Psi Phi's Star Trek Books Database

Vulcan's Soul #1: Exodus

Previous: Captain's Peril
Next: Ex Machina
Star Trek
Hardcover / August, 2004
0-7434-6356-0

Written by Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz

Excerpt:

The newcomer raised his hand, his fingers parted. "Live long and prosper, Karatek of ShiKahr. I am Surak. I come to serve."

"And your service honors me," responded Karatek, raising his hand and struggling somewhat with the formal salute that few educated, city-dwelling Vulcans used these days, except when taking oaths. Generations ago, the greeting had meant that you held no weapon in your hand. But now that most weapons were fired from a distance, many sophisticated people claimed the old greeting was obsolete--to say nothing of dishonest. There were many people whom one did not wish to live long and prosper or to enjoy peace and long life.

Did Surak know what he was saying? Karatek thought he did. But did Karatek? Clearly, Ivek at least had some doubts.

"Karatek, think about what you're doing!" Ivek hissed at him. "These men have come to ShiKahr to break the peace as they've broken it halfway across the North Continent."

"A more accurate estimation of our distance traveled is 42%. 42.85%, to be more precise," Surak said. "Sub-Commander Ivek, if you accept that we are under T'Kehr Karatek's recognizance, may I ask you to release my associates?"

"My life answers for their acts." For the first time, Karatek spoke the ritual words in comprehension of the risks that lay behind them. Once uttered, his promise could not be withdrawn.

Ivek shook his head at his comrades. "You heard the T'Kehr. He always was a rash one, even when we were in school. It's his blood on the sands if these people... disappoint him. So we'll just let him unbind these... these guestfriends of his. Peace and long life indeed, Karatek. It would make more sense to wish you good luck, but I daresay this philosopher you're taking in off the sands would say luck wasn't logical either."

"People make their own futures," said Surak, inclining his head to the guards. "They call you T'Kehr?" he asked. As he turned to Karatek, the scientist was struck by the intensity of his eyes in his controlled face. "May I ask...?"

"Senior research scientist at the Vulcan Space Initiative, though I've been doing a lot of engineering these days. High-performance engines."

"Then your claiming my associates and me as guest friends is indeed a desirable outcome," Surak said.

"Perhaps you will explain tonight," said Karatek. "But only after you have received water and fire, as the law says, and you've had a chance at a meal and some rest."

Varen, years younger than the other two and of the sort whose courage and strength flared up brightly, then subsided, looked up at Karatek's words. Visibly, he suppressed a smile. Even Skamandros unbent slightly.

"If you will lead the way... T'Kehr?" Surak suggested to his host. Behind him, the guards straightened to attention, while Ivek, their commanding officer, shrugged.

What have I let myself in for? Karatek wondered.

He suspected that Surak would consider second thoughts illogical.

* * *

Smaller than the classic villas built during the height of the nomad raids, Karatek's house had high walls that resembled those much older dwellings. The entry bridge that arched over a deep trench lined with sharp stones creaked beneath their feet. Traditionally, those creaks served as a warning to those inside, but it was a warning augmented now by modern locks and sensors embedded in the fire-hardened wood gates, reinforced by panels of metal weathered almost blood green and etched by sandstorms.

The gates opened as Karatek's small party approached. He led them past the protective outer wall, through a shaded entry-way's pleasurably cool shadows, and into the courtyard around which his home was built. He had only the one courtyard that must serve for guests as well as for more private family life: these days, however, most Vulcans' time was so caught up in work or the war effort (frequently related) that the ceremonies of welcome, of meal preparation, of relaxation had all but vanished from their routines.

At the far end of the courtyard was a garden of blood-green plants, some spiny, some blossoming, interspersed with standing stones. On one side of the garden, the sand was raked into traditional patterns. On the other, Karatek saw heat-shimmer rising above the raised firepit with its broad lip that could serve as a table.

In the center of the courtyard was the fountain, symbol of the presence of water that made this home possible. Seated on a heavy bloodstone bench beside it was Karatek's wife T'Vysse.

Didn't her modern history classes meet at this hour? Karatek thought. It was a matter for reproach, he confessed to himself, that that he no longer knew T'Vysse's schedule as well as his own. So, Ivek had apparently not regarded Karatek's promise of guest friendship as closing his inquiry. He must have taken it upon himself to call T'Vysse at the Academy.

"My wife," Karatek intoned properly. He walked to her side and touching his fingers to hers with more warmth than was strictly necessary. Logic be damned to the Womb of Fire, a man had a right to enjoy coming home, and he'd been sleeping in his office for the past three days. As always, he marveled that his wife's patience still held. Their marriage bond had been a family arrangement that could have been dissolved at any time after both Houses had been supplied with heirs. Instead, it had blossomed into something that delighted and awed Karatek every time he looked at T'Vysse.

She was tall and slender, with hair that gleamed like obsidian, secured by jade clasps. Her face was serene, her movements collected. And, as she straightened the fold of sleeve his gesture had disarranged, she awarded him a look that clearly promised that later on, they would have Words.

Later for you too, my own, he thought, meaning something altogether different. Her fingers moved against his, a sign she understood.

"I am T'Vysse, consort of Karatek," she told his three companions. "I welcome thee to the sanctity of our home."

The old, formal words. Trust a historian to know them, or, at the very least, to have looked them up fast.

Surak went formally to one knee, bowing his head. Not as deeply as for a matriarch or a priestess, but enough to show respect.

T'Vysse inclined her head, put out her hand, but did not touch her guest's head: that benediction was reserved for priestesses. From the carved stone lip of the fountain, she took up three stone cups. They were ancient, carved from a tree petrified so long ago that none of its descendants survived, and so thin that the setting sun shone crimson through them. Filling them with water from the fountain, she held them out to Surak, Varen, and Skamandros.

"Fire and water be thine, my guests," she said in the Old High Vulcan of ceremony. "Thee shall be taken to guest rooms where fresh clothing awaits while a meal is prepared."

Karatek cast T'Vysse a puzzled look. They had only the one guest room; the other bedrooms were for their children, the two sons and the daughter whose loss to a terrorist "incident" still made T'Vysse flinch at loud noises.

"Our children are with my parents, lest they disturb our guests," she explained. Which translated as T'Vysse's unwillingness to let them anywhere near these strangers until she had observed them for herself.

T'Vysse met Surak's eyes unflinchingly. "Are there people I may call on your behalf?" she asked.

Why, that little le-matya! Karatek thought. She had to know that Surak's family lived on the other side of ShiKahr. No creature on Vulcan guarded its young with more ferocity than the le-matya. Did T'Vysse truly consider these strangers to be such a threat? If so, her suggestion of a call to Surak's family might be considered a form of warning.

"I do not think they would welcome such a call," Surak admitted. "But I thank you for the courtesy."

Which, judging from the way T'Vysse lowered her eyes, indicated that Surak knew precisely what she had had in mind.

She turned away. This was Karatek's cue to lead his "guest friends" to the rooms that had been hastily cleared out. Surak could have the spare chamber, while, Karatek decided, Varen and Skamandros would share the room that, ordinarily, housed Turak and Lovar. Neither Karatek nor T'Vysse would open what had been his daughter's room to strangers.

* * *

In the coolness before full dark, Karatek awaited his guests in the courtyard. Flames leapt in the firepit. A cauldron whose handles were cast in the shape of wild beasts was filled with the broth that would be their first course bubbled over the fire. On the firepit's lip were spread hand-woven cloths on which rested flagons of sweet water and ceramic bowls and plates. Yellow and green legumes were arrayed on a round iridescent platter beside a basket of flatbreads and a glass tray of melon slices arranged to resemble a sandblossom.

T'Vysse stood before the flames, setting out skewers of food. Spiced succulents and mushrooms, mostly, Karatek observed.

"Surak and his followers do not eat meat," she whispered to him.

Now, when had she found time to research that? The wisest thing his parents had ever done was arrange his bonding to her, he thought, and reached out to touch her face.

Hearing footsteps, she pulled away.

From Surak's room came Karatek's three guests. They wore fresh sandsuits and had evidently washed the dryness of the desert from their skins with a plunge into the thermal pools around which the house's bedrooms had been built. Varen's eyes brightened at the spread table, the peaceful courtyard.

"The broth is plomeek," T'Vysse assured him. "Though the spices are a family secret."

Surak bowed. He waited for her to be seated, then bowed his head as Karatek broke the pale yellow flatbread that would be served with the broth.

Varen and Skamandros fell upon the food as eagerly as if they had eaten little during the past few days, which was probably the case.

"We encountered a sandstorm, which delayed us by two days, and our supplies ran short," Varen explained.

Surak, who must have been equally hungry, raised his bowl in time with his hosts. His family was a noble one, and, as Karatek observed, he retained its exquisite manners.

As if reading his thoughts, Surak raised an eyebrow. "My family considers me a dangerous radical."

"And are you?" Karatek found himself asking.

"A radical in my approach, certainly, to our planet's difficulties. It is a violent world, and we have evolved into a violent people. That was logical before we mastered the arts of reason--to whatever degree that we have mastered them. I simply attempt to take that mastery to the next step."

"It is no longer enough to be effectively violent: we must seek to control violence. To cast it out," Varen broke in. Then, he cast down his eyes. "I ask pardon for the interruption."

Surak nodded. "We eat no meat, as your consort--"he bowed ceremonious respect to T'Vysse--"appears to have learned. We carry no weapons. And, hardest of all, we attempt to master the root cause of violence, our emotions."

"The mastery of passion," T'Vysse mused. "Can it be done? What do you think, sir?" She asked Skamandros.

"I am Surak's shadow," he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes intense. "My name used to be Ayhan, but I changed it in honor of my teacher."

"I will change my name once I find the one that truly suits me," Varen declared.

"Would it not be as logical," asked T'Vysse, "to life so that your name reflected you, and you alone?"

Karatek was only an engineer, he thought, quicker to think than to speak. It was a wonder he had found the words to claim Surak and his companions as guests. Holding his water flagon, he leaned back as T'Vysse, with a teacher's skill, drew the men into conversation or, in her skilled hands, the most exquisitely courteous interrogation Karatek could imagine.

No, Surak's principles were not just intellectual: they were an integral part of his life. And expressed so persuasively it drew a pang from his host. Surak ate no meat, not just because meat was the result of the end of a life, but because it was too wasteful of resources on a scarce world. Besides, Surak added, glancing politely aside, if you spent any time in the desert, meat-eaters had an odor that drew predators.

"Like the creatures of the deep desert," Surak said, his voice resonant, "we Vulcans are predators. But, unlike the le-matya and the shavokh, we perceive that the desert itself is as precious as food or water. Therefore, it is logical to preserve it. How best to preserve it? By realizing that warfare is illogical, a waste of life and of Vulcan's scarce resources."

"And yet, our people still produce more warriors than scientists," T'Vysse murmured.

"Even surgery is violence," said Surak, "but violence harnessed to the cause of healing. If one can wage war, how much more logical is it to wage peace? I have made it my mission to persuade scientists to wage peace instead of war, by removing themselves as the means of keeping Vulcan fighting."

"You speak as one who knows the desert well," Karatek made himself take his part in the conversation.

"I was a computer scientist 10.3 years ago," Surak replied. "When I perceived that the machines I built were being used to drive the machines of war, I forsook my family and my laboratory. I went first to Seleya, but my emotions were so strong that my teachers thought they might melt the snow on the mountain's peak. They were, of course, speaking hyperbolically. Now, I see their words as a rebuke to the emotionalism with which I confronted them. They did what they could: they sent me into the deep desert to burn the passions out of me. So, I realized that Seleya was not the answer, any more than the arts I had learned in the Science Academy. I walked from Seleya to Gol, but the adepts there failed me, too: it is not withdrawal from our world that will save it, but instead, the desire to go out and transform it."

Surak's face glowed in the firelight. Its finely cut features were almost delicate--too fragile a lamp to hold so much fire.

While I tinker with defense contracts, thought Karatek. Who is at war now? The Northeastern Alliance against the Priest Kings of this latest dynasty of the te-Vikram, and everyone against the bandits? This was not how I wished to spend my life.

Karatek forced himself not to bristle. Suspicion had afflicted Vulcan along with war: one's neighbor was one's enemy. So far, strangers still were welcome, although, judging from how ShiKahr's security force had greeted Surak and his companions, not for much longer. But strangers as strange as this? They might well be spies. At least, they were civilized these days. In ancient times, Surak might well have been cast blinded from the Bridge at Seleya, the traditional punishment for sorcery.

Surak's words were only words, not threats, he told himself. But one did not need to be an ascetic or a historian like T'Vysse to realize that his line of reasoning was revolutionary.

"Our work has changed since you set your own research aside," he said. "You are my guests. Perhaps you would care to tour the Vulcan Space Initiative and see the models of the ships--ships for peaceful use--that we are creating."

Surak almost smiled, a brightening of the eyes and the attention. "I had hoped for such an invitation," he admitted. "But beginnings are important. Do you offer this because you feel you owe it to a guest friend, or because you feel it is the logical thing to do?"

What would it mean for the VSI to have Surak as a guest friend?

Karatek found himself smiling. "I think," he said, "that we have a great deal to talk about, your people and mine."

Copyright © 2004 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.