- WUHKUH -
"Follow that will and that way which experience confirms to be your own."
-The Hidden Kir'Shara of Surak
...
The Month of Khuti
Chief Administrator V'Las, the high commander of the Vulcan race and leader of the Vulcan High Command, shared his people's disdain for that which is aesthetically pleasing. Aesthetics, after all, served to provoke emotional edification, and emotions were unwanted, something to be rejected and suppressed.
It is just as well, he supposed, that it is night. Due to some long-forgotten, age-old conceit, the Administrator's office had a view; something that the wildly-emotional, infantile humans were said to be fond of. From his office, V'Las could see across the rooftops of the sprawling capital city of Shi'Kahr. Thousands of twinkling lights skittered across the cityscape, illuminating buildings and parks, boulevards and paths. If he looked closely, he could no doubt see the tiny figures of his people, going about their business in the cooler air of the night.
Beyond the limits of the city, he could see the edge of the great desert, which encompassed nearly the whole of the globe. Due to the powerful magnetic currents and resulting stellar wind of its sun, the Vulcan planet was a fire-blasted kiln, possessing only a handful of inland seas and buried waterways. It was in the desert that the Vulcan soul had been forged, heated and sculpted until the unnecessary accoutrements were burned away; the hardened core, built only upon logic, emerged prevalent.
The desert was not truly dark, of course. True darkness cloaked Vulcan's skies only rarely over the course of a year; 40 Eridani A's stellar wind generated an astrosphere far larger than the star itself, larger than the moon in Earth's sky. And the glow was compounded by the reflection of T'Rukh, which filled nearly a sixth of the heavens above Vulcan. Together, they gave the desert an ethereal glow.
V'Las' chronometer beeped the hour, causing the administrator to mentally chastise himself. A properly-disciplined mind can track time as accurately as any artificial timekeeper; but his inner count had slipped. He was fully two seconds off; something had disturbed his mental control. It is of no immediate consequence, he decided. He had other concerns to attend to.
His scheduled guest arrived promptly as the chronometer fell silent. V'Las knew from lengthy experience that Talok's discipline was something less than V'Las' own; such promptness—a Vulcan custom—likely meant that Talok had arrived silently early, and timed his entrance with precision.
"What is our status?" V'Las demanded as soon as the doors hissed shut. He would never admit to his impatience, but it was impatience that he was experiencing; plans were made and actions undertaken which required great accuracy and detailed work. He had waited all day as this meeting was scheduled, then postponed.
Talok fell into a neutral posture. He heard the emotional tinge in the administrator's voice, but discarded it almost unconsciously. "All units are in place, Excellency," he reported flatly. "We are ready to execute on your command."
...
At the sound of the knock, T'Les set her book down on the side table. There was no need to mark the page; her memory was more than sufficient to recall her place in The Didacts of Sopen, a Vulcan philosopher of some note from nearly fifteen hundred years earlier. But the old, leather-bound volume had to be handled with care; few authentic copies of the text survived.
The knock came again as T'Les calmly rose from her chair. The sound was enough to communicate the intention; it was not the hard, commanding resonance of the Security Directorate. Instead, it was muted, soft, as though it wished to be surreptitious; logically, it must be a friend. Perhaps even a fellow traveler.
Vulcan homes are simple, nothing more than a handful of rooms laid out in airy manner, and T'Les crossed to the door before the newcomer could knock again. She glanced through the peephole—an anachronism from earlier times; satisfied, she drew back the bolt and opened the door.
A young male stood on the threshold, fidgeting slightly. He was clearly uncomfortable to be making this visit; even though T'Les was his mother-in-law, the two did not completely agree on matters of logic…and his father was an influential member of the Vulcan High Command.
"Welcome to my home," T'Les said, tilting her head in ritual acknowledgement. "Please enter." As she spoke, her eyes glanced outside, peering in the twilight for any hint of Security personnel.
"It is my privilege," Koss replied as he tilted his head in return. He followed her outstretched arm into the home, and let the door close behind him.
"Can I get you a glass of water?" T'Les offered, completing the greeting. Her attention was refocused on her guest.
"No, my visit will remain brief."
The aptly-named sitting room was as austere as Vulcan itself; a couple low couches, built of well-worn planks, were placed along either side of a solitary table. T'Les gestured to one, inviting Koss to take a seat; moving with practiced grace, she took the other. "And what is the purpose of your visit?" she inquired.
"I wish to ask of your daughter's arrival," Koss answered. T'Les' daughter was his wife—the famous T'Pol of Vulcan, who had defied the High Command and enrolled in Starfleet. In the politics of Vulcan, their marriage was paradoxically a benefit to Koss' family; despite T'Pol's outcast status, the two had been betrothed as youths, and the honoring of that agreement was more important in the eyes of their people.
"My daughter is still fulfilling her tasks on board the Enterprise," T'Les answered. The Earth starship was currently in orbit of Vulcan, and had been so for several days. "She has agreed to come when her duties allow."
"I would expect no less," Koss replied. T'Pol's rejection of the High Command was the only 'un-Vulcan' thing about her. "If I may make a request…"
"I will notify you upon her arrival," T'Les agreed. "However, I believe I have supplied no new information to you…is there another reason for your visit?"
Koss hesitated, and then leaned forward. "My father has been…hearing rumors," he said. His voice was lowered into a whisper. "He has done his best to protect you, but he believes it is logical for you to take added precautions."
"I have done nothing to draw added attention from the Security Directorate, and relying on rumors is often illogical," T'Les answered. She, too, leaned in to cloak their conversation further.
Koss submerged the need to fidget. "He has seen information which indicates that Chief Administrator V'Las is preparing to take a more aggressive stance against the heretical sects."
"I understand." T'Les allowed the slur to pass by. She altered her gaze as she processed the information. Logically, she knew that the day would come; she had refused to back down, and was on a collision course with the High Command. It was logical to have an escape route prepared.
T'Les stood up slowly, motioning for Koss to stay in his seat. He watched cautiously as she disappeared from the sitting room, and his sensitive, pointed ears heard the click of a latch being released. There was a jingle, followed by the soft thud of a lid being closed. T'Les' footfalls were nearly silent as she returned; she stepped softly on the warm stone floors of the villa with graceful, economical movements that told of great physical harmony.
Following the subtle cues, Koss stood up and held out a hand. Into it, T'Les placed a piece of jewelry. "If I am unable to meet with my daughter," T'Les said firmly, "I ask that you deliver this to her. But it is important that you tell no one."
...
Amid the towering spires and sweeping arcs that made the skyline of Shi'Kahr were a number of lower buildings, nestled between with the graceful splendor of planned design to create a single, harmonious city, bustling with activity but never rushed, filled with beings but never crowded. It was a monument to the Vulcan way of life; laid out according to pure logic, each individual portion merged seamlessly into the next, maximizing efficiency while retaining serenity.
When humans were first invited to establish an embassy in Shi'Kahr, Earth's architects relished the challenge of blending Terran designs into the Vulcan motif. Starting with the artists, a design was created, modified, and simplified, drawing on some of the most ancestral of human structures, and when the embassy was opened a decade later, the best of the Vulcan architects pronounced it "satisfactory."
Based on the prehistoric designs of a ziggurat, the United Earth Embassy was built on a large platform, covering several city-blocks in each direction. Two stories tall, the platform was designed in a geometric grid; raised walkways encompassed reflecting "pools," gardens, and artistic paraphernalia representing the many diverse cultures of Earth. In the night, ground-level lights added a soft, muted glow, and the blue-gray shading of the platform complemented the browns and tans of the Vulcan city.
In the middle of the platform was the raised ziggurat, scaling upwards over a dozen stories with terraced sides and sloped corners. It, too, was shaded blue-gray, and rings of soft lighting encircled it. On the front, above the bay-sized door, several spotlights shown on the emblem of United Earth: a two-dimensional map of the planet, with olive branches on either side.
From the entrance, out to the edge of the platform, ran a raised pathway several meters wide. It, too, was lit from below, and the sides angled away gently, merging into the platform below.
Inside the Embassy, a monumental summit was taking place. Nearly a full century had passed since First Contact between Earth and Vulcan: when humans first learned, to their amazement, that they were not alone in the cosmos. On that cold, spring night on 2063, in the mountainous plains outside Bozeman, Montana, humans and Vulcans had shook hands for the first time; but now, in 2154, the promises of that first encounter had yet to come to fruition.
The Vulcans had treated the humans as a "child" race, one needing enlightened supervision as they voyaged beyond the confines of their own solar system for the first time. What emerged was a century of aggravation and discord between the two races. For as much as humanity resented the overbearing treatment, Starfleet recognized that it needed the assistance of the older race, even as it seemed to hold back Earth's stellar progress. And as for the Vulcans…they kept their reasoning to themselves.
But now, after the first successful missions of the Starfleet flagship Enterprise, the relationship between Vulcan and Earth was beginning to change. In the eyes of Earth, the Enterprise had proven that humans were ready to take their place among their star-faring neighbors. The starship's two-year mission of exploration, followed by its success at stopping the second Xindi weapon—through diplomacy, no less—fueled humanity's ambitions.
And it woke up the Vulcan High Command, triggering a new debate over how to approach the humans. Perhaps, some argued, it was time to treat these newcomers as relative equals.
It was in pursuit of these first seeds of thaw that Starfleet's Chief-of-Staff, Admiral Maxwell Forrest, had come to Vulcan, for the first initial discussions. His goal was to convince the High Command to hold joint missions with Starfleet.
Of course, it did nothing to stop the High Command's penchant for lengthy deliberation.
"Admiral, the High Command will tell you its decision at the proper time," Soval reassured Admiral Forrest as the two stepped the reception hallway together. It was a minor diplomatic function, just a meet-and-greet between lower-level staffers, but Soval had found it logical to attend.
"After all we've been through, I'd rather hear the good news from you," Forrest remarked. Soval was the long-serving Vulcan ambassador to Earth, and the de facto Vulcan advisor to Starfleet. The two men had butted heads more than once, usually over the perception that Vulcan was seeking to slow Earth's advancement into the stars, but a grudging degree of mutual respect had emerged over the years.
"The High Command has not seen fit to include me in their discussions," Soval admitted, keeping his tone even. It would not be seemly to allow a human to witness his…aggravation. He did not understand the reasoning behind his exclusion; but it was logical to believe that the High Command had reasons of which he was not aware.
"They're not telling their own ambassador to Earth what they're planning regarding Earth?" Forrest snorted. "Welcome to the club." He ran a hand across his close-cropped, graying hair. "I have to say, Ambassador, that it does little to encourage trust."
Soval's own gray coiffure was precisely arranged in a longer design, trimmed just above his ears and brow. "Admiral," he said, masking a sigh; it was a mark of his familiarity with this human that he felt the emotional urge at all. "I know you find our reluctance to share technology and discoveries to be…restrictive."
"I can think of a few stronger words than that," Forrest retorted, before raising his hands in apology. "I'm sorry, Ambassador. I know that you do not make the policies."
The two men fell into line at a security check-point. "The truth of the matter is…" Soval hesitated before continuing. It was not classified material, but Vulcan society preferred to keep its deliberations private.
It is logical to encourage trust, Soval reminded himself, recalling one of the kitaun of Surak. "We Vulcans don't know what to do about humans," he explained. "The confusion has caused a contradictory, bifurcated policy to develop." It involved engagement on one hand and—yes, Soval acknowledged privately—intentionally retarding humanity's scientific progress on the other.
Defenders of the policy claimed that Earth's technological growth had, once again, outstripped its social growth. Under this theory, Vulcan was merely correcting the imbalance while preventing another outbreak of pan-Terran warfare.
After thirty years of serving on Earth, Soval privately believed that there was a different reason—Vulcan anthropologists could simply not explain why Earth's social immaturity had not plunged the planet into another war. Terrans had shattered every model; consequently, Vulcan lacked any preset protocols to guide their interactions with Earth.
"How do we confuse you?" Forrest asked, mystified by Soval's assertion. The security line was moving forward gradually, and the two men approached the checkpoint in unison.
Soval folded his hands before him. It was a simple discipline designed to help focus the mind. "Of all the species we've made contact with, yours is the only one we can't define," the ambassador replied. "You possess the loyalty of Andorians and the stubborn pride of Tellarites. One moment, you're as driven by your emotions as Klingons, and the next, you confound us by suddenly embracing logic."
It was their turn at the checkpoint. Diplomatic protocol suggested that the host go first, to show that there was no danger, and thus Admiral Forrest bent over the retina scanner. A red beam of infrared light flashed across his eyes, taking a biometric scan of the neural cells located at the rear of his eyes.
The technician received a positive verification, and waved the admiral through.
"I'm sure those qualities are found in every species," Forrest noted as Soval underwent the examination. Moments later, the Vulcan was also cleared for entrance, and the two entered the main chamber. "I've even heard rumors that you Vulcans do experience emotions, and you just suppress them!"
Soval acknowledged the joking slight by raising a single eyebrow. "We do not find these qualities in such confusing abundance," he noted. "Even with the great number of sentient species that reside in the galaxy…you humans seem to be unique."
Admiral Forrest thought he caught a flicker run across the Vulcan's face. "Ambassador," he said, his brow furrowing in curiosity. "Are Vulcans afraid of humans?" It seemed incredible, but there it was: that same flicker again, betraying the slightest hint of Soval's mind. "Why?"
"Because there is one species you remind us of," Soval replied.
"Vulcans?" Forrest asked in astonishment. No Vulcan had ever admitted the slightest degree of kinship to humanity.
Soval's carefully-gauged meandering slowed to a stop, and he turned his back to the other reception goers. "We had our wars, Admiral, just as humans did," he remarked. "Like you, our planet was devastated, and our civilization nearly destroyed. Our total devotion to logic saved us." Saved some of us, he reminded himself silently.
He couldn't help but think of Vulcan's sundered brethren, the Rihannsu, who fled mother Vulcan at the dawn of the Age of Surak. If humanity resembled Vulcan at that moment in time, then the Terran race could go either way: that of Soval's Vulcan ancestors, or that of the Rihannsu.
Or, perhaps, humanity would continue to shatter the models and forge a third path. "It took us almost fifteen hundred years to rebuild our world and travel to the stars, Admiral," Soval continued. "You humans have done the same in less than a century. Your rapid ascent has already sent shockwaves throughout our region of the galaxy, and you show no signs of slowing down."
Soval glanced around and lowered his voice further. "There are those on the High Command who wonder what humans may achieve in the century to come. And they don't like the answer."
"We're not the Klingons," Forrest countered. The very existence of the Rihannsu was unknown to Earth, shrouded within the many secrets of Vulcan. "We only want to be your partners, to do with the nations of Earth have learned to do—to work together in common cause."
"Many peoples have said the same thing," Soval replied. "And then they grow, and expand, and come to dominate the partnership." He raised his hands in imitation of the human gesture. "Please understand, Admiral, I do not agree with that view of Earth. Unfortunately, the future of relations between our worlds is not mine to control."
Forrest heard a dull thud come from across the chamber, and even as he turned to look, his instincts were thrown into full alarm. The sound was not natural; something had exploded, and it wasn't a conduit or power tap. The admiral was familiar with those; besides, plasma fires had a distinctive odor.
That left one strong possibility.
The chamber was suddenly filled with a brilliant flash of nearly-white light, washing out Forrest's vision. His other senses became alive: he heard a second, more powerful explosion, followed by the shattering resonance of stone columns, and the acrid stench of chemicals and smoke billowed outwards, clogging in the admiral's nose and throat.
As the blast wave expanded, Forrest turned and dove towards Soval, knocking the ambassador to the ground even as a stone pillar crashed to the floor where they had been standing. The heavy rock tore out chunks of ceiling and bulkhead before hitting the tiled floor, where it bounced and shattered into thousands of shards that sliced outward through the chamber.
His eyes were sealed shut by the blinding flash, and he choked and gagged on the clouds of dust enveloping the room, but Forrest clung to his sensibilities. He knew the layout of the reception chamber; and scrambling to his feet, he pulled the Vulcan along, propelling both of them blindly through the debris. He could feel the heat of flames on either side, but with a map lodged firmly in his mind, Forrest navigated his way to the nearest doorway.
A second, far-more-powerful BANG! sounded from behind, and a compressed wave of heat flung Forrest forward. His hearing blacked out, now, but he could feel the fire seeking purchase on his skin, and could feel the torrent of rubble raining down on him.
Starfleet MACOs (Military Assault Command Operations) leapt from their bunks, responding instantly to the shrill scream of alarms that permeated the Embassy. It took scarce seconds to don their fire-resistant gear, grab their weapons, and they assembled on the run. Commands and information shouted through the corridors in carefully-choreographed maneuvers as they shut down the compound and began rescue operations.
From other corridors came the damage-response teams: carrying fire suppressants and medical kits rather than weapons, they too moved with rehearsed precision. The first few minutes were critical to their success: heat and smoke were their greatest foes, but several structural engineers came as well. Their task was to assess the damage for risk of collapse, and erect emergency bulwarks to protect the victims.
From outside, the first blast was invisible; small, designed only to attract the rescue teams to the vicinity, it was completely contained within the reception chamber. The second explosion, however, was colossal; packing a murderous punch sevenfold stronger than the first, it sent ripples of fire scorching down the length of the Embassy.
Then the concussive wave, expanding quickly, blew through the roof, annihilating an entire sector as the yellow and white flames lit up the night.
...
"Captain!" Malcolm Reed shouted, trying to draw Archer's attention. He was open, if only for a second, and the ball flew into his hands. Instantly, two defenders moved on him, even as Archer shifted to block them. Malcolm bounced the ball on the floor as he dodged to the left, then the right, but both routes were blocked.
"Here!" Hoshi Sato shouted from the far side of the court. She was on her own, unguarded, with a clear shot at the basket. Jumping high, Malcolm slid the ball past the outstretched hands of a defender, bouncing it to her.
Hoshi caught the ball, and held it momentarily as the second defender flew her way, leaping high to block the expected shot. She waited as he sailed past, then launched her shot with a hope and a prayer.
It ricocheted off the rim, right into the hands of the stationary Phlox. Clad in a full sweat suit, he was the only player not dripping with sweat and exertion; and unguarded, he had a clear shot at the hoop.
And, to Hoshi's dismay, he was also on the other team.
From the back corner of the makeshift court, Phlox lifted the ball with one hand and sent it sailing through the hoop, hitting nothing but net.
"Trip" Tucker and Travis Mayweather flung their hands in the air in victory. "That's another game!" Trip enthused happily. "Twenty-one to two!" He grabbed Hoshi by the shoulders and give her a playful shake.
"This isn't fair!" Hoshi proclaimed. "You had Phlox! Time to switch sides again, Doctor!" The only non-human in the game, Doctor Phlox had demonstrated an uncanny skill for the sport of basketball; the senior staff of the Enterprise had been playing matches for eight days in a row, shifting line-ups, but no matter who he played with, the doctor's team was nearly undefeated. Twenty-one games to one.
On the doctor's suggestion to engage in physical sport, Trip and Malcolm had converted the lower, unused half of the launch bay into a makeshift basketball court. On a ship with two shuttlepods, launch bay stalls three and four were rarely used, except when intensive maintenance was taking place; and parked in endless orbit above Vulcan, the shuttlepods had been stripped, cleaned, and rebuilt days ago.
"Certainly!" Phlox accepted the backslaps and exultations of his teammates in good spirit. "This is a most enjoyable sport. Reminds me of Octran fertility contests."
The doctor's long-winded story was cut off, in utero, by the appearance of Commander T'Pol in the bay doors. Her face was unnaturally serious, even for a Vulcan, and it cut short the good-spirited jocularity existing on the court.
"T'Pol!" Captain Archer greeted her warmly, trying to preserve some of the camaraderie. "Would you like to join us? I think Trip could use a breather!"
"Not likely, Captain," Tucker murmured. "But the old man here might need a break."
T'Polmoved right to the point. "Captain, I've just spoken with the Embassy staff in Shi'Kahr." Her solemnity cast a pall of silence on the assembled staff. "There was a bombing at the Embassy."
Archer's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "What happened?" He began trotting across the bay to her.
"That's all they said," T'Pol replied, and the two disappeared into the corridor outside.
And the jocularity was gone, the good mood spent. Even Phlox's parting comment, regarding Octran fertility contests and basketball—"Except we're fully clothed, which is probably for the best"—drew no laughs. The remaining staff toweled off quickly and left to attend to their duties.
...
