Dwellers in the Crucible Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc, under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

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  ISBN: 0-7434-1976-6

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  For Diane, t'hy'la:

  "If my slight muse do please these curious days,

  The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise."

  Author's Note

  The Klingon and Rihannsu (Romulan) material herein owes its accuracy and dimension to the eminent xenosociological research of two authorities in the field. To John M. (The Final Reflection) Ford, and to Diane (My Enemy, My Ally) Duane for their contributions to our knowledge of the Empires, the author is most grateful.

  Prologue

  THE DECISION WAS reached in the Inner Holy of the Summer Palace of the Praesidium.

  Only the Praetor's throne and six of the divans were occupied; the empty couches fanned out and above the Seven in the subdued light, mute witnesses to an event no one could have heard in any case. The Praetor's chamberlain, having seen to the installation of the Praetor's sedan chair, had activated the auditory baffles with the touch of a panel before removing his presence from the Holy. None but the Seven in the room, no matter the sophistication or range of their listening devices, would hear what was spoken there that day.

  Of the Seven—a Mystical Number, XenoResearch had recently reported, in Vulcan and Terran cultures as well as their own Rihannsu (only Klingons subscribed to six as a more potent talisman—something to do with their obsession with the Games; allies or no, they were a reprehensibly superstitious lot)—only the Praetor was Unseen, seated behind the artfully wrought mirror screen so that he could observe without being observed.

  Some said his almost constant recent use of Unseen meant that he was seriously ill—perhaps as a result of the latest attempt on his life—or even that he had died of that attempt and had been replaced by his nephew Dr'ell, heir apparent. The latter rumor had been scotched by Dr'ell's appearance as one of the Six now present—as newly appointed Security Chief, to be precise. As Unseen, the Praetor was still the Praetor. His voice, as always, projected his personality beyond the parameters of his invisibility.

  "If it fails," he pronounced in that slightly mincing tone that proclaimed his clan status and planet of origin, "it must be absolutely deniable."

  "It won't fail!" Admiral-Superlative Meru'th snapped impatiently, not bothering with the honorific as only she could and get away with. She was old enough to be the Praetor's grandmother, had in fact suckled his father when her girlhood friend, his grandmother, had had the radiation sickness in the Earth Wars a hundred-year before, and that was her immunity. "As a masterwork of espionage and military prowess it is flawless, Excellency. My question is, is it necessary?"

  "Exploiting the Federation's weaknesses is always necessary, Little Mother," the Praetor said with a fondness in his voice. "And the final decision is mine."

  "t'Lr m'th!" Meru'th barked back; her background was Navy and her language had always been salty. Defense Minister Lefv tittered behind his hand, disguising it as a cough. "If it were, the Senate wouldn't insist the rest of us be here!"

  In the end, Meru'th was persuaded of the necessity of the action she had helped orchestrate in the Empire's continuing cold war with the Federation, and the Praetor was assured by both her report and that of Security Chief Dr'ell that each phase of the mission was completely sealed from each subsequent one in case something went wrong. The Seven voted, and the vote was, not surprisingly, unanimous.

  "Whom have you selected to undertake this glorious mission?"

  The Praetor's voice percolated with satisfaction; his use of the old watchword was doubly indicative of how pleased he was. Every plot that pleased him was a "glorious mission," no matter how sordid its details or how many died in its implementation. The Praetor, whose long-nailed hands (some few had died for calling them "effeminate") had never been soiled, did not concern himself with how others might soil theirs in serving him.

  His question was addressed to Meru'th and his nephew simultaneously; the old battle-ax and the young rapier studied each other's reflection in the mirror screen before Dr'ell answered:

  "Delar, Centurion late of Gauntlet, Excellency. His credentials are impeccable, his languages without accent, and he is dark enough to pass for Vulcan."

  "Good," the Praetor said, and dismissed the Holy with a languid gesture.

  Somewhere along the outer arm of a spiral nebula the Klingons had designated Haktuth, a battlecruiser commander named Krazz gripped the arms of his command chair and bared his back teeth in what he hoped his superior on the commpic would read as an obedient smile. Inwardly, Krazz wished Tolz Kenran's testicles in a vise—all three of them. He would personally turn the screws. Someday …

  Tolz had finished pontificating. Krazz snapped alert; it was his turn to speak.

  "Respect, my Lord Tolz, I am not a babysitter." Tolz outranked him by only a hair, but Krazz had to be careful. "I've logged my complaint. But I will obey."

  "Affirm. You will obey," Tolz rasped. He did not add "bumpkin" or "hayseed" as he would have in their cadet days, though he was thinking it, Krazz knew. "You have coordinates for rendezvous with the Rihannsu?"

  Ri-hann-su, Krazz thought. Pretentious smooth-browed freaks. Call them Roms the way the Feds did and puree them all for gel pastries! Although, he thought, the green-filled ones always give me the trots. Ri-hann-su!

  "Affirm, my Lord. Anything else?"

  "Suggest you learn to change nappies."

  Tolz signed off, laughing at his own joke. Krazz gripped the armrests until they squeaked.

  A multispecial merchanter hung just beyond the orbital approach limit of an arid red-orange world, awaiting permission to dock.

  "Permission granted," came the inflectionless voice from Space Central. "And from all of Vulcan, welcome."

  In the transporter room where the first shore leave party had gathered, three crewmen whom the humanoids aboard took to be Vulcans exchanged lightning glances.

  Implementation of Phase One successful! Delar, Centurion late of Gauntlet, thought. Unlike a Vulcan, he had begun to sweat.

  One

  THEY WERE ENGAGED in the herb gathering ritual when it happened.

  Cleante made a fac
e which T'Shael had come to recognize as chagrin, clasping her hands at her temples in frustration.

  "You have made an error?" T'Shael inquired, careful not to say "another error" because humans were so sensitive about such matters. However, it was a fact that Cleante had been making errors all morning.

  "I'm sorry!" Cleante sighed, sitting back on her heels in the midst of the herb garden, letting her hands fall into her lap. "I keep forgetting the order."

  With a Vulcan's patience, T'Shael abandoned her place at the drying screens and knelt beside the human.

  "K'rhtha, mah'ta, sh'rr, kh'aa," she recited, plucking three leaves of each with a single motion as she said their names. "Lhm'ta, hla'meth, tri'hla."

  Cleante nodded, absorbing it as T'Shael made the benediction.

  "I'll keep trying," she said softly.

  The ritual gathering of the proper herbs for the Masters' tea was many millenia old, perhaps as old as the origins of the Vulcan Masters themselves. It was not strictly logical, in that the herbs need not be picked by hand nor in any particular order since they were later sorted into different mixtures for the various teas, but the ritual also served as a premeditative exercise. Repeated often enough to become second nature, it enabled even a human to aspire to certain contemplative levels. It was this that Cleante, under T'Shael's tutelage, was attempting, with as yet little success.

  "Your task would be easier were they Terran herbs," T'Shael offered by way of consolation. "You are contending here with three levels of meaning—the ritual itself, unfamiliar names, and equally unfamiliar flora. Perhaps if you were to employ Terran names, however inaccurate—"

  "'Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme'," Cleante murmured softly, perhaps a little sadly.

  "Your pardon?" T'Shael asked.

  "An ancient Earth ballad," said Cleante, who dearly loved to sing. She began to pick the herbs again, whispering their names under her breath as she did so. She was far clumsier at the task than T'Shael, who had been doing it all her life; still she persevered.

  T'Shael waited until she had completed a round of seven, spreading the leaves in their individual compartments on the drying screen. The Vulcan nodded her approval.

  "And lastly the benediction, to thank the plants for serving us," she reminded gently.

  Cleante nodded.

  "I'd forgotten that too," she said, making the gesture.

  This was what she loved about Vulcan culture, this sense that everything had a purpose, and that even a plant ought to be thanked for its generosity.

  "Perhaps you will sing your ballad for me," T'Shael suggested as they labored side by side now. "I would be honored to hear it."

  "Maybe another time." Cleante wiped small beads of perspiration from her upper lip. A native of Earth's Middle East, she was more adapted to the Vulcan climate than most humans, yet today it seemed to affect her more than usual. "I'm not much in the mood for singing."

  T'Shael analyzed this. She had studied xenopsychology in preparation for her role as instructor in the settlement at T'lingShar, and her specialty was humans. She recognized this particular human mood as the one called "depression."

  "It is my observation that something disquiets you," she said cautiously. "If you are in need of an auditor …"

  Cleante shook her head.

  "I'll be all right. But thank you for your concern, my friend."

  The word gave T'Shael pause, and she did not respond to it.

  "No doubt you find the herb ritual foolish," she said instead, rising with her race's gracefulness, waiting until Cleante had completed another round of seven and made the thanking gesture before she finished her thought. "For the outworlder such stylized behavior—"

  "No," Cleante responded, and she too rose from the task, becoming animated where she had been languid all morning. "'The Vulcan knows there is a time for everything'," she said, quoting one of the few things she could remember from the Kahr-y-Tan, the Way of the Vulcan. "And I am eager to learn."

  They made an attractive picture, these two young females among the fragrant, breeze-blown herbs—their voices melodic, their soft clothing teased by the arid wind. Born under different stars, reared in totally different cultures, they were come to dwell in this place at this time for differing reasons but for a single purpose. They were but two among the many gatherings of races from throughout the Federation known as the Warrantors of the Peace.

  It might have been difficult at first glance to tell which of the two was the Terran, if Cleante did not smile as often as she did. She was fine-boned as many Vulcan females were, athletic and darkly beautiful, and with her heavy black hair hanging in a single plait down her back and covering her rounded ears she might easily be taken for a Vulcan. The word Byzantine had been used by her first lover to describe her eyes. T'Shael, a linguist by profession, might have found the term "Nilotic" more applicable. Nilotic applied to she who was born on the banks of the Nile, as Cleante had been. Nilotic also applied to she who was dark and lithe and exotic, as Cleante was. The word suited T'Shael's dual requirement for logic and aesthetics.

  T'Shael, being the Vulcan, naturally did not smile. She was the elder of the two, and if the Vulcan as a race was considered beautiful, she was no exemplar. Her features were austere, her straight dark hair cropped at her shoulders and unadorned, her manner retiring. Even among her characteristically silent kind she was known for the quality of her silences.

  As was expected of her, T'Shael was a virgin, betrothed from childhood to one chosen by her family, one whom she had not seen since her seventh year, one who would someday soon summon her to koon-ut-kal-if-fee and the madness of pon farr. Even as it was considered improper to speak of such matters, T'Shael did not so much as permit her conscious mind to dwell upon them. The traditional small ruby that glittered in her left earlobe was sufficient to designate her as an unwed female, and no Vulcan would presume to inquire further.

  T'Shael was unable to articulate why it was that she preferred the company of this Terran female to all others in the settlement at T'lingShar. Like all Vulcans, she had been instructed from birth in the equality of all sentient life forms and in the equal value of each individual within a given species. Why, then, did she permit herself this exclusivity? Logic suggested that one might be curious about a denizen of Earth, a planet T'Shael had never visited. One could attribute one's attraction to Cleante merely to a desire for cultural exchange. Yet why, when Cleante called her friend, was she visited with such a mixture of exaltation and shame?

  No matter. T'Shael would live out her life within the confines of T'lingShar, and Cleante must remain here for as long as her maternal parent was High Commissioner of the United Earth Council, which could be for a great many years. There would be time enough to examine such conflicting responses to a single concept. T'Shael's immediate concern was with whatever secret trouble had beset Cleante in recent weeks, and her own wish to alleviate some portion of that trouble. Was this not the function of a friend?

  T'Shael would blame herself ever afterward for being so preoccupied with her thoughts that her delicate ears did not discern the approach of the hovercraft until it was almost upon them.

  T'lingShar was a densely populated urban area, and airborne craft of all descriptions came and went constantly, though they were forbidden to fly so low near a dwelling. This should have put T'Shael on her guard.

  But was it logical for one who had never known violence to anticipate attack?

  The hovercraft lacked markings, which puzzled T'Shael. It was too large for a personal vehicle, and all official craft bore plainly visible identicodes. What did it mean? By its erratic flight pattern the 'craft was disabled or else its occupants lost; it was only proper to offer assistance. T'Shael hesitantly moved toward the clear space at the end of the plaza where the 'craft was about to set down.

  "It's only a 'craft," Cleante said uneasily, alarmed by the transfixed expression on the Vulcan's face. "T'Shael, what's wrong?"

  "Unknown." T'Shael shook h
er head slightly. Humans possessed an instinctive, atavistic fear of the unknown; she could hear it in Cleante's voice, feel it emanating from her. Should she heed this, or her own race's dictate, bred out of a thousand years of peace, that the unknown was merely that which merited investigation? "Perhaps nothing. Perhaps we may be of service."

  The hovercraft's engines stopped and the pneumatic doors hissed open. Three males emerged, catlike and swift, one behind the other. They wore desert suits with no markings to indicate profession or status. They were more overtly muscular than the average Vulcan and could have been taken for professional athletes. The traditional Klarshameth troupe was touring T'lingShar. T'Shael reasoned that perhaps they had been exploring the city and had lost their way. She moved forward without hesitation now. No Vulcan would harm another. Cleante, still uneasy, hung back near the colonnade that led to the living quarters.

  "Live long and prosper," T'Shael said to the apparent leader, raising her hand in the ta'al as was proper to the native in welcoming the stranger. "If you are in need of assistance, perhaps we may serve you. I am called T'Shael."

  The leader turned to the two who flanked him, one of whom held a small portascreen upon which he studied certain images. The one with the portascreen nodded, and the leader did something no Vulcan would do. He smiled.

  Rather, he leered—an ugly, feral baring of teeth that gave T'Shael pause.

  "Our task is made the easier," the leader said to his cohorts. "Here are two of them already!"

  His words were Vulcan, but his inflection—T'Shael, trained linguist, whirled toward Cleante, abandoning all propriety in the face of what translated as Romulan, as danger, and shouted: "Run!"

  Knowing it futile but instantly calculating odds against the maze of small streets in the Old City where Cleante might conceal herself, T'Shael dared to buy time. She saw Cleante hesitate for a fraction of a second before bolting like a gazelle. T'Shael stood to face the aggressors.