Star Trek - Unification Part 11

"Good," replied Neral. "Jolan tru, Spock." Then, remembering something, he added, "Oh-live long and prosper."

Spock bowed gravely and exited. He was left with a distinct feeling: the conversation was not logical.

D'Tan had been running for over an hour. He had at least another hour to go, but he knew he could keep his pace easily. In fact, he could probably go on indefinitely. There was something glorious about the feel of the wind on his face and the thud of his feet on the hot Romulan clay as he loped through the Valley of Chula. D'Tan never felt as good as he did when he was running.

Everyone was always telling him to slow down, but he never did. Why slow down? There was so much to do, to know, to learn. He was often afraid that he would die without having tasted all that life had to offer, and he didn't want to waste precious minutes by strolling. So he ran.

Eventually those who had admonished him to slow down began to realize that his running was of value. The movement had begun using him as a messenger, for he was more trustworthy than any other means of communication; and to the followers of the move-merit, trust was a more important property than speed.

He was running now toward an outlying community, M'Narth, carrying an important message. There was to be a meeting tonight in the caves and everyone must be there. It might be the most important meeting they'd ever held.

That was the sum total of the message; D'Tan had been told nothing more. But in his heart he felt that the realization of their dream was near. Spock would be giving them the news they were all waiting to hear: that they would be joining with their Vulcan cousins once w~ore.

For D'Tan and his family, and for many of their friends, it was a dream that had been carefully preserved for generations. D'Tan had been raised, as his parents had been raised, and their parents before them and back and back for many generations, with the belief that someday the Vulcan and the Romulan races would be reunited. That a day of harmony and peace would arrive in which all of them would mingle together, without barriers and without prejudice.

The first songs D'Tan had heard as an infant were Vulcan songs; the first stories his mother told him were stories of Vulcan. He had been steeped in Vulcan lore and Vulcan history. The desire to see this legendary planet and to live in meditative serenity with his brothers was a burning pa.s.sion, and the thought that it might happen in his lifetime was exhilarating.

It was Spock who made the difference. Spock! The name rang on his tongue like a chime, and D'Tan found himself singing one of the unification songs, inserting Spock's name for that of an ancient hero. Singing made the time pa.s.s more quickly, and he wanted the hours until the meeting tonight to flash by as quickly as possible.

That night, in the caves, D'Tan's heart was pounding and his face was flushed with excitement. He could hardly believe what he was hearing, and he knew everyone in the cavernous meeting place felt the same. They were hushed; no one stirred, not even the small children, who seemed to understand that this was an important occasion. Spock's calm voice ech-oed through the chamber, describing in detail his meeting that very day with Neral, making it clear that the proconsul was receptive to him and apparently to his ideas.

Somewhere in the crowd a baby began to cry; soft sucking sounds told D'Tan that it was quickly silenced at its mother's breast. And then Spock made the most incredible statement of all: the proconsul endorsed unification and was willing to make a public statement urging talks between Romulan and Vulcan leaders!

A huge cry of joy rang out in the caves; neighbor embraced neighbor and people babbled excitedly over the unexpected news. D'Tan's father held him tightly in an embrace and his mother held both his hands in hers. His friend Janicka, who sat nearby, was crying with joy. D'Tan thought he had never been so happy in his life. "A public statement..." "We will live with our cousins..." "No more hiding in caves..."

The people were overjoyed. A young woman named Shalote, unable to contain her elation, jumped to her feet and took Spock's hand, pressing it in grat.i.tude. "It's everything we could have hoped for," she cried, and the crowd clamored its agreement.

Why, then, that frown on Spock's face? Why did he turn to survey the euphoric crowd with such a glowering look? Suddenly D'Tan was frightened.

Spock's voice rang out over the rejoicing. "It is more than we could have hoped for," he announced.

And a startled hush fell over the group. D'Tan saw Pardek register the same confusion as the crowd.

"But if Neral is ready to publicly endorse reunification ..." began the good senator, then left the sentence unfinished, staring at Spock in bewilder-ment.

Only one man seemed even to understand what Spock was saying, and that was the captain from the Federation, Picard. D'Tan swallowed, not sure he wanted to hear what was coming next. "I can't imagine that one rises to the position of Senate proconsul without the support of the Romulan traditionalists," began Picard, directing the statement to Pardek.

"That's true," replied the senator.

The Federation man seemed to bore into Pardek. "Then how can he turn his back on them so easily? How can he endorse reunification when it is considered subversive?"

A man from the crowd stepped forward and interjected. "Because he's not afraid of them. Because he knows we will support him!" Even to D'Tan, the man sounded desperate.

Spock's composed voice rang through the cavern. "Captain Picard is correct. It is not logical for the proconsul to endorse reunification at this time."

And now the crowd erupted, clamoring their objec-tions. D'Tan heard his own voice among them, and felt his eyes sting with tears of frustration. How could Spock do this? Could he not see that their dreams, their prayers, were just on the verge of being answered? Was he being swayed by the Starfleet captain who had arrived so unexpectedly? Was he to s.n.a.t.c.h this bright promise from them when it meant so much?

Shalote was trembling with anger. "Why would Neral lie?" she demanded.

"Perhaps they are hoping to use this to expose members of your movement," Picard answered, and D'Tan saw the woman flash him a bitter look.

"No," she cried out, "this is our chance for accept-ance. Finally, to be heard!"

Another man from the crowd joined in. "I believe it is the Federation that fears an alliance between Romulus and Vulcan!"

Now the crowd's rumble took an ugly turn, and D'Tan felt its wrath as though it were a living animal, coiling and writhing, turning to cast its eye on Picard. The outsider. The interloper. One on whom they could vent their anger and disappointment.

The clamor grew louder and more menacing. Picard faced them, and D'Tan sensed no fear in him, but rather a desire to quell the gathering fury of the mob. "That is not true-" he began, but he was shouted down.

Then Spock stepped forward, his look enough to quiet the unruliest of throngs. He stared at the seeth-ing ma.s.s of humanity, silent until they withered under his gaze and settled into a restive, murmuring ma.s.s.

"I came here," said Spock quietly, and by his hushed tone silenced the crowd further, "to determine the potential for reunification. In spite of what has occurred, I intend to continue my efforts. I intend to meet with the proconsul as planned."

A huge roar of approval thundered through the caves. Instantly the mood of the people had turned once more to joyous approbation.

D'Tan thought he might have been the only person in the cave who saw the look that pa.s.sed between Spock and Picard. To him, it seemed charged with conflict. Then Spock turned and left the main chamber, and after a moment, Picard followed him.

D'Tan felt that the destiny of his people walked with those two men at that moment.

As Picard followed Spock down the narrow pa.s.sageway into the small, damp chamber adjoining the large cavern, he was smoldering with anger. He would never have thought that Spock could be swayed by a surly crowd, but he had just seen it happen. Some part of his mind realized that he felt personally betrayed by the amba.s.sador's actions, and that thought puzzled him for a moment-why personally?rebut then his ire pushed it from his consciousness.

Ahead, Spock turned to face him. Picard perceived suddenly that Spock had not come here to confer with him, but to be alone, and was not pleased to find Picard d.o.g.g.i.ng his heels. He didn't care; Spock would have to deal with him.

"You let their emotions sway you," he charged, hoping Spock would answer in angry kind.

But of course he did not. Spock raised an eyebrow and intoned in a slightly surprised fashion, "On the contrary, I am pursuing the most logical course."

Picard took a breath and tried to calm himselfi It would serve nothing to run at this man in a white heat. "You are as skeptical as I am," he said, looking for the argument that would appeal to reason. "Is it logical to ignore your own good sense?"

"I fear the influence of Sarek has colored your att.i.tudes, Captain. Toward reunification. And perhaps toward me."

Picard was taken aback. How did Sarek become a partic.i.p.ant in this interpersonal drama? His mind flashed back to the discussion he and Spock had had in the soup stall. Spock had accused him of having a closed mind... and at the time Picard had been puzzled. It was as though Spock were accusing him of having another man's feelings. And now, here it was again.

"This is the second time you have accused me of speaking with another man's voice," he said carefully, watching for Spock's reaction. The Vulcan gazed at him without expression, but Picard sensed a mael-strom of feeling behind his eyes. He knew it was time to acknowledge Sarek's influence. "Yes, he will always be a part of me. His experiences. His spirit. But I speak with my own voice, Spock. Not his."

There was a long moment. Picard heard the dripping of the moisture on the walls, the rush of distant underground waters. The face of his own father flashed briefly in his mind.

And finally, Spock drew a breath. "Curious," he said, "that I should hear him so clearly... now that he is dead."

The Vulcan moved away then, and Picard recognized the movement as an effort to regain emotional control. "It is possible," he said evenly, "that I have brought my arguments with Sarek to you, Captain. if so, I apologize."

"Is it so important," said Picard softly, "for you to win one last argument with him?"

Spock considered the statement as though he were pondering the hypothetical premise of a scientific inquiry. "No," he said solemnly, "it is not."

Then he turned, and with a naked honesty that caught Picard like the chill gust of a winter breeze, said, "Although it is true that I will miss the arguments. It was, finally, all that we had."

With startling clarity, Picard understood. In some unspoken fashion, he had become father to Spockm Spock, almost a century older than he. The mind meld with Sarek had blended them in some indescribable fashion. To what extent he was Sarek, and to what extent Spock simply heard Sarek, he did not know. But he knew that in a strange, unbidden way he had indeed done what Sarek had asked of him; he had come to Romulus and allowed that relationship to play out its final hand.

Perhaps he could effect closure between the father and the son. Perhaps he could grant absolution. Perhaps he could speak the words that Sarek never would.

"Your fight with Sarek is over," he said with simple sincerity. "And you have none with me."

Spock turned away, and Picard sensed his Vulcan desire to place this discussion in a rational context. But what he heard was a son struggling to achieve the termination of a protracted and difficult relationship -and not succeeding.

"I always had a different vision from my father's," he said. "It was an ability to see beyond pure logic. He considered it weak. But I have discovered it to be a source of extraordinary strength."

Picard questioned the reasoning of this statement. If anything, Sarek had always been more emotional than Spock. Spock's decision to follow Vulcan, rather than human, behavior had caused him to eschew emotions and to deify reason. But he realized that what Spock was uttering was not reality, but rather his perception of reality-his feelings. Picard did not comment.

"Sarek would find this mission of reunification a fool's errand," Spock continued, turning the conversation back to the case at hand. "But somehow I think it is not. Logic cannot explain why... but I know I must continue to pursue this-"

"Even," Picard now interjected, "if it leads you into a Romulan trap?" Spock shrugged. "If the Romulans do have an ulterior motive, it would be in the interests of all concerned to determine what it is." And for that, Picard had no answer.

"So I will play the role they would have me play," Spock summed up, and Picard could only acknowledge reluctantly the rightness of his instincts.

Chapter Fifteen.

CAPTAIN K'VADA had been sure he would not scream when his shoulder was dislocated by the ship's physician. He had antic.i.p.ated the pain, explored it in his mind, and prepared his defenses. When K'kam had torn it from its socket the first time, the wound was unexpected, and he felt justified in having uttered a brief howl at the agony of his arm being wrenched from its joint.

He had not lost consciousness. He had not thrown up. He had not uttered a cry beyond that first roar. It was a response to injury that would make any Klingon proud.

And so he was sure that this second violation of his tortured shoulder was within his control.

Sitting in the small, dark cubicle a.s.signed to the ship's physician, K'Vada listened to Klarg, the doctor. Klarg was a heavy, blowsy man of indeterminate age who wheezed as he talked. The physician had convinced K'Vada that the incessant pain he felt was due to an incorrect alignment of the shoulder in its socket. The only remedy was to pull the ball of the shoulder from its joint and then reinseft it properly.

K'Vada knew that scar tissue would have developed around the injury. He knew that this tissue would have to be ripped in order to reposition the bone.

What he hadn't realized was how excruciating that process would be.

Klarg was to blame for it, he was sure. Had the Klingon doctor not been inept and doddering, the pain would have been manageable. But the idiot, instead of quickly snapping the shoulder loose, pried and twisted as though he were trying to torture K'Vada. It went on interminably, and though he dug his nails into his palms until they bled, and finally bit into his tongue in a desperate effort to create pain somewhere else besides his shoulder, the cry escaped his lips.

He had thought it was just a strangled moan, but from the startled look on Klarg's face, it must have been far more-a shriek, a humiliating admission of weakness. With his newly dislocated arm dangling at his side, he kicked the doctor across the room.

That had perhaps been a bad decision.

Klarg was dazed and injured. K'Vada could see that he was stumbling as he made his way back across the room. He was not a young man, and unaccustomed to physicality.

"Replace my arm!" K'Vada yelled at him. He had not undergone this much suffering to be left with a useless appendage.

Klarg looked up at him, his bony brow distended, his eyes bugged in a strange and disturbing way. He was gasping for breath and his face was seeping fluids. K'Vada stared at him. Was the patahk going to die? Without having relocated his shoulder socket?

K'Vada had a moment of panic, and tried to lift the doctor from his kneeling position. "Get up," he commanded. "Do your duty to me!"

But Klarg slumped against him, driving a new shot of pain into his arm. To his horror, the ship's physician pa.s.sed out and his breathing became reedy and shallow. He was going to die.

K'Vada glared at him. For a moment he hoped Klarg would die, as punishment for putting him in this dreadful predicament. Then he had a moment of panic as he realized that, with Klarg dead, no one on board could properly reposition his arm, and he would more than likely be permanently disfigured.

He considered trying to reinsert the arm himself. A warrior, on the field of battle, might be faced with such a challenge. Would Kahless have qualied at the thought of pain? Would he have despaired of preserv-ing consciousness while twisting his bones through ripped tendons and into their proper resting place? Never.

Klarg turned gray at his feet, gasping noisily, as K'Vada stood, trying to convince himself to take hold of his useless arm and force it into its resting place.

Finally, it occurred to K'Vada that he really should see to Klarg before he took any drastic action with his arm, and he bellowed for help. Scurrying minions arrived and he ordered attention to Klarg, all the while concealing from them his damaged arm.

He made his way to the bridge, still uncertain as to what his next action should be. He searched his memory for anyone on board who possessed rudi-mentary medical skills, and could think of no one. He fought pan',c. On a Klingon ship, the weak were expendable. It was a mark of honor to a.s.sa.s.sinate one's superior; if someone were weak and careless enough to be taken in such a fashion, he did not deserve either to lead or to live.

K'Vada would be dead within days if it were learned that he was defenseless. And it wouldn't take long before someone would notice that he couldn't even lift his arm, much less defend himself with it.

He considered ordering an aide to hack it off at the shoulder; such a dismemberment, if it were borne stoically, brought honor. Men often lost limbs in battle, and proudly waved their stumps as badges of courage. He might even be able to concoct a plausible tale to explain the loss of his arm, one which would bring him glory. He mused briefly about this possibility, imagined the bite of the sword into his shoulder, antic.i.p.ated the sound and the smell as a torch caute-rized the wound. The thought made him dizzy, and as he entered the bridge he had to will himself to walk purposefully past the crew, being careful not to grimace from the pain each step caused.

He was sitting in his command chair, fighting waves of nausea, when the android Data entered the bridge and went directly to a computer station.

"What are you after now?" K'Vada growled, and he heard the sound of pain in his own voice.

The Starfleet officer turned, but K'Vada couldn't tell if he heard it, too. "I am attempting to penetrate the Romulan data network. It is protected by sophisticated security measures."

"You have a console in your quarters," snapped K'Vada, irritated to have this stranger on his bridge now, of all times.

"I am sorry if I am intruding," replied Data. "You had given your permission for me to use the more powerful computer array on the bridge in order to access the Romulan data banks."

It was true, he had. It seemed light-years ago that he had dreamt of honor and accolades for accessing Romulan intelligence nets. All that mattered now was ridding himself of the excruciating pain that riddled his body and was beginning to make his vision bleary.

K'Vada blinked through sweat and suddenly saw the android's pale face just inches from his. He was expressing concern, saying-what? K'Vada squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to stay conscious.

... seem to be in some distress..." he heard Data saying. "Perhaps I could be of help." The android was offering to help him. How could he possibly- "My arm..." breathed K'Vada, desperate as a child.

And Data was gently inspecting his arm and shoulder, his synthetic touch strangely painless. "With your permission, sir?" he asked, and when K'Vada merely nodded grimly, a sudden, simple motion and K'Vada's arm was resting in its socket, neatly housed, in its correct position, he could tell-the pain still there but somehow dwindling to a tolerable ache.

He tested the motion gingerly. He could lift his armmnot to full height, but the range of motion was surprisingly complete. The pain was receding rapidly.

"I have a hypospray I could apply that would reduce swelling and aid in the healing of the ligaments," Data was saying. And K'Vada could only nod numbly, more grateful than he would ever be able to admit. The android left the bridge to get his medicaments, and K'Vada felt an unaccustomed stinging in his eye; a wetness formed.