against him. Amanda slid her arms around him and laid her head on his chest with a long sigh. Briefly, she abandoned herself to the moment…her soul was content. Finally she raised her head. “Sarek, I want you to promise me one more thing.”

He had difficulty meeting her eyes…Amanda could tell through their bond that he was profoundly moved. “What is it, Amanda?”

“I want you to read my journals…afterward. Take the first one with you now, my husband. Promise me you’ll read all of them. Please?”

Sarek nodded; then, with infinite gentleness, he helped settle her back onto the bed. Going into her sitting room, he returned with a slim, red-covered volume. On the spine was affixed the number 1. “This one?” he asked, holding it up.

“Yes, that one,” Amanda said, regarding him steadily as she lay propped up on her pillows. “Read it. And when you’ve finished that one, go on and read the next…until you’ve read them all.”

“I will do so, Amanda.”

“I know you will,” she said, and holding out her hand, two fingers extended, she smiled at him. Somewhere deep inside herself, she was crying, but she refused to let him see.Let him remember me smiling, she thought.

Her husband held out his hand, brushed two fingers against hers, and they remained that way for many seconds. Then, with a last, grave nod, Sarek walked away, pushing through the pressure curtain without looking back.

 

Spock saw the pressure curtain move; then his father appeared. The ambassador’s eyes widened slightly as he realized that his son must have been listening to him as he bade farewell to his wife; then they narrowed with anger. Before his father could speak, the first officer signaled curtly for silence and beckoned the ambassador out into the hall.

Only when thetekla wood door was firmly closed did Spock turn to regard his father.

“Eavesdropping is discourteous, my son,” Sarek said, and Spock could tell he was irritated, though his voice was carefully neutral.

Spock ignored the mild rebuke. He held his father’s eyes with his own, and his own voice was cold. “Soran told me that the president called, and why. He also told me that you have ordered your transport prepared. You intend to go to Deneb Four?”

“Yes,” Sarek said, eyeing his son with a touch of wariness. “I have just taken my leave of your mother.”

“So I heard.” Spock’s voice cut like a shard of obsidian. “I must admit that I found it difficult to believe. You actually intend toleave her? In her present condition?”

“I must,” Sarek said, quietly. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs—”

“To quote an appropriate human phrase, ‘To hell with that,’ ” Spock broke in, his voice rough with anger and grief. “You cannot leave her like this.”

“I recall a time,” Sarek said, “when you chose to remain at your post, when only you could savemy life.”

Spock paused. “Yes,” he said, after a moment, “butI have grown since then. It is a pity that you have not.”

Sarek’s eyebrow rose at his son’s words and the unconcealed emotion. “Spock, we all have our duties to consider. The situation at Kadura is critical.”

“So is my mother,” the first officer said flatly. “She will not survive long enough for you to return, and you know it. Your leaving in itself will very likely hasten her end.” He regarded his father unwaveringly.

The ambassador paused, and Spock knew that the thought of his leaving actually harming Amanda had not occurred to him until now. “You will be here with her,” he said, finally. “She will not be alone.”

“She needs herfamily with her,” Spock said obdurately. “You are her bondmate—her husband. Your loyalty should be to her. There are other diplomats on Vulcan. Senkar has handled situations of this nature before. Let him negotiate for Kadura’s release.”

“The president requested that I handle the negotiations personally,” Sarek said.

“He cannot order you.” Spock’s gaze never wavered as he held his father’s eyes. “Refuse…under the circumstances, no one will question your actions.”

Sarek straightened his shoulders. “Spock, I have no more time to discuss this. I must leave now.”

“You mean that youwish to leave,” Spock said, his voice cold and flat. “You do not have the courage to stay and see her through this.”

Answering anger sparked in Sarek’s eyes. “I will not remain to hear such acrimonious—and illogical—outpourings, Spock. I suggest that you meditate and attempt to regain your control.” He drew a deep breath, and added, in a tone that was intended to be conciliatory, “Remember, my son, you are Vulcan.”

“At the moment, if you are any example, being Vulcan is hardly a condition to be desired,” Spock snapped. Without another word, he brushed past his father and headed down the corridor. Behind him he could hear the ambassador’s footsteps receding.

When Spock regained control, he gently opened the door to his mother’s room, and entered, parting the pressure curtain with both hands.

Amanda was awake. Spock noted the unmistakable signs that she had been crying, but there were no tears present when she smiled at him wanly and held out her hand. “I was just about to eat my lunch,” she said, nodding at a tray placed across her lap by the Healer’s aide. “Would you like to join me, Spock?”

The Vulcan nodded and drew a chair up beside her bed. Amanda was making a valiant effort, he could tell, but she had to force herself to swallow several small mouthfuls. She smiled at him. “Do you know what I dreamt of last night?” she asked. “It was so strange…after all these years on Vulcan, being a vegetarian…”

“What, Mother?”

“I dreamt that I was eating an old-fashioned hamburger. It tasted wonderful—nice and rare, with cheese and lettuce and tomato…. ” She smiled, shaking her head.

“If you would like one,” her son said, “I will contact my ship and ask them to beam one down immediately.”

“Oh, no, don’t,” Amanda said. “I’m sure that eating meat after all these years would make me quite ill. And the real thing could never match how good it tasted in my dream…. ” She chuckled slightly. “But it was odd to dream about that after what…sixty years?”

“Indeed,” Spock said, cautiously. He sensed that his mother was chattering on as a way of working herself up to what was really on her mind. Sarek, he thought, was probably aboard his transport and leaving orbit by now.

“Spock,” Amanda said, softly, putting down her spoon and gazing at him directly, “what is death like?”

Spock stared at her for a long moment. How many times had he been asked this same question in the past three and a half years? Never before had he attempted an answer, but this time…he cleared his throat. “Mother, I cannot tell you what death is like. In a way, since mykatra departed to reside in Dr. McCoy when my physical body expired, I was not truly dead, as humans understand the term.”

“Oh,” she murmured, disappointed. “I’m sorry if that question was…disquieting. My curiosity got the better of me…under the circumstances.”

Spock forbore to comment on her reference to her “circumstances.” Instead he said, gently, “I cannot tell you what death is…but I remember dying. I know what it is to die.”

Amanda sat up a little straighter against her pillows, pushing her tray aside. Her blue eyes never left his. “Really? Tell me if you can, Spock.”

“It was painful,” Spock admitted, and if he had been human, he would have shuddered. “I had been exposed to enough radiation to literally burn me. In addition, my mind, while clear in some ways, was affected, and thus I could not control the pain. I suffered, but I knew before I even entered the chamber that I would not survive, so I also knew that I would not have to endure for long…. ”

Amanda’s eyes filled with tears. Spock knew that imagining her son burned, poisoned, and dying of massive radiation exposure was upsetting her. He hesitated, watching her. “Mother…if this is too painful for you, I will…”

“No,” she said, fiercely. “It’s a relief to talk about death, Spock. I couldn’t, not with your father. It would have…distressed him too much. But you…you, of all people, you can understand.”

“I do,” he said, quietly. His hand slid across the coverlet and grasped hers, holding it tightly, reassuringly. “As my body shut down, the pain stopped, and I experienced relief when that happened. All the while I knew that I was dying, but as soon as the pain ceased, I realized with some surprise that I was not frightened, or distressed. It was more as if what was occurring was simply a further, entirely natural step in the order of things. I found myself at peace…such peace as I have never felt.”

“Peace,” Amanda whispered. “No fear?”

“Fear,” Spock reminded her, “is a human emotion. No, Mother, there was neither fear nor pain. Do not forget that I had established a link between myself and McCoy, so I knew that mykatra would…continue.”

“No fear, no pain…” she mused, plainly attempting to envision such a state. “What was there, then?”

“For a moment, I had a sense that knowledge was waiting for me, infinite knowledge. It was a heady sensation, and lasted only for a moment—then my consciousness blanked out, and I did not return to awareness until I awakened on that pallet with T’Lar standing over me.”

“Did you have a sense of an afterlife?”

“No, there was none of that. However, mykatra was residing within Dr. McCoy, so I cannot categorically state that there is no afterlife.”

“Do you believe in an afterlife?” his mother asked slowly.

“I do not know. I have no objective data to allow me to draw a conclusion.”

Amanda smiled dryly. “Spoken like a true Vulcan, Spock.”

Attempting to lighten the moment, the first officer bowed slightly. “Mother…you honor me.”

“Oh, stop it,” she said, chuckling despite everything. “You and your father…when you do that, I want to throw something at you!” She grasped one of the pillows, but her strength was not sufficient for her to make good on the implied threat…instead she sank back against her pillows, gasping.

Amanda’s mention of his father caused all of Spock’s anger to return full force. His mother did not miss the change in his expression, slight as it was. “Spock,” she said, putting out a hand toward him, “try not to be angry with your father. Sarek is simply doing what he has to do, being who and what he is.” Pride surfaced for a moment on her features. “And heis the best, Spock. Never forget that. Those people on Kadura could not have a better champion than your father.”

“Senkar is also an experienced diplomat who has handled situations of this kind before. My father could have allowed him to negotiate with this Klingon renegade.”

“You’re really angry with him, aren’t you?” Amanda’s eyes were huge and full of distress. “Oh, Spock…long ago I begged Sarek to try and understand you, instead of simply judging you and finding you wanting. Now I ask you the same thing…try to understand your father! Forgive him…I know I do.”

“Mother, I cannot,” Spock said flatly. “You are his wife. His place is by your side.”

Visibly upset, his mother closed her eyes, shaking her head as she lay limply against her pillows. “Oh, Spock…don’t be so hard on him. We all make mistakes.”

The Vulcan regarded her with concern, realizing that she was fighting back tears. He’d never meant to distress her….

Spock put out a hand, closed it comfortingly over his mother’s. “Very well, Mother. I will attempt to be more…understanding.”

Amanda nodded weakly, her eyelids drooping. “Thank you, Spock…. ”

The Healer’s aide suddenly appeared from out of the shadows in the sitting room, where the monitor screens were placed. Motioning to Spock to go, she whispered, “She will sleep now, Captain Spock. I suggest you leave and return later.”

The Vulcan nodded quietly, and left the chill room and the slight, silent form of his mother.

 

Peter Kirk unfastened the front of his uniform jacket even before the door to his apartment opened. His garments seemed to have absorbed some of the sticky fatigue that he felt must be seeping out of every pore. Stepping inside, he yanked the collar of his shirt open, feeling as if he were about to strangle.

He was so tired he wasn’t even sure how well he did on his navigation exam. Oh, he was sure he’d passed, but this was one test he might not have aced. To know he might’ve dropped a grade because of the time he’d spent with the KEHL made him feel like a fool.

He tossed the tired uniform into the recycler. And as he did so, his comm link sounded, signaling an incoming call. Fearing it might be Lisa, Peter braced himself and accepted the call. He blinked in surprise when he found himself staring at his uncle. He’d only sent Jim that message early this morning, and the elder Kirk was the last person he’d expected to hear from. Uncle Jim couldn’t possibly have gotten his message yet…could he?

“Hello, Peter,” Kirk’s image said, though he didn’t smile.

“Uncle Jim!” the younger man exclaimed. “This is a surprise! I thought you were out near the Neutral Zone someplace!”

“I’m here in San Francisco,” his uncle said, his words sounding clipped, as though he were rushed, or angry. He was wearing full uniform, but Peter couldn’t tell where he was calling from…his uncle’s image filled nearly the entire screen.

“You are? Well, that’s great!”

“I’m at my apartment,” Kirk said, solemnly. “I need to see you, Peter. Can you come over?”

The younger Kirk felt his spirits rise. If anyone would know how to deal with the KEHL, how to get around the skepticism of Commander Twelvetrees, it would be James T. Kirk.

“I need to see you, Peter,” Jim repeated. “Can you come over here immediately?”

“Well…sure,” Peter said, glancing at the chrono with an inward groan. He desperately needed about six hours’ sleep. But if Jim needed him…“I’ll be there as soon as I can. About half an hour.”

“Good,” Kirk said, and the comm link went dark.

Peter stared at the screen for a moment, puzzled. Something about the call seemed odd, but Peter decided his brief association with the KEHL was making him paranoid. Oh, well. He’d find out what was going on when he got there.

After a brisk sonic shower, he wearily dragged on the first clothes that came to hand—a pair of loose exercise pants and a baggy white shirt. Glancing at his chrono as he hastily ran a comb through his hair, he saw that it was a few minutes after midnight; Peter groaned inwardly. Another night’s sleep ruined—and tomorrow he was supposed to work with Lisa again, bright and early. Not to mention that there were only a few days left before hisKobayashi Maru test!

I’ve got to slow down, or I’ll drop in my tracks,he thought, as he left his apartment and hurried down the corridor toward the elevator.

He decided to walk; his uncle’s apartment was only ten minutes away, and the brisk fall air would wake him up. It was a weekday, so there were few people out this late. The cool breeze nipped at him, and Peter wished belatedly that he’d thought to put on a jacket.

As he strode quickly down the sidewalk, not allowing his steps to lag, something moved in an alley to his left. In the glow of the streetlight, he caught a flash of silver. Peter checked, peering into the darkness, and a voice reached his ears. “Peter?”

The voice, though choked and breathless-sounding, was familiar. The cadet frowned and started toward the alley. “Lisa?” he called softly. “Is that you?”

A moment later, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness away from the streetlight, he saw her. She was walking toward him, obviously distressed. “Peter!”

“What is it, Lisa?” he asked, concerned. Much as he detested her bigoted views, he had grown attached to Lisa the woman. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” she whispered, moving toward him. “It’s…it’s Induna. He needs us, Peter, he needs us terribly. I need you to come with me!”

“Well, I—”

The cadet caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, felt a rush of air on his cheek, and, in accordance with all of Starfleet’s training, ducked. As he moved to the side, a blow caught him across his upper arm with numbing force. Lisa gasped and frantically scuttled back, toward the mouth of the alley.

“Get help!” Peter yelled at her, as his assailants closed in. Two men, one tall, the other short, both burly, both obviously experienced street fighters. Peter lashed out with a side kick toward the shorter one’s chest, but the man was too fast, and he hadn’t struck hard enough. Accustomed to pulling blows in class, he did not connect with enough force to disable his opponent. Before he could follow up with a front punch, the taller man’s fist smashed against his cheekbone with head-spinning force.

Training stood him in good stead as he reacted without thought, grabbing the man’s shirtfront and turning his fall into a back roll. As he went down with the man atop him, Peter brought his knee up into the other’s stomach, hearing the breath whoosh from his attacker’s lungs.

Letting his opponent sail on over his head, Peter regained his feet in time to meet a rush from the shorter man. He struck at the man’s neck, but again this one was too quick to allow the blow to land full-on.

Peter leaped at him, his body twisting in midair, his foot coming up in a tornado kick.This time he had the satisfaction of feeling his instep connect solidly with the side of the man’s head. Shorty went down, and stayed down.

Whirling, hands and feet at the ready, Peter was just in time to block a blow from the tall man, but seconds later he took a smashing kick to his rib cage. Gasping for air, he aimed a back punch at the man’s chest, and followed it up with a quick foot sweep.

Two down. Panting from the stabbing pain in his ribs, Peter spun, half-staggering, half-running as he headed for the mouth of the alley. He glimpsed Lisa’s silver coat just ahead of him. “Run, Lisa!” he tried to shout, but his breath was too short for much sound to emerge.

As young Kirk raced toward the mouth of the alley and the comparative safety of the well-lit street, Lisa stepped out to bar his path. The cadet had only one shocked instant to realize that the faintly shining object she held in her hand, pointed straight at him, was a phaser.

No!he thought, frantically.She set me up! It was a trap!

“Stop right there, Peter,” she commanded, in a voice he’d never heard her use before.

Peter had been trained how to deal with an armed opponent.Hit her, hit her, his brain screamed, but for a critical instant he hesitated.

Damn!he thought bleakly.What would Uncle Jim do?

But he had no time to ponder the question, for, without further ado, Lisa Tennant gave him a brilliant smile, aimed carefully, and triggered the phaser.

Peter heard the whine, glimpsed a flash of energy, and then there was only blackness….