Текст книги "Open Secrets "

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

37

It was too hot to eat, Pennington decided as he stared at his bowl of soup. Except for an hour before sunrise and a few hours after sunset, it seemed it was always too hot to eat. As far as he was concerned, Vulcan was the great weight-loss secret of the Federation.

Sitting at a table on the veranda outside Sobon’s home, Pennington gazed across the courtyard, watching members of the village going about their work. As always, they were unaffected by the heat, which was still oppressive even at this elevation. Even M’Benga seemed to have become acclimated to the temperatures in the time they had been here. The only person who still seemed to be suffering was Pennington himself.

I always was slow on the uptake.

“Would you like more water, Mr. Pennington?”

He looked up at the sound of the new voice, finding himself eye-to-eye with a young Vulcan girl standing next to his table and carrying a stone pitcher. Pennington guessed her age to be no more than fifteen years, at least as they would be measured on Earth. She was dressed in a smaller version of the soft suit worn by almost every member of the commune he had encountered. Her long black hair was drawn up into a ponytail and tied with a leather thong, and her face was tanned and free of the age lines that eventually would crease her smooth skin in the years to come.

He held out the oversized mug he had selected for use during his meal. “That’d be lovely, my dear. Thank you.” As she began to pour, he said, “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. What’s your name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I am T’Lon,” the girl replied. “My mother works as one of the keepers of Healer Sobon’s house, and I assist her on days when I am not in school.”

Once she had filled the mug, Pennington took a long drink, relishing the taste of the cool water. Drawn from a well fed by an intricate aqueduct system running down the mountain from an underground spring, the water possessed a vital, refreshing flavor, which seemed odd when Pennington remembered what he was drinking. He had taken the opportunity during his early-morning walks to investigate the aqueducts, fascinated by the craft embodied in the system’s design and admiring that it—like everything else created by the citizens of Kren’than—was accomplished without any form of mechanization.

I could learn to like this place,he thought, not for the first time. Though he was a citizen of a culture where nearly every facet of day-to-day life was inexorably intertwined on some level with modern technology, there was something to be said for the simpler, matter-of-fact existence of this village’s residents. There was an appeal, Pennington had decided, to notbeing connected to the entire galaxy or even to the neighboring village without getting up and walking to that destination under your own power.

If it could only be fifty degrees cooler, and if they maybe had a pub or two, it would be almost perfect.

He realized after a moment that the young girl was still standing at the table, looking expectantly at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, straightening his posture in his seat. “Is there something else? Have I done something wrong?”

T’Lon shook her head. “No, you have not acted improperly.” Gesturing toward the sheaves of parchment lying on his table, she asked, “I was curious about what you might be writing.”

“That’s a good question,” Pennington replied, glancing down at the papers and grimacing at the sight of his handwriting. “Judging by the looks of these, I’d say my pen was having an epileptic fit.” He looked up at T’Lon, who stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding up one of the papers. “My writing is a bit out of practice. I’ve gotten used to dictation or even a keyboard. Anyway, I suppose you could say it’s a travelogue, an account of my time here.” He had taken up the notion as a means of passing the time, writing something about each day he spent among the people of Kren’than. It was an enjoyable exercise, admittedly made more so because of his having to write everything in longhand. No electronic devices, including the portable data manager that was his life’s blood as a reporter, were allowed within the village’s confines. The tenet forced him to get back to basics, and he relished the tangible connection to his work as the ink flowed from the pen onto the parchment, guided by his will as he transcribed thoughts and feelings.

No bloody idea what I might do with it, but I’ll worry about that when it’s finished.

When T’Lon remained in place after another moment without saying anything, he asked, “Do you have another question?”

The young Vulcan nodded. “I wished to ask whether you would be willing to answer a question about T’Prynn.”

Surprised by this, Pennington shifted in his seat. “Do you know her?”

“No, though I have mentored under the guidance of her sister, T’Nel. I wished to inquire about her current condition.” Lowering her gaze, she added, “We are not given much in the way of information, though many of us are curious.”

Pennington smiled at the child’s inquisitiveness, able to relate to her youthful, passionate desire to know about everything that might be happening around her. He had been like that at her age, a trait that had often gotten him into trouble with his parents, his teachers, and pretty much anyone irritated by his insatiable curiosity.

“What would you like to know?” he prompted.

After pausing for a moment, T’Lon finally asked, “Has she ever spoken of our village?”

“No, I can’t say that she has,” Pennington replied. “To be honest, I don’t really know her all that well. I know almost nothing about her personal life. For example, I didn’t know she had a sister until I came here.”

T’Lon did not frown, but her expression shifted just enough that Pennington was able to discern her confusion. “I do not understand,” she said. “If you are not T’Prynn’s friend, then why did you travel with Dr. M’Benga to bring her here?”

“That’s an excellent question, my dear,” the journalist replied, sighing as he reached up to wipe perspiration from his forehead. “I guess you could say that our relationship is…complicated, but I’ve recently come to care a great deal for her, for reasons I’m not really able to explain.” Shaking his head, he added, “I truly hope she recovers from her illness, so that we can talk about it.”

T’Lon asked, “What will you do if T’Prynn does not recover?”

Releasing a small, humorless grunt, Pennington shrugged. “I really don’t know.” Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, he looked at her and asked, “I understand that T’Prynn once lived here but left when she was very young. Do you know anything about that?” As he spoke, he gestured toward one of the table’s other empty chairs and gestured for her to sit.

T’Lon took the seat, setting the water pitcher on the table. “It is tradition that residents not speak openly about those who have chosen to leave the village. I know only that she was dissatisfied with life in Kren’than and left the commune in order to seek answers to questions that could not be found here. She is not the only one to have done this; there have been stories of others following similar paths.”

“Have any of them ever returned?” Pennington asked. “You know, perhaps because they did not find the answers they sought, or maybe they did and decided that life here was preferable to whatever it was they found beyond the village?”

“A few have returned,” T’Lon replied. “The commune has never turned anyone away, but when someone requests reentry, the village elders proclaim that person ri-gla-yehat,what you would call ‘the Unseen.’ They are admitted back into the commune, but they serve a probationary period where they are never approached or addressed by other members of the village. It is as though they do not exist.”

Shocked by what he was hearing, Pennington frowned. “That doesn’t seem very compassionate.”

“Compassion is an emotional response,” T’Lon countered.

“Damned right it is.” Catching himself, Pennington cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “And how long does this probation last?”

T’Lon paused, then replied, “In human terms of time measurement, approximately twelve of your years.”

“Twelve years?” Pennington repeated, flabbergasted. “That’s a bloody long time to walk around with a scarlet V stitched on your clothes.” When the young Vulcan’s right eyebrow arched in what he recognized as a quizzical expression, he held up a hand. “Bad joke. Tell me where the logic is in treating people that way?”

“It is believed that one who has left the village and then returned must first demonstrate a renewed commitment to our way of life,” T’Lon replied. “The probation is a means of cleansing the mind and body of any remnants of the society they chose to embrace at the expense of the commune.” After a moment, she said, “I must confess, I do not understand the logic, myself.”

Before saying anything else, she looked around, as though verifying that their discussion was not being overheard. “I, too, have grown curious about what lies beyond the village. I wish to visit the cities, perhaps see the science academy, the temples of Gol, Mount Seleya. I may even wish to travel to other worlds. I admit to being intrigued by your planet, Mr. Pennington.”

“Nothing says you can’t do all of that,” the reporter said. “My understanding of Vulcan culture is that it’s based on self-determination. It’s your choice what you do with your life, right?”

Obviously nervous at the turn the conversation had taken, though doing her level best to maintain her veneer of stoicism, T’Lon replied, “Such questions have troubled me. If the Vulcan way is enlightenment and expansion of the intellect through the pursuit of logic, why must I then be punished for what to me seems nothing more than natural curiosity? I was born in this village, and I have lived my entire life here, and yet if I choose to leave, I will be ostracized and openly shunned if I choose to return.”

It was an odd dichotomy, Pennington had to admit, one for which he had no answers or even advice to offer. Even if he did possess such wisdom, would it be appropriate to share it with T’Lon or—for that matter—any other resident of the commune? He was a guest here, after all, and his gut told him that dispensing such guidance, solicited or not, would not be welcomed by the majority of people who chose to call Kren’than home.

Then a disturbing thought struck him.

“T’Lon,” he said, growing more troubled as he considered the notion that had so abruptly manifested itself, “do you know what will happen to T’Prynn if she recovers? With respect to her being here, I mean. How will she be treated by the village?”

“Should she choose to remain here, she likely would be proclaimed ri-gla-yehatby the elders.”

“Even if she doesn’t decide to stay here,” Pennington said, “and assuming that Starfleet doesn’t come swooping in here to drag her away in irons the moment she wakes up, she’s probably going to be here for at least a little while. She’ll have to recuperate to some degree, right? In that event, how will the villagers treat her?”

T’Lon replied, “She will not be denied any required medical care, but any other interactions will be subject to the elders’ proclamation.”

“So, for all intents and purposes,” Pennington said, “she would be alone.”

“Correct.” T’Lon looked up as the sound of a bell chiming echoed across the courtyard. “I must go now,” she said, rising from her seat. “It is time for afternoon studies. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pennington. It was a most illuminating discussion.”

“Indeed, it was, my dear,” the journalist replied. “Thank you.”

As the girl departed, stepping down from the veranda and heading across the courtyard, Pennington leaned back in his chair and reflected on their conversation. It seemed obvious to him that T’Prynn, should she recover from her ordeal, would find herself in a situation not at all unlike the one he recently had faced—rejected, alone, shunned by the very people she once had called family and friends.

No one deserves that,he thought. Not even the person who made your life hell.

Finally, it seemed—and assuming that she ever recovered to the point where it became an issue—that Pennington and T’Prynn would have something in common, after all.

Dust clogged her lungs, but she forced herself not to cough lest she give away her location. Feeble light offered by the string of luminescent bulbs hanging along the jagged stone wall made pathetic attempts to cut through the odd, luminescent fog permeating the tunnel. The lights were old, still powered as she remembered by a weak solar battery system somewhere outside the mine, and offered T’Prynn only a few meters’ worth of visibility in either direction of the underground passageway. Ahead of her and on the left, she saw a dark opening that she concluded must be another tunnel branching off in a different direction, or perhaps it was a chamber where mining once had been conducted.

Recalling the warnings her parents had given her about the dangers of coming here, T’Prynn thought of the numerous downward-sloped or even vertical shafts descending far below the surface. These were supposed to be covered to avoid accidental falls, but one could never be certain of the safety of the abandoned tunnel network, making it a place to be avoided. This had not prevented curious children from venturing into the mines, of course, after finding a way to circumvent the security barricades erected across each entrance to the deserted facility.

The tunnel or chamber—whichever it was—might make a hiding place, if only for a time. No matter where she hid, Sten would find her, just as he always did. Still, T’Prynn needed only a short respite, a chance to bring her breathing under control and to check the extent of her injuries. She left the main tunnel, and the walls immediately began to veer away from her, disappearing into the ubiquitous fog and telling her that she had entered one of the chambers that had served as one of the mine’s primary excavation areas. How far below the surface had she descended? T’Prynn had no idea, just as she did not know how she had come to be here in the first place. The answers to those questions, along with so many others, eluded her.

“T’Prynn!”

The voice came from behind her, and T’Prynn turned in time to hear footsteps approaching from somewhere in the fog. A dark shadow loomed in her vision, and instinct made her duck an instant before the whistling sound of something slicing through the air passed over her head. She recognized the blade of the lirpaas it swung past, parting the fog before its wielder. Then Sten lunged forward, the fog moving away from him as though shed like an unwanted cloak. In his hands, he hefted the lirpa,the end with the weapon’s curved blade aimed toward her. His expression had lost all semblance of self-control; instead, he radiated fury and determination.

“Shall we continue,” he asked, his tone mocking, “or are you finally ready to submit?”

Her own lirpalost, perhaps somewhere in the mines, T’Prynn’s reply was to reach for the knife at her belt and draw it from its scabbard. The gesture seemed to satisfy Sten, and he even smiled as he waved his own weapon, its blade describing an arc through the lingering mists.

“Excellent,” he hissed through gritted teeth an instant before thrusting forward with the lirpa.

T’Prynn backed away, avoiding the attack and working to put distance between herself and her attacker. Conscious of her surroundings, she tried to sense when or if she might trip over a shaft’s protective cover or, worse yet, the edge of the shaft itself.

“There is nowhere to run,” Sten taunted as he pressed forward, swinging his blade before her face. “You cannot escape. Stand and fight, or give me what is mine.”

In the corner of her eye, T’Prynn caught sight of something dark behind and to her left. Risking a glance, she looked over her shoulder and saw the parapet circling a shaft opening. Its safety cover was askew, pushed aside far enough to permit a body to fall through the gap. T’Prynn stepped to her right, trying to give it a wide berth while keeping her attention on Sten.

She sensed his attack before he moved. When he did spring forward, she was ready for him and ducked to her right, his move exposing his left flank. T’Prynn swung at him with her knife, feeling the blade meet resistance. He grunted, and she realized that she had sliced into skin and muscle tissue. Sten fell away from her, growling in rage and pain, and the knife was yanked from her hand. The lirpafaltered in his hands, and he jammed the weighted end into the ground to maintain his balance. Still aware of the open shaft, T’Prynn scrambled away just as Sten regained his footing, once more bringing up the lirpaand readying for another attack.

“Sten!”

The new voice, raspy and perhaps even weak, called from somewhere to her right, and T’Prynn saw the flickering light of flames cutting toward her through the fog. Carrying the torch was an old, seemingly withered Vulcan, his robes identifying him as a healer. Who was he? T’Prynn had seen him before but could not identify him.

“Leave us, old man,” Sten warned, stepping forward and bringing his lirpaup. “This does not concern you.”

Instead of replying, the elder Vulcan thrust the torch at Sten, his strength and speed belying his age. The flames nearly caught Sten in the face, and he ducked to avoid them, but the healer pressed his attack, forcing his opponent to dodge and weave in order to avoid the fire.

“You’re beginning to annoy me,” Sten growled, forcing the words between his teeth. The blade of the lirpamoved toward the elder’s head, trying to keep him at bay. The healer was undeterred, swinging the torch back and forth and moving steadily forward. Sten responded by dodging backward, blocking the elder’s advance with his weapon.

And then he disappeared.

T’Prynn watched as the fog swirled where he once had stood, his cries of surprise and terror echoing in the chamber even as they fell away. Sten had fallen into the mine shaft. Standing at the parapet, the aged Vulcan dropped to his knees, drawing deep, ragged breaths as the torch fell from his hands. His entire body seemed on the verge of collapsing in on itself as he looked up at her.

“Run, T’Prynn. He is gone, but he will return.”

The fog wrapped around the healer, obscuring him until he vanished before her eyes.

Standing to the side of T’Prynn’s bed, M’Benga watched as Sobon released an anguished moan and removed his hands from the katrapoints on his patient’s face. Despite his decades of self-discipline and emotional control, the healer’s expression was one of pain and fatigue as he slumped forward, reaching out and placing one hand on the bed to steady himself.

“Healer Sobon, are you all right?” M’Benga asked, stepping forward to assist the elder. Well aware of Vulcan customs regarding casual contact, he stopped just short of actually placing his hand on the healer’s narrow shoulder. Standing at the foot of the bed, T’Nel watched the proceedings with an impassive expression.

“May I get you some water, Healer?” she asked.

After a moment, Sobon looked to T’Nel and nodded. “That would be appreciated.” Turning his attention to M’Benga, he said, “I am well, Doctor. Thank you.”

“What happened?” M’Benga asked.

Inhaling deep, regular breaths, the healer replied, “The fight within T’Prynn’s mind grows ever stronger. Sten’s katrais growing more determined, taking advantage of her decreasing ability to erect new defenses against him. Through our meld, I was able to force him into another dark, distant recess of her mind, but as before, it is at best a temporary measure. Sten will emerge from his exile and will attack her yet again.” Sobon pushed himself to a sitting position and wiped his forehead. “I believe we are running out of options, and I will have to attempt the Dashaya-Ni’Vareven though I do not yet feel I am prepared to conduct the procedure properly.”

Stepping forward with a glass of water that she offered to Sobon, T’Nel asked, “When do you believe you will be ready, Healer?”

“Soon,” Sobon replied, shaking his head. “So far, my meld attempts have kept me in a largely passive role. Because of the intensity of the meld locking T’Prynn’s and Sten’s katras,I am limited in how much influence I exert. For Dashaya-Ni’Var,I will have to take a more active role in their meld. In essence, I will need to replace T’Prynn’s katrawith my own, in order to draw Sten from her mind.”

Frowning, M’Benga said, “Forgive me, Healer, but that sounds dangerous.”

Sobon nodded. “It is, Dr. M’Benga. If I am not successful, I may find my own katratrapped within T’Prynn’s mind, locked in combat with Sten until death releases us all.” He paused, taking a sip of his water. “Though I have translated most of the scrolls’ contents, I do not think I possess an adequate comprehension of what is involved. At least, not yet.”

M’Benga nodded in understanding. Sobon had spent much of his time ensconced in his study, reading through the centuries-old scrolls that he had said contained all that was known about Dashaya-Ni’Var.According to the healer, the ritual was cloaked in secrecy, and even the writings were chronicled in an obscure dialect of the ancient High Vulcan language that had not been used since a time before Surak. Simply translating the scrolls’ contents had taken him months and remained an ongoing process.

“How much longer can T’Prynn hold out?” M’Benga asked.

After taking another sip of his water, Sobon cleared his throat. “I do not know. Our best course of action may be to proceed regardless of my confidence in my own abilities.”

Any action rather than no action,M’Benga thought. As a physician who had treated his share of life-threatening injuries under risky conditions without adequate equipment and lacking any true sense of whether the patient would survive, he could sympathize with Sobon’s reasoning. Standing by and doing nothing guaranteed T’Prynn’s death. Even if the only possible alternative lay within the archaic texts, which no modern physician understood and which carried no assurance of success, then there was no choice. None at all.