Текст книги "Open Secrets "

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

28

INTERLUDE

Anger, an emotion she had not felt in some time, filled the Wanderer, her mounting rage made all the more acute because she remained powerless to act on it.

The arrogance of theTelinaruul continues unfettered.

After several tentative probes into the Void, she had returned weakened and even discouraged by her seeming inability to break the limitations imposed on her by the absence of the First Conduit and those who controlled it. Once again finding temporary solace on the dead world that had belonged to the Tkon, the Wanderer had regained enough of her depleted energies that she was able to sense disturbances within what should have been the lifeless, dormant system of Conduits. At first, she had allowed hope to wash over her, thinking for a fleeting moment that the Enumerated Ones had returned, but such anticipation was quickly dashed as the Wanderer realized that what she had detected was not the bold, unequaled power of those to whom she pledged eternal loyalty. That strength and those who wielded it were still lost to her, absent from this spatial plane and perhaps never to return.

Instead, what the Wanderer felt were the most fleeting permutations, hesitant and clumsy efforts that carried with them a familiar tinge, one she detested. The Telinaruulonce again were attempting to gain access to technology they could not possibly hope to understand. Focusing her mind toward the source of the activity, she realized that the Telinaruulhad returned to one of the planets on which they had discovered a Conduit, the ice-bound world where she had first encountered them. She vowed not to underestimate them again. The intruders would pay for their insolence.

While she once had believed without exception in the supremacy of the Shedai, the Wanderer now was forced to admit that the Telinaruulwere not to be so easily dismissed. In their unchecked lust to obtain the secrets of the Shedai, the infiltrators had overcome the confines of their vastly inferior intellect and made tangible progress in the brief span of time since their arrival in this region of the galaxy. The very nature of their primitive life-forms and their simple incompatibility with Shedai or even Tholian physiology would continue to present the most formidable obstacles, but based on her previous skirmishes with them, the Wanderer believed them capable, in time, of finding some means of bridging that gap.

Of course, without the First Conduit to provide guidance and oversight, the individual portals located on different worlds throughout the realm of the Shedai were all but useless. Therefore, any inroads made by the Telinaruulto understand and exploit Shedai knowledge and technology would remain limited.

Would they not?

That uncertainty now fueled the Wanderer, driving her to regain her former strength and free herself from her self-induced isolation. Only then could she carry on with her singular purpose of defending that which belonged to the Shedai, acting in their stead until they chose to return.

They will not return.

From some distant point in the void, another presence called to her, intruding upon the Wanderer’s thoughts. The voice of the Apostate reached across space and time, taunting her.

You are alone, as you always will be. Those to whom you pledge loyalty are gone. They will not save you. Their time has passed, as has yours.

The Wanderer felt anger grip her once more, just as the Apostate knew would happen. Despite herself, she could not hold back her own response.

You, too, are alone.

She sensed the Apostate laughing at her bravado. You possess much courage and spirit for one so young. Then again, I also remember how you fled like a frightened child when I gave you the opportunity. When we meet again, do not hope for similar leniency.

Before the Wanderer could summon another reply, she felt an abrupt disturbance in her thoughts as the link with the Apostate was severed. Wherever he was, he had tired of the exchange. Though weakened, he remained confident in his abilities and his purpose, dismissing her as though she did not exist.

The Wanderer seethed at his arrogance, her frustrations made all the worse by the knowledge that she was powerless to refute him.

Pushing away her irritation and striving not to dwell on the Apostate, the Wanderer instead marshaled the still-pitiful energies under her control, beginning the arduous task of preparing for yet another journey.

29

There was hot, Pennington decided, and then there was Vulcan.

The initial merciless blast of midday desert heat had caught the journalist in the face the instant the Yukon’s passenger-access hatch cycled open, and things had only worsened after that. Even now, hours later and with the sun low on the horizon and just beginning to slip behind the distant range of mountain peaks, the temperature remained uncomfortable. It was at least somewhat tolerable here when compared with the stifling heat that seemed to envelop Vulcan’s capital city, Shi’Kahr, earlier in the day. Pennington also knew that the heat would abate as sunset turned to night, but that seemed small solace at the moment.

“We’ve been here eight hours,” he said as he paced the width of the small, sparsely furnished reception room in which they had been directed to wait. “I think I’ve already lost ten bloody kilos in water weight.”

Sitting in one of only two chairs apparently designated for visitors, M’Benga reached up to wipe perspiration from his face. “It takes some getting used to, that’s for sure. When I interned here, it took me almost two months before I was fully acclimated, and that was after running five kilometers in the heat of the day, every day during my lunch break.”

Such a notion held absolutely no appeal for Pennington. Frowning, he asked, “Don’t you medical types have some kind of pill or something?” He rubbled the spot on his right arm where, a few hours earlier, M’Benga had injected him with something from his portable medikit. “I mean, you can give me something to help me breathe in this ghastly climate, so you’d think someone would dream up something that’d help you deal with the heat.”

“It’ll be better after the sun goes down,” M’Benga replied.

Upon assuming standard orbit, the Yukonhad been directed by Vulcan Space Central—the organization tasked with overseeing all spacecraft traffic above and around the planet—to land at the main spaceport on the outskirts of Shi’Kahr’s bustling metropolis. With the personnel transport secured at a Starfleet landing bay and its three-person crew having received orders to report to the Starfleet liaison office in the capital city, M’Benga had arranged for himself, Pennington, and T’Prynn to be sent via transporter to a point five kilometers outside the village of Kren’than, the settlement Sobon now called home. Local tenets prohibited most modern technology within the commune’s borders, necessitating the use of conventional transportation from the beam-in point.

When they arrived, M’Benga and Pennington discovered a simple rail system in place, with a pair of Vulcans waiting beside a hand-powered rail car large enough to accommodate several passengers, including the still-unconscious and stretcher-bound T’Prynn. Even the use of an antigravity unit to maneuver the stretcher had not been permitted, but the Vulcans had been more than willing to lift T’Prynn into the car. The journey to Kren’than had taken more than two hours, with their Vulcan chauffeurs setting and maintaining a steady pace on the hand-cranked controls that set the car in motion. Despite what had to be enormous effort on their part, the Vulcans uttered not a word, never so much as displaying labored breathing as they worked.

Showoffs,Pennington thought.

In the village itself, he and M’Benga were quickly greeted by a trio of healers, all of whom were working in some capacity with Sobon, who apparently had excused himself to his private chambers for extended meditation in preparation for working with T’Prynn. With M’Benga’s approval, the healers had taken T’Prynn into the village’s small medical ward, a single-story adobe structure that looked to Pennington to have been created from formed mud or clay, with a wooden roof, as was the case with the majority of the settlement’s other presumably permanent structures. Neither M’Benga nor Pennington had seen her since that time, though one of the healers had come to tell them that T’Prynn had been settled in her room and that he and his companions were waiting for Sobon to emerge from meditation. For nearly an hour, the two humans had sat in this room, which as far as Pennington could tell was but one room in the large building that operated as the seat of Kren’than’s provincial government.

With the sun continuing its descent behind the western range of the L-langon Mountains, the room was growing darker. As if on cue, a door at the back of the room opened, admitting a young Vulcan male carrying a stout white candle in a flat black holder. Pennington guessed him to be in his late teens or early twenties, knowing that his estimate might be off by decades given protracted Vulcan life spans. As Pennington and M’Benga waited in silence, the young Vulcan used the candle to light a pair of oil lamps mounted on the back wall before proceeding to a smaller lamp on the table at the center of the room. His task completed, he turned his attention to M’Benga.

“Doctor,” he said, “I am Sinar, a student of Healer Sobon’s. He has assigned me to act as your assistant during your visit with us. I’ve been instructed to inform you that he is prepared and to ask if there is anything you require at this time.” As the young Vulcan spoke, and despite the veneer of self-control that all Vulcans employed at all times, Pennington still noted a slight discomfort, as though Sinar would rather be anywhere else but here.

Well, that makes two of us.

Nodding toward Pennington, M’Benga replied, “Some water would be sufficient for now. I trust sleeping quarters have been readied?”

“As Healer Sobon requested,” said Sinar. “I will take you there once your business with him has concluded for the evening.”

“Then by all means,” Pennington said, “let’s get this show on the road.” When he caught the irritated glare from M’Benga, he added, “I mean, we’re ready when you are.”

Sinar nodded. “Very well. Follow me.”

As he fell in step next to Pennington and they followed Sinar out of the room and down a long, narrow corridor, M’Benga leaned closer and whispered, “These Vulcans aren’t like the ones you’re used to dealing with. Jocularity and other informal speech mannerisms won’t get you anywhere.”

“If that’s the case,” Pennington replied, “then they’re exactly like the Vulcans I’m used to dealing with.”

M’Benga suppressed a sigh. “All I’m saying is that these Vulcans don’t normally interact with humans—or any outworlders, for that matter. Ordinarily, we’d never have been allowed to set foot in the village at all, much less be welcomed into their homes. The only reason we’re not under armed guard is that Sobon put in a good word for us, but that doesn’t mean they have to like us. They’re not familiar with euphemisms or slang or our plain and simple torturing of what should otherwise be a rather straightforward language. If you talk in anything other than formal Federation Standard, in most instances, they won’t have the first damned clue what you’re saying.”

While his first thought was to respond that such was only fair, in that he rarely, if ever, fully comprehended everything a Vulcan might say during the course of normal conversation, Pennington nodded instead. “Understood, mate. I’ll mind my manners.”

They continued in silence, following Sinar down the corridor, which was illuminated by oil lamps mounted at regular intervals along the left wall. The slight downward slope of the passageway and numerous intersections they passed led Pennington to realize that they were traversing an underground tunnel, likely in a network of such subterranean passages used to connect the village’s aboveground structures.

“Interesting design aesthetic,” he remarked.

“Not atypical in remote villages and settlements like this one,” M’Benga replied. “Underground chambers are better environments for storage, for one thing. The passages also offer shelter during inclement weather, which is probably something of a regular occurrence up here in these mountains. They also offer protection against local predators.”

Pennington frowned. “Predators? You mean beasts of some sort?”

“Of some sort,” the doctor repeated. “You’ll get this advice soon enough, but don’t go anywhere up here alone, particularly after dark.”

“Oh, that’s grand,” Pennington said, shaking his head. What in the name of hell have I gotten myself into?

After maneuvering several turns in the corridor, inclining upward at a gradual angle, they came upon a large wooden door secured by a simple metal bolt. Sinar reached out and slid the bolt aside, the sound of it echoing in the narrow passageway. He ushered M’Benga and Pennington through the doorway ahead of him before pulling the door closed behind him and sliding the bolt back into place.

The trio now stood in what Pennington guessed was a sort of den or study. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with books and scrolls, a dozen crystalline vessels of differing sizes, shapes, and colors, plus various other items he did not recognize. A small wooden desk occupied one corner, and a large, ornately designed area rug dominated the center of the floor. On one end of the desk, an oil lamp provided the room’s only illumination.

“These are Sobon’s private chambers,” Sinar explained. “He has completed his meditation and is now attending your friend.”

Pointing to one of the odd crystal objects, each of which caught the lamp’s light and reflected it in myriad colors across the shelves’ other contents, Pennington asked, “What are those?”

“ Vre-katra.Closely translated, it means ‘ katricark,’” M’Benga replied. Seeing the quizzical expression on the journalist’s face, he held up a hand. “It’s a long story.”

Gesturing for them to follow, Sinar proceeded across the room to the door on the opposite wall. After passing down another corridor, this one decorated with tapestries and paintings, they crossed a larger sitting room and finally came to another door. Sinar paused before it, knocking on its aged wooden surface.

“Come,” a raspy voice called out from the other side. Sinar opened the door and led the way into the room.

Pennington paused as he stepped inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light offered by the single lamp in the room’s far corner. A bed was positioned along the far wall, beneath an open window, and lying on it was T’Prynn. She wore the same Starfleet-issue patient gown in which she had been dressed by M’Benga before departing the Yukon.Her hands were clasped across her chest. The irregular, infrequent rising and falling of her chest were the only indications that she was not dead. Conspicuously absent was any of the Starfleet medical equipment, all of which had remained on the Yukon.

Standing at the foot of the bed, his withered hands held before him and his eyes closed, was the oldest Vulcan Pennington had ever seen. Thin and stoop-shouldered, he had tanned and deeply wrinkled skin, obvious testament to the years he had spent toiling under the harsh Vulcan sun. His hair, stark white, was long and smooth, flowing about his shoulders and descending to the small of his back. His simple black robe reached to the floor, hiding his feet, and was devoid of any decorative pattern.

After nearly a minute of standing in silence and watching the Vulcan say nothing nor move a single muscle, Pennington looked to M’Benga, who shook his head. He was just about to clear his throat or make some other gesture to indicate that they were waiting, when the Vulcan’s eyes opened, and he turned his head to face them. Despite the man’s age, there was no mistaking his intelligence or focus.

“I am Sobon,” he said.

M’Benga replied, “Healer Sobon, I’m Dr. M’Benga, and this is my friend, Timothy Pennington. He also is an associate of T’Prynn’s.”

“Thank you for helping us,” Pennington quickly added, “and for welcoming us into your community.” Even as he spoke the words, he realized he likely would be rebuked for undue emotionalism or illogic or some other such damned thing.

Instead, Sobon replied, “It has been some time since my last interaction with humans. I had come to realize that I missed the differences between us, which I view as opportunities for exploration, rather than hindrances or inconveniences as so many of my colleagues once believed.” Nodding toward T’Prynn, he said, “It is agreeable to see that humans and Vulcans can work together and form friendships, just as I believed when I first traveled to Earth.”

For the first time, Pennington actually felt welcome in Kren’than. Reaching up to wipe a line of sweat from the side of his head, he realized he had almost forgotten how bloody hot it still was, even now, after the sun had set. Almost.

“Are you able to help her?” he asked.

Moving from his stance at the food of the bed, Sobon knelt beside T’Prynn. He reached across her body, his curled, wrinkled fingers pressing against three points along the side of her head. “We shall soon see.”

Feeling Sten’s hands around her throat, T’Prynn howled in unfettered rage, her hands clawing at his face. She felt her nails dig into his skin, and lines of green blood stained her fingers. Sten grunted in pain, though his grip on her throat did not waver. T’Prynn forced her fingers deeper into his flesh, tearing at skin and muscle until he finally relented, staggering backward and reaching for his injured face.

T’Prynn rolled to her side and regained her feet, her strength flagging, her throat aching from Sten’s attack as well as implacable thirst. She sucked air greedily, trying to bring her breathing back under control as she fumbled backward, putting space between her and Sten. The wind whipped at her, pelting her exposed skin with blown sand. Looking down at herself, she realized for the first time that her clothing was little more than tatters, held together in some places by individual threads.

Sten bent to the sand and picked up the knife that had fallen there during the struggle. “You grow weak,” he taunted, waving the blade toward her. Blood streamed from the ghastly wound she had inflicted on his face, and he stared at her with scorching hatred, his emotions all but consuming him. “Soon you will have no choice but to submit to me. It is inevitable.”

“If I’m dead,” she countered, “is that truly victory?”

Stepping forward, Sten replied, “If that is all that is attainable, then it will have to suffice.”

“No.”

Turning to the sound of the new voice, T’Prynn was startled to see an elderly Vulcan male, his long white hair and full-length robe seemingly unaffected by the unceasing sand storm. He stood with hands clasped before him, eyeing them with clinical dispassion. Where had he come from?

“Leave us, old man,” Sten said, pointing the knife at him. “This is a private matter and does not concern you.”

The aged Vulcan moved until he stood between Sten and T’Prynn. Turning to face Sten, he said, “You do not belong here. For either of you to have peace, you must leave this place.”

“Not until I have what is rightfully mine,” Sten said, stepping forward.

T’Prynn could not comprehend what happened next. Though the elder Vulcan appeared not to move, Sten’s advance halted, and his eyes widened in confusion—perhaps even fear. She watched as he tried to raise the knife, only to see his shock at his seeming inability to move.

Then, simply, he was gone, swallowed by the sand.

Sobon’s body jerked, and he wrenched his hand free of T’Prynn’s face. His movements cost him his balance, and he would have fallen to the floor if not for Sinar’s quick reaction. He caught his mentor, steadying him

“I am well now,” he said after a moment, patting the younger Vulcan’s hand.

“What happened?” M’Benga asked, his expression a mask of worry.

Pulling himself to his feet, Sobon cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was broken and raspy. “Her condition is worse than I first believed. T’Prynn’s mind is occupied by two katras.Her own, and that of her betrothed, Sten.”

“What’s a katra?” Pennington asked.

Sobon said, “It is the embodiment of a Vulcan’s consciousness. During mind melds, it is possible to transfer this from one mind to another. Such exchange is supposed to happen on a voluntary basis, but on rare occasions, it has been done without consent from the receiving individual.”

“And that’s what happened to T’Prynn,” Pennington said, recalling his earlier discussions with M’Benga. “He somehow forced his… katra…into her mind before he died?”

“That is correct,” Sobon replied. “She is now what we call val’reth,one who hosts another katraagainst his or her own will. Because of the trauma of forcing a meld at the point of death, his katrahas become entwined with T’Prynn’s.” He clasped his hands together to emphasize his point. “They are one, though the one still retains the properties of both minds. T’Prynn, naturally, fought this forced union and has continued to do so since the original meld. Since that time, Sten’s katrahas waged war upon T’Prynn’s, beating at it and wearing it down. Eventually, his katrawill triumph, and the result will be a total subsuming of T’Prynn’s mind.”

“Good Lord.” Pennington shook his head. M’Benga had already explained some of this, but the full magnitude of what T’Prynn must have experienced, and had experienced since before he was born, had become clear. Looking to Sobon once more, he asked, “Do you think you can help her?”

“I have created a temporary separation,” replied the aged Vulcan, “but it will not last. However, there is a meld ritual that may prove successful. It is called Dashaya-Ni’Var,to separate that which has become one. Through this meld, we will be able to remove Sten’s katrafrom T’Prynn’s mind.”

“And do what with it?” Pennington asked, before something clicked in his memory, and he looked to M’Benga. “Those things in Sobon’s study. You called them katricarks.”

Sobon nodded. “A very astute observation, my young friend. A vre-katrais capable of preserving a katralong after a person’s death. The care of such vessels falls to the adepts. Long ago, I, too, looked after many vre-katra.If we are successful, Sten’s katrawill be housed in similar fashion.”

Frowning, Pennington asked, “And then what do you do with it?”

“That remains to be seen,” Sobon replied.

M’Benga asked, “What happens if this…separation…doesn’t work?”

Sobon’s eyes narrowed. “Then it is likely that T’Prynn will die.”

Despite the lingering heat permeating the room even this long after sunset, the Vulcan’s blunt statement sent a shiver down Pennington’s spine.