Chapter 1

The traffic had made Sparn late. In all his years on Vulcan he had never seen so many cars traveling the outskirts of Tareel, speeding along the roadways. And overhead, skimmers in abundance whined incessantly, all heading in the same direction.

Fools, he thought with icy contempt, out to catch a glimpse of the crazy one—and on such a day as this, mid-Belaar, with the heat of Eridani enough to sear even a dark Vulcan's skin.

Sparn arrived late at his destination. With a sigh he climbed out of his air-conditioned truck and quickly powered up the retrieval equipment mounted behind the cab. He pulled on a pair of heat-resistant gloves before touching the nozzle assembly. Even so, the long handle nearly burned him as he carried it into the customer's back garden with the thick cord reeling out behind him. Once inside, he concentrated on the handle's sensor array. A sandclaw had dragged a family pet to its death here beneath the shifting red sand. Its barbed tentacles could easily do the same to a man.

Sparn preferred almost any kind of retrieval to this, but it paid well—so well that he could have hired an assistant, but he preferred keeping all the profit for himself. At one time he had offered his nephew a position, knowing that the son of his illustrious brother Sarek would never accept it, despite being newly released from a Starfleet prison, and unemployed.

Sparn's lips pressed into a taut, bitter line, and he batted an annoying insect from his silver hair. The sun beat down mercilessly.

No, this sort of work was too lowly for the likes of Ambassador Sarek and his halfbreed son Spock. Since leaving prison, Spock had somehow recovered his reputation and gone on to receive new honors in the service of Starfleet. Once more the names of Sarek and Spock had been lauded in news reports. Sparn found the situation galling.

A sensor fluctuation drew his attention. His pulse quickened as he centered the broad nozzle on the ground and flipped a switch. As the unit chewed away at the sand, red dust sifted up, settling on his clothes and skin, making him cough.

Suddenly a clawed tentacle thrust from the ground and brushed his left boot. Startled, Sparn leaped back, lost his hold on the vibrating handle, and fell. The nozzle slammed into the side of the house. Stone chips narrowly missed his eyes as he scrambled away from the sandclaw and retrieved the unit.

Confused by so much motion, the sandclaw's tentacle stirred a slow, circular pattern in the sand. Sparn dropped the nozzle over it, changed a setting, and the system automatically transferred the sandclaw into the truck's storage tank.

Sparn switched off the unit and stood trembling. Always before, the sandclaws had sought out the churning nozzle. Why had this one gone after his foot instead? Another half inch and he would have made the news.

Returning to his truck, he reeled in the cord. He could hear the sandclaw frantically slapping the inside of the tank, and the terrified shrieks of the khree pups he had captured from another yard earlier in the day. He almost pitied the doomed khree pups. According to environmental law, they could not share the tank with a predator. He should have relocated the khree before this stop, but the traffic had been so heavy and he was running late. And it would not be the first time he had flouted the retrieval regulations.

He climbed into the cab and started the motor. As the truck rose a few inches above the roadbed, its air conditioner quickly reduced the interior temperature to a cool 100 degrees. Feeling somewhat refreshed, he put the truck into motion and headed for the relocation site at the edge of the safebelt. But upon reaching the speedway intersection, he found it was impossible to turn left. The traffic streaming into Tareel had worsened. No one was obeying the lane assignments. He watched in disbelief as one car after another illegally swept through the intersection at improper altitudes. Had all of Vulcan gone mad?

By now there were other vehicles piling up behind him. Horns sounded in a shameful display of impatience. Sparn saw no choice but to join the traffic driving into Tareel. The sandclaw would die in the tank and send up a horrible stench, but at least he would be home, out of the heat, away from all this insanity.

He eased the throttle open. The truck was edging into the flow of traffic when the motor stalled and the truck dropped to the ground with jarring force. Sparn pressed the ignition. Nothing happened. He glanced at the fuel readout. A little more than half. The heat in the cab was already stifling.

With an ancient curse on his lips, he stepped out onto the blistering roadway and lifted the truck's hood. As he studied the engine compartment, cars flowed around him and sped on. Skimmers passed overhead, creating a steady, hot breeze.

Through the course of his life Sparn had dabbled in many professions, but he was not a mechanic. He had begun his working career as a teacher. It had been decades since his restlessness sent him from the classroom, but he still thought of himself as a highly educated historian and therefore above all the menial business ventures he had later undertaken.

Another car pulled around his truck and came to a stop on the shoulder. Four young men stepped out, wearing the usual sand boots and pale summer clothing.

"Sir, do you need assistance?" asked the youngest Vulcan.

"It stopped suddenly," Sparn said, stepping aside.

His attention was drawn to the tallest of the group. The man appeared to be around forty years of age, blue-eyed with light brown hair combed away from his forehead. It was an uncommon style and Sparn did not approve of it, yet there was a handsome nobility to this stranger.

The Vulcan spoke. "Sorel, do what you can."

"As you say, Yanash," replied the younger man.

Yanash? This was Yanash?

Sparn stared at the fine-looking Vulcan and felt a sense of outrage begin to grow. Eridani's heat baked him, the traffic continued to swirl by, and still he stared. "You!" he said at last, curtly gesturing at the scene around them. "You are responsible for all this disorder!"

Yanash seemed unperturbed. "They follow me everywhere. They are so hungry…"

"Then have them go home and eat," Sparn retorted.

Yanash turned and looked sadly at the passing vehicles. "They seek the food that only I can give them."

"What food it that?" Sparn said with scorn. He struggled to contain his anger. "Is it true that you eat animal flesh?"

Behind him, the truck started. Sorel closed the hood, and all but Yanash returned to their car. Yanash gazed upon Sparn and he felt as if the strange blue eyes were probing the depths of his heart.

"Come," Yanash invited, "see for yourself. Bring your bondmate."

"My bondmate…is no longer with me," Sparn said in a voice hushed with pain. Let him draw his own conclusions. Let him think she was dead.

Yanash spoke softly. "It is true that you have no bondmate living at home, for this past year she left you and is considering a divorce."

Sparn was stunned to hear his secret shame spoken aloud. Not even his brother knew that T'Prinka's departure was likely permanent.

Time seemed to stand still as Yanash continued in the same kindly voice. "She had her fill of your cold, demanding ways…but now I will show you a better way. Come, Sparn. Follow me."

Somehow Sparn was in his truck, following, before he realized that Yanash had called him by name.

oooo

The sound of three melodious tones drew Spock's attention to the announcement that followed. "Approaching the Sy-Don Corridor, sir."

Alone in the passenger compartment, Spock turned off his datapadd and returned it to his valise. Then he stood and adjusted his civilian suit before entering the cockpit, where he sat down beside the pilot. Ensign Murphy was barely twenty-four, and though Spock was aware of the young man's excellent record, he sometimes felt more comfortable here by the controls.

Twin planets loomed in the viewscreen—Sydok, as rich and verdant as Earth, and parched Vulcan-like Donari which would host tomorrow's meeting of the Sy-Don Security Council.

As Murphy prepared their Donari approach, Spock found his thoughts turning to his eldest daughter on Sydok. T'Beth was thirty now; though they regularly communicated by subspace coms, they had not been together in two years. At the council she would be working in her usual role of cultural advisor. Later he would take time to visit her Sy home, but there was another idea that had been forming for some time, and now it returned to him in force. His courier was arriving hours ahead of schedule, and at T'Beth's residence evening would scarcely have begun. Vulcans did not normally "drop in unannounced", but here was an opportunity to catch her unawares and determine the veracity of troubling rumors that had persisted for years.

Decisively Spock said, "Change of course. We are landing on Sydok, at the home of Jondar Jo-Ree. I will lay in the coordinates."

Murphy swung around and gaped at him. "Sir? Land at a private home? Not a spaceport?"

"He has a small landing facility."

"But sir. Those aren't my orders…"

Spock found it simplest just to take the controls himself. Twenty minutes later he disembarked on a dark grassy knoll overlooking the parliamentarian's two-story house. A light rain was falling. Donning a hooded cloak, he make his way down to the brightly lit porch.

As he reached for the door chime his sensitive hearing caught the sound of voices—Jo-Ree's deep tones, T'Beth, and then…a child's laughter. For an instant he hesitated, finger to the button, his emotions rioting. Then from inside the home, more laughter…and he knew why it must be now, like this, without warning. For far too long he had denied his mounting suspicions.

Preparing himself, Spock rang the chime.

Silence fell over the house. Then footsteps approached and the door swung open, releasing an agreeable scent of food. For a split second T'Beth looked at him without recognition. Then Spock pulled back his hood and her jaw dropped.

"Father!" she gasped.

To Spock, it seemed more an expression of horror than one of greeting. "Yes, T'Beth," he said, watching her reactions closely, hoping he was wrong about them and about her.

She did not immediately invite him into the house. Looking shaken, she glanced over her shoulder and called to Jo-Ree in an unnatural voice. "Grandfather—it's Spock!"

Jo-Ree stepped into the entryway, a small golden-haired girl at his side.

"Grandfather!" T'Beth cried out, openly distressed.

"No," Jo-Ree said firmly. "No more, my child. It is best."

T'Beth glanced once more at Spock, tears flowing freely down her anguished face. Then her head dropped and she rushed out of sight.

A small voice asked, "Who's dat? What's the matter with Mommy?"

Silent and aching, Spock gazed at the lovely child, then turned and walked back up the hill.

oooo

Tareel Temple was filled to capacity with a crowd that overflowed into the surrounding parkland. Perhaps some, like Sparn, were only there out of curiosity, but he was disturbed by the hungering look in many of the Vulcan eyes.

Sparn sat with Yanash's little retinue at the base of the speaker's platform. An expectant hush fell over the assembly as Yanash walked to the lectern.

"Dear children," Yanash began, lifting his long arms in an inclusive gesture.

Sparn felt insulted by the peculiar form of address. Many in the audience were far older than Yanash. Why did no one object to being called a child? What was this strange power Yanash held over people? Where did it come from? Sparn could find no explanation in the few facts he knew about the man's background. It was said that his mother was already pregnant when she bonded with an elderly Vulcan beyond the age of pon farr. Yanash's education was unremarkable, even lacking, by the highest Vulcan standards. He had worked as a simple computer technician until he came out of the Devil's Anvil and began teaching—without credentials of any kind. And most extraordinary of all, people listened!

Taking stock of his surroundings, Sparn realized that he was no different from the rest of this crowd. He, too, found himself fascinated by Yanash and his unorthodox teachings, even when they distressed him.

"Surak taught meditation as a path to enlightenment," Yanash was saying. "You have reduced it to an exercise for soothing your restless minds. Always, in all things, the Vulcan mind is made paramount. I tell you, your minds are full but your souls are empty…because you have forgotten your God and made idols of your own intellect."

A murmuring rose from the audience. Sparn was too stunned by Yanash's declaration to react, but the temple priest stepped forward. "You speak of souls. Show me a soul. You speak of a god as if you know him. " Icily he said, "Surak saved Vulcan through his doctrine of logic. There is no other path for a son of Vulcan. Or do you advocate a return to religious myths and savagery?"

Yanash lifted a hand, finger pointing upward, far beyond the temple's high ceiling. "What I advocate is a return to the God whom you call The Source." The finger came down and targeted the emotionless priest. "Or would you deny that your logic has a Source?"

The priest was silent.

"I have not come to cast aside logic," Yanash said in a gentler tone. "I have not come to abolish the discipline of Surak, but to bring it to perfection."

"So you claim," the priest said loudly, so that all could hear, "yet you break Surak's disciplines. You sit and dine with those of the renegade Golheni sect. You even share their meat."

Yanash shook his head sadly. "Because you abstain from eating animal flesh, you consider yourselves pure. But there is no food that can defile you; uncleanness arises from a heart that withholds itself, and from a mind made blind by pride and arrogance. You priests are fond of quoting Surak in support of laws and customs he neither devised nor would approve. Out of the coldness of your hearts you divorce your bondmates, but I am telling you that those who have been mind-linked must not be divided. In your arrogance you devised the shul-var to divorce yourselves from your own children, and the heartless outcasting of ktorr-skan. Hear me: to be logical, one need not be cold and cruel." And shockingly he added, "The Source of all logic is also the Source of love."

Someone in the audience began to clap like a human. Startled, Sparn heard another join in, openly applauding Yanash.

With narrowed eyes, the priest turned and consulted with his companions. There was a movement in the crowd. A man and woman pressed forward, the man bearing a limp child in his arms. Sparn shrank from the sight of the girl's unfocussed gaze and the thin line of saliva that oozed from her gaping mouth.

The woman extended her hands to Yanash and called out, "Yanash, son of Surak, look upon our daughter and make her well!"

Sparn rose to his feet and held his breath as Yanash came down from the lectern. He had heard reports of healings and had attributed them to the natural explanations put forth by the media. Now, perhaps he would see a so-called "wonder" for himself.

Yanash looked upon the child with compassion. "How long has she been like this?"

"Two years, seven months," the father answered. "She fell from a balcony and the subsequent injury to her brain resists all treatment."

"I beg of you," the woman pleaded.

"You have much love for her," Yanash said far too warmly for a Vulcan. Reaching out, he touched the girl's smooth dark hair—not to establish mental contact, but in a brief caress.

Immediately the child moved. The arms and legs that had hung lifeless began to struggle, and her father set her on her feet. Sparn gasped as the child stood erect and turned intelligent eyes to her mother.

"Mekina," the child spoke clearly. Mother.

A great stir arose from the spectators. Others came forward with mental and physical maladies, and Yanash sent them away in apparent health.

The priest raised his voice again. "No Vulcan can heal in this manner, with a simple touch of the hand. By what method do you perform these acts?"

Yanash faced his accuser with calm authority. "You have said rightly; there is no Vulcan power that heals in this manner. But why do you question me? Have I caused pain or injury? Or have I relieved it? All that is good originates from the same Source, who is God."

"What do you know of The Source!" scoffed the priest. "By what authority do you dare to teach? Show us your qualifications!"

"The Source is not some vast indifferent power, as you assert," replied Yanash. "It is said that Vulcans embrace technicality, but here is a simplicity that some minds will find shocking: you have an immortal soul and a God who loves you. That which I teach comes from Him."

A shout arose from the back of the temple. "Renegade!"

Other voices took up the cry. "Renegade! Arrest him!"

Sparn nervously glanced around and saw several strong, determined Vulcans heading their way. With a stirring of fear he turned back to the speaker's platform. Yanash was gone.

"He has escaped!" the priest shouted. "Find him!"

Sorel appeared at Sparn's side and tugged on his arm. "This way—hurry."

Sparn accompanied the young man without argument

oooo

The weeklong session of the Sy-Don Council passed without incident and ended on a note of compromise that Spock found encouraging. For the first time in centuries, the two planets were co-existing in peace. As he made his way out of the government building, he thought back on the small roles he and T'Beth had played in originally securing the historic peace. Then, he had been proud of her accomplishments and it had seemed as if they had finally reached a point of mutual trust. But now he wondered if he had ever really known her.

Not once during the conference had T'Beth approached him. Though they occupied the same seating section, she had avoided his eyes and kept strictly to herself after-hours. Their estrangement pained him, but it was her years of dishonesty that pained him most of all.

Walking along, he entered a breezeway where mist from nearby fountains cooled and moistened the desert air. He quickened his pace, wanting only to collect his belongings from the diplomat's residence and depart at once for Earth.

Without missing a stride he consulted his wrist phone and opened a line. "Ensign Murphy?"

The response was satisfactorily prompt. "Aye, sir."

As Spock drew a breath, his eyes lit on a solitary figure in Starfleet uniform standing near a fountain. With a bitter sting of recognition, he stopped in his tracks. T'Beth started to move toward him.

"Stand by," he told Murphy and closed the line.

Slowly but steadily, T'Beth approached until they were within speaking distance. Eyes brimming, she said, "You're leaving, aren't you? Going home."

"Yes," he replied.

"You were supposed to come to Sydok—it was all arranged."

"I have been there." A tightening in Spock's throat made the words sound harsh. "I saw no indication from you that I am welcome back."

Tears overflowed her eyes and splashed onto her uniform. Moving closer, she grabbed him by the sleeve and he let himself be drawn into a secluded corner. Still clutching him, she spoke softly, quickly. "I'm glad you found out. I'm glad it's finally over. Her name is Bethany. She's two years old and I want her to know you."

"You have a peculiar way of showing it," Spock observed.

"I've wanted to tell you—from even before she was born—a hundred thousand times..."

"You did not trust me."

"I was ashamed," she confessed. "I didn't want you to think that I'd…"

Spock broke her grip on his sleeve. "You lied."

"No, I didn't," she argued. "I didn't tell you about her, but I never lied to you—not even once."

On more than one occasion Spock had shaved the truth in just such a manner. From this new painful perspective, it no longer seemed like truth at all.

Releasing a deep breath, he asked, "Where is the child now?"

T'Beth's face lit with hope. Wiping at her tears, she said, "At home…waiting to meet her grandfather."

Spock briefly considered before putting the call through. "Ensign Murphy, prepare the courier for two passengers. Reset course…for Donari."

oooo

Weary and unwashed, Sparn sat alone in his living room. The dim light of a single lamp scarcely held back the darkness of the night. There had been little time for him to assimilate all the disturbing things he had seen and heard this afternoon. He did not understand why he had risked censure by bringing Yanash and his disciples here into his home; why he had fed them and offered his own bedrooms so they could sleep undisturbed.

Only Yanash was not sleeping. The mesmerizing Vulcan had gone off by himself into the back garden, and now Sparn felt a desire to join him. With all his will Sparn resisted the urge, but years of self-centered behavior had weakened his discipline. He felt frightened and bewildered by the strange emptiness inside him that seemed to hunger for Yanash's presence.

I am a man of many years, he thought, a gray-haired elder of the clan Talek-sen-deen. What words can one so young possibly speak to me?

Yet Sparn's heart so longed for the words of Yanash that he rose and went out into the yard. T'Khut's red-amber glow illuminated the neglected garden. As if for the first time, Sparn noticed the dying plants—T'Prinka's beloved flowers—and was saddened. He found Yanash seated upon a bench with his eyes closed.

"Am I disturbing you?" Sparn quietly asked.

Yanash glanced up and seemed pleased to see him. "Sparn," he said in a warm tone. "Come sit by me. You are troubled."

Sparn did not deny it, did not question how it was that Yanash knew. Without a word he sat down in the sand by his feet. There were no words to describe the turmoil in his mind, in his heart.

Yanash began to speak. "If one looks honestly at history, it becomes clear that Vulcans are, by nature, a highly emotional people. Surak taught you to control your emotions; he gave you the Mind Rules; he gave you a system of self-discipline to help regulate your behavior. But Sparn, none of that has really solved the underlying problem."

"Emotion," Sparn said confidently. It was an answer known to every Vulcan schoolchild.

Shockingly Yanash said, "No. It is the abuse of emotion and intellect by a misdirected will. It is sin."

"Sin!" Sparn all but choked on the archaic term. Modern Vulcans spoke of errors, failures, insufficiencies.

Yanash continued. "Vulcans will readily admit that they are 'ruled by logic', but are they not actually enslaved by it? The constraints of logic and discipline do not solve the deeper problem of your fallen nature, and in trying to repress the negative, sinful side yourselves, you have stifled the free expression of that which is most precious—joy, compassion, love. Vulcans hide behind prideful masks, often believing themselves to be a superior race, when in fact they are like lost sehlats wandering in the desert of their intellects."

Sparn was horrified. "Before Surak, we were savages. All we have is the force of our wills. If we set aside the discipline, we are lost!"

"I have come to save what is lost," Yanash said with unshakable authority.

"How?" Sparn's voice trembled with emotion. He could not seem to control it or the desperate rush of words that spilled from him. "How can such a people be saved? Beneath the veneer of civilization we are still savages. Every seventh year our true nature breaks through all restraints."

"The pon farr." Yanash's handsome face grew somber. "I tell you, it was not always so. The trouble began when Vulcans gave themselves over to the debaucheries of the Savage Era. In the time of Surak's Reformation it was soon discovered that no discipline could completely eliminate the debasing urges that would come upon them, for their hormones had become attuned to excesses and drove them like beasts."

Sparn had to disagree. "Young sir, I have been a teacher of Vulcan history. I have studied the ancient texts with their myths of a Time-Before-Time, when sexual excess was unknown. There is no scientific evidence to support them."

"If you truly know the ancient texts," Yanash said, "then you must know that they also speak of me."

Sparn cast about for some possible reference. "There are those scholars who believe that the Shiav Texts predicted Surak's rise, but as for you, sir…" His voice trailed away.

Yanash said, "Is it not written by Mokavar that one chosen by God would escape the curse of the Vulcan male? Yet Surak was not exempt from the pon farr. How do you explain that?"

Sparn experienced such acute embarrassment that he actually stammered. "I…I cannot give any explanation, but…begging your pardon, I…I have heard it reported that you…that you…"

"Have escaped the pon farr?" Yanash finished for him. "You have heard correctly."

Wonderingly, Sparn asked, "But how could it be? Even my brother's son, who is half human, could not escape it entirely."

Yanash said, "Since sin entered the world, your souls are born weakened and find it difficult to resist the body's demands. Only one who is without sin can fully reorder the passions."

A warm breeze stirred through the garden. Sparn's vision blurred. Reaching out with both hands, he gripped Yanash by the arm. "In all my years—all my miserable, wasted years I have never heard words such as you speak! What is this power that you hold? My heart is burning inside me!"

Yanash looked upon him with kindness and gently brushed a tear from Sparn's face. For that fleeting instant of contact, Sparn seemed to glimpse Yanash's heart, and he shivered at the ecstatic feeling of unconditional love.

"Believe in me," Yanash said.

"I will," Sparn vowed. "I do."

oooo

Spock was home a full day before he brought out the photo T'Beth had given him, and set it in plain view on his desk. In the next room, twelve-year-old Simon had begun practicing a violin composition in preparation for next week's Statler competition. While the music was playing, he called Lauren into his study and closed the door.

Standing there, she eyed him with her usual wifely intuition and said, "Okay, what's happened? Say it quick or I'll start imagining all kinds of disasters."

With no further delay he pointed to the picture of T'Beth and child. "Behold my two-year-old granddaughter."

"What?" Lauren turned and stared at the toddler smiling on T'Beth's lap. Going over, she picked up the photo and studied the child's face intently. The golden eyes and hair left little doubt as to her Sy parentage. Softly Lauren said, "So the rumors were true…"

"Yes, at least in some measure. She did not mention a princeling, but the father is Sydok. The child's name is Bethany. Bethany S'chn T'gai."

Lauren looked appropriately surprised. "Your surname! Then…the father…."

"T'Beth is unmarried. She has denied the father any part in his child's life, just as I was once denied access to T'Beth. Ironic, how history repeats itself."

He told Lauren how he discovered the child and later spent some time with her on Sydok. "Bethany is bright and well-mannered. She had been carefully coached to call me…" he forced out the word "…Grandfather."

Still holding the picture, Lauren frowned at him. "You seem angry."

"I am," he conceded. The thought of T'Beth's lengthy deception continued to rankle. His visit to Sydok had been brief and awkward. "I plainly informed my daughter that I do not approve of how she has handled the situation. I asked her what she expects me to tell her young sister and brothers. A half-truth? An outright lie?"

Lauren sighed. "What did she say?"

"Nothing."

Midway through dinner that evening, Lauren brought the photo to the table. Spock watched his children react to the smiling little stranger seated with T'Beth.

Simon was first to speak. "Who's that? T'Beth doesn't have any children."

James, looking tired from an afternoon at kindergarten, scarcely seemed to care. He asked to be excused and went upstairs, leaving the remainder of his dinner.

His blonde twin Teresa caught hold of the picture and studied it delightedly. "Oh Mommy, Daddy, isn't she sweet? I want her to be my sister."

Spock met Lauren's eyes over the table.

Carefully Lauren said, "Her name is Bethany…and she can't be your sister, because she's your niece."

Simon frowned. "An actual blood niece?"

"Yes," Spock said.

"What's a niece?" Teresa asked in confusion.

Simon snapped at her, "It means, stupid, that T'Beth's had a baby!" Swinging around in his seat, he glared accusingly at Spock. "How come you didn't tell us?"

Spock stiffened. It would seem that his work on the Klingon Peace Accord and subsequent diplomatic activities had kept him too often away from home. Once again, the boy's attitude was deteriorating. Very firmly he said, "Young man, do not take that tone with me—or your sister. You were not informed about Bethany because none of us knew."

"T'Beth kept her a secret," Lauren added in her gentlest peacemaker voice.

"Why?" Simon persisted. "Is she a bastard or something?"

Spock's gaze locked with his, and the boy's eyes narrowed in the first serious challenge to Spock's authority in more than a year.

"Teresa, go upstairs," Spock ordered.

"But Daddy…"

"Upstairs."

Teresa put down the picture and obeyed without further argument. As soon as she was out of earshot, Spock abruptly pushed back his chair and stood. All at once Simon's bravado failed. Looking decidedly alarmed, the gangly boy lunged away from the table, became entangled in his chair, and fell.

"Get up," Spock commanded.

"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it," Simon hastily cried out from the floor.

"I do not believe you," Spock declared. Reaching down, he caught hold of Simon's arm and pulled him up.

As Spock maintained his grip, the boy squirmed and said, "Ow! That hurts!"

"Spock," pleaded Lauren.

Spock knew he was inflicting no injury; nevertheless, he eased his hold. It would not do to bruise the arm of their young violinist before an important competition. He was about to lecture Simon on the appropriate use of language when Teresa rushed back into the kitchen, breathless with urgency.

"Mommy, Daddy, something's wrong with Jamie!"

Spock glanced at Lauren and saw a reflection of his own fear. Then they were both rushing out the door.

oooo

Sparn had become an orensu—a student of Yanash and his strange new ways. From one place to another he drove his car in the caravan of curious followers. Always there were Vulcans who gladly received Yanash—a few intellectuals, but mostly Vulcans from the underclass of menials and technicians to which Yanash belonged, as well as members of fringe sects like the Golheni. Even outside the safebelts, Yanash drew crowds. No matter how remote the locale, how torrid the weather, there always seemed to be enough food and water for everyone. And only once was anybody harmed by a dangerous plant or creature, but not for long. Yanash had immediately sought out the screaming boy and healed the spine-lizard burn with a touch.

Yanash was fond of children. Only today he had spoken against the age-old custom of discipline by grandfathers. "The disciplining of children should be kept in the home. Punishment must at all times be tempered by a parent's affection. Take your children into your arms. Do not be afraid to hold them, do not be afraid to speak what is in your heart. Love them tenderly, even as your Father loves you."

More and more Yanash referred to God as a father and spoke openly of the Father's love for all Vulcans. It came as no surprise that journalists had ceased reporting on the "Yanash Phenomenon". Those in power did not approve of Yanash's revolutionary teachings or the way some were now calling him "Shiav", or savior. They would hope that a news blackout might put an end to his popularity.

But Sparn knew it would take more than that. Yanash had already grown too powerful. There were those among his followers who dreamed of overthrowing Vulcan's government and putting Yanash in charge. One word from the Shiav, that is all it would take—but anyone who dared mention such an idea to the Teacher was soundly scolded.

Sparn sat in the shade of a parkland tree, watching Yanash and marveling at his patience. Eridani was low in the sky and Yanash had not enjoyed a moment of solitude in three days, yet still he welcomed the steady stream of people who continued to press forward, asking him to touch their children, pleading for favors and healing, eager for every word that came from his mouth.

As Sparn watched, an outworlder wearing a cooling suit shoved his way up to Yanash. The blue-skinned Andorian inclined his deformed antenna toward the Teacher and demanded, "Heal me!"

Yanash replied using, as was his custom, a very ancient name for Vulcan. "I came for the people of Yatara."

The Andorian looked upon him and dropped to one knee. In a much humbler tone he said, "Lord, I know your goodness and mercy is not confined to any planet. Help me, I beg of you."

Yanash gave the Andorian a gentle smile and said, "Your faith is great!"

He was reaching for the shriveled stalk when Sparn's phone chimed. Absently Sparn drew it out and responded in voice mode, "Yes?"

The Andorian's antenna seemed to plump and expand under Yanash's touch. In an instant it looked entirely normal. Realizing that he was cured, the Andorian leaped up and cried in joy, "Thank you, Lord! Thank you! God spare you!"

"…Sparn? Sparn!"

It took a moment for Sparn to realize that the voice calling from his phone belonged to his brother. He had not been aware that Sarek was even on Vulcan. His diplomatic work demanded much traveling.

"Yes, Sarek," he said, still intent on the scene before him. "Are you well? And Amanda, your wife?"

"I am well," Sarek said. "Amanda found our recent trip more tiring than usual, but her healer says there is no cause for concern." He paused, and then spoke again with an unusual note of urgency. "Sparn, where are you?"

So Sarek had been informed. Reluctantly Sparn rose from his spot of shade. He did not notice the Teacher's eyes on him as he moved farther away from the crowd. His hand trembled slightly, but his voice remained firm as he said, "I believe you know where I am, brother. With Yanash."

Sarek's tone became icy. "That renegade? Have you lost your mind?"

The words loosed a tangle of emotion. As the elder brother, Sparn had a right to Sarek's respect, but both of them knew who was the wiser, the more accomplished. Though Sparn had long resented Sarek, he also dreaded his disapproval.

Sarek demanded, "Leave there at once, Sparn! If need be, charge the transportation to my account. At once! Do you hear me?"

Sparn drew a shaky breath and glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see Yanash in the midst of the crowd. He found himself standing face to face with the Teacher, and felt strengthened.

"Sparn!" Sarek snapped. "Do you understand? Answer me!"

"Yes," Sparn said evenly. "I understand everything you are saying." And he broke the connection.

Almost at once the phone in his hand began chiming again. Inwardly torn, Sparn stared at it.

"It is my brother," he told Yanash. "Sarek thinks I have gone mad, and perhaps I have. I am neglecting my business, and the bills are accumulating at an alarming rate…"

"Sparn," Yanash said in gentle reproach. He took the phone from his hand and turned it off. "Sparn, no one who has left businesses or belongings to follow me will go unrewarded. When we first met, you were gathering sandclaws. Soon you will begin to gather something of far greater value."

Sparn gazed into comforting blue eyes, and his heart beat faster. All his life he had yearned for the kind of greatness that seemed to come so naturally to Sarek and his halfling son—to perform brave deeds that affected the course of history. "Teacher," he asked, "what would you have me do?"

Yanash put a hand on Sparn's shoulder, a sweet dizzying touch, and softly said, "Your brother's wife is ill."

"Yes." Sparn was not at all surprised that Yanash knew. Was the teacher reading his thoughts? "She has been seen by a healer; she is in no danger."

With solemn certainty Yanash said, "Her illness is to the death."

The words took Sparn aback. Amanda dying? In his mind's eye he saw the fragile little human his brother had married. How he had always disliked her and her halfbreed offspring—Spock, who resembled him so strongly.

"She has a son," Yanash said.

Sparn warmed with embarrassment. "Yes. Spock. He lives among the humans on Earth."

Yanash nodded. "You must go to him at once."

Astonished, Sparn stepped away from Yanash and his pleasant, disturbing touch. "No. There is no need for that. I will send him a message."

"And he will contact his parents and they will assure him that all is well."

Sparn argued harder. "Why would Spock believe me? Me, of all people? Teacher, you do not understand…"

Yanash looked upon him in silence and Sparn felt his embarrassment deepening into shame. Yes, the Teacher understood. All too clearly Yanash saw the bitter prejudices and resentments Sparn had carried through the years. Yet there was no condemnation in the Teacher's eyes, only sadness.

"Go to him," Yanash said.

Sparn feebly nodded.