(Standard Year 2251)
Return to Valjiir Stories
The Vulcans walked around them and the Valjiir cloak generator with cautious scrutiny. Ruth tried to think oblivious thoughts and was suddenly grabbed and pulled to her feet. A scarred, openly emotional face appraised her with greedy, obvious desire as a hand reached for her breast. Oh no you don't! she thought and prepared to mentally block his attempt.
With a sudden, sharp cry of surprise, the Vulcan's grip on her arm tightened. He called out to the other warriors and abruptly Ruth felt powerful minds bearing down on her, constricting her. The pressure built, punishment and control and she cried out in fear and anguish. She barely heard Jilla’s gasp or pleading words. She was beginning to panic when a deep voice thundered
"Kroykah!"
She was released immediately and fell to the ground, clutching her temples.
Sorrm sat on an outcropping of rock, gazing with almost blissful contentment at the landscape around him. He seemed perfectly content to simply wait patiently for Spock’s return. Sulu, on the other hand, was gritty, thirsty, and beginning to be very hot. The last thing he wanted to be doing was sitting in the Vulcan desert with a madman.
Suddenly, Sorrm turned to him. “Do you appreciate history, Sulu?” he asked.
“Usually,” Sulu replied grimly.
The Vulcan didn’t seem to notice his displeasure. He climbed down from the boulder on which he’d been sitting, taking a seat next to Sulu.
“Let me tell you something of Vulcans’,” he said. “Let me tell you the story of the Soul of the Warrior.” He again stared serenely at the horizon, then started to speak.
“It was in the harsh days after the Great Cataclysm.”
“The great cataclysm?” Sulu interrupted.
“That's what our records call it,” Sorrm answered easily. “Our scientists are fairly certain it was a nuclear devastation of some kind. Most of the people had gotten sick and died, and there were few females left who could give birth to healthy children.” The Vulcan grinned. “Sounds like radiation poisoning to me.” His gaze returned to the desert. “These females became protected, almost secluded. They wore full body veils to keep pestilence and plague from them. The remaining males who were strong enough would fight to see who would be allowed the chance to mate with them. Those men who had been given the honor in the past year acted as guards and protectors.” Sorrm turned his gaze back to Sulu. “The T' that begins the names of Vulcan females is actually signatory of this very process. It’s a contraction of the appellation Tr'an', which means 'death's daughter'; from the Vulcan prefix 'tr', 'death' and the suffix 'an which is a female patronymic, 'daughter of.' This small word once carried much in the way of connotation of service and most honored duty. These females were 'death-daughters,’ and were originally designated as such. Throughout the centuries, the shortened honorific became a part of the name.”
Idly, Sorrm’s hand played through the desert sand.
“Within a generation,” he continued, “Clans began to form, as the seed of certain strong males always won the right to fertilize certain females. The children of these unions were raised together, as no one family could scratch out enough of a living from the Devastated Lands to care for even one child.” He gestured around himself with a rueful smile.
“Telan was the first-born son of one of these newly emerging Clans. The natural telepathy of Vulcans had, at that time, gone into a form of shock. So many deaths were like the reverberations of an avalanche in the mountains. But as new life absorbed these echoes, the mental quiet for the practice of the discipline returned. Telan was among the first to be able to again communicate in this fashion.
“One day, Telan awoke with a terrible fever, after having been increasingly irrational for days. Healers were called, but they could find no ailment to cure. Priestesses came – yes, we had them,” Sorrm interrupted himself. “We still do, although their function is now strictly ceremonial.” He shook his head, frowning. “Originally, the Priestesses were those females who produced only deformed children and were considered to have been marked by the Gods for divine guidance rather than for physical survival. Now they’re females who are particularly gifted telepathically, though since the Council doesn’t use them…” He shook his head again. “Anyway, one of the Priestesses went into what Humans might call a shamanic trance. She was taken to the Clan fire, and she offered a blood sacrifice for clarity. Then she uttered the words which echo down through all the generations of our Fathers: ‘As it was wrought in the fires of our fathers, as it will be in the days of our sons, so shall there be an inviolate set upon thee, when minds are bound, ever and always touching and touched, that blood shall burn and the eyes and heart shall be flame and two shall become but one fire, one soul, one destiny.’”
Sorrm’s eyes were gleaming and Sulu found himself both repulsed and fascinated. He’s talking about the origin of pon farr, Sulu realized. Why? I doubt it’s a courtesy to a non-Vulcan bond. What’s he trying to tell me?
Sorrm’s voice went on, becoming almost rapturous. “Then another Priestess spoke, and she said the Time of Joining was at hand, and that each male born ‘of the fires of our fathers’ would know that fire, and would seek his Blood Bond. And so Telan was the first to withstand the fires of pon farr. One could say he was the first true Vulcan.”
And that’s where he’s going with this little history lesson, Sulu thought with a shudder. The definition of ‘true Vulcan,’ as imagined by a Vulcan head case.
“Many years passed,” Sorrm persisted, “and Telan fought bravely to keep the ‘death-daughters’ well guarded. He sired many children for the Clan, and when the ruling councils were newly forming, Telan began to be referred to as ‘the Soul of the Warrior.’” Sorrm again locked his gaze onto Sulu’s. “Have you seen Spock’s quarters?” he asked, his voice infused with quiet passion. “Have you seen the fire-shrine there, the display of weaponry? These are the altars to Telan, to the Soul of the Warrior. This is who Vulcans – even Surakians – honor to this day as the filial blood-line of all our people. He is the passion of our people, Sulu, even now; our glory and honor. It is to Him we dedicate our rituals and ancient rites. In times past, warriors would offer their blood to the fire, even as the Priestesses did, to give them victory in battle. We honored battle and the sacrifice of the warriors to protect our blood and our land. This is what we have lost, what Surak cheated us of. There must be something of those ways in you, or the bond could not have formed. You must feel it, I know you must.”
Sulu found himself frowning. Sorrm’s idea of glory, while perhaps intriguing on an historical level was hardly appealing as a way of life. Sorrm was right about one thing; Sulu was well aware of that kind of thinking. It was, after all, the ideal of the samurai. But Sulu had studied enough history to know that his romantic fantasies were just that. The reality of a warrior’s life was, to paraphrase Hobbes, nasty, brutish and short. He certainly didn’t want to live like that. I don’t even want to live near it. Even for a matter of hours.
The aroma of burning animal flesh permeated the hot, dry air, and Spock was almost sickened by the smell. He could see the fire pit, and the large spit on which the dead derok was roasting. The lirpas and venras, the huge cudgel axes and deadly barbed spears of the warriors leaned against one another, supporting each other like sheaves of corn. At the far end of the encampment was the deep garbage and waste pit that would be filled with ash and sand before the camp was deserted, its odors adding to the nauseating miasma.
Spock took a moment to settle the queasiness rising in him, then opened his mental barriers. He had said he would face Vulcan's past, and could not do so with only intellectual observation. But the force with which the emotional truth of Vulcan's Pre-Reform existence hit his mind was far more powerful than he was prepared for.
The first thing that flooded him was the pervasive sense of death. It was so tangible that he found himself looking down at his hands, certain they must be covered in blood. Violence seemed to seethe through the very sands below him, like some bizarre, worm-like life-form. It took all his strength of will not to bolt up onto the rocks which were affording him concealment, as though the phantom worms could invade his clothing.
The camp itself, while highly organized, was Spartan. There were several tents erected around the fire pit, their sides raised to allow the heat of the day to escape. Most held only the hanging animal-fat lamps used to light the tents, mats for the warriors to sleep on, and a pile of furs to ward off the cold of the Vulcan night. In one were several tall, thin jars that Spock knew to be water vessels. Smaller, squatter jars held grain and dried fruits and vegetables. Cooking pots and utensils hung from the top of the tent. There was a low table, stained with blood, butchering tools hanging above it. In another tent, several women sat weaving or repairing clothing. In a third, warriors’ shields lined the fabric wall, a pile of hide scrolls on the large, woven mat that covered the sand.
The sounds of the encampment came easily to his ears; the harsh syllables of ancient Vulcan as orders were given and acknowledged, the crude, hearty jests and boasts of the warriors who sat around the fire, the occasional female cry as one of the women of the camp was brutally taken.
Spock knew the history of his people. He knew that under Surak’s Disciplines woman were considered equals, though even in modern times wives, while honored, were subjects of their husbands. Before Surak, wives were considered nothing more than the means to gain legitimate heirs – sons – and any other female was fair game. Women were fought for, fought over, bartered, traded, sold – and used any time any male felt a sexual urge. Women cooked and cleaned, performed, in fact, all manual labor that was not associated with the forging of weapons and the making of the le-matya hide armor and shields of the warriors. No warrior band would travel without their women to serve them.
But now, with his mind and heart fully opened, Spock was appalled at the casual ferocity of the camp. He could sense the arrogance of the warriors and the numbed acceptance of the females – as well as their hidden resentment. A thought struck him with sudden, sickened realization; it is no wonder that, in the past, women so often Challenged a potential husband. That is their only choice. The public coupling shocked him. Like most modern Vulcans, he had always assumed such activity would take place within the confines of a tent. The utter lack of privacy for other bodily functions was just as staggering. The scars on the bodies of the warriors gave silent testament to the deficiency of medical treatment; in fact, they seemed more often than not proud of the dark, olive marks, pointing to them and recounting the hideous battles in which they had been inflicted. There were a few warriors with fresh wounds, still oozing blood and pus, sand packed into them to keep infection away, as there was far too little water to be wasted on such things as bathing or dressing wounds.
His mind reeling, Spock turned away. He had the presence to check that his instrumentation had recorded the data on the encampment while he struggled to reform his shielding. The reality of what he had experienced had shaken him more than he was prepared to deal with. He knew he would need much time and meditation before he would be able to assimilate it. He could not, as yet, even speak of it; particularly not to Sulu, who lived so close to the Vulcan soul yet without perceiving its ferocity. Later, perhaps, when the emotional impact had faded - when Ruth's gentle truths could combat the savage ones now searing his mind… To know the past as legend or pristine history was one thing. To know it as living reality... No, he had not been prepared for that.
He pushed the disquieting thoughts under Vulcan... Surakian discipline, and returned the way he had come.
Sulu was about to tell Sorrm about Jon Crawford and the psycho-historical research that proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that history wasn’t always all it was cracked up to be, when Spock returned. The look in his Captain’s eyes confirmed everything Sorrm had said and everything Sulu had thought: it was shuttered; appalled, acknowledging and regretful all at once.
"Can we leave now?" Sorrm asked, jumping eagerly to his feet.
"Yes," Spock replied. "I have seen enough." The tone of his voice kept Sulu silent as Sorrm called to the Guardian.
Spock saw the Guardian planet appear around him as they stepped through the portal. He saw Jilla and Ruth kneeling on the ground near their test equipment. He felt the sense of dread and pain pouring from Ruth; then the shock at the five Vulcan warriors in uniforms that were modeled on Pre-Reform dress. Jilla's eyes suddenly met his and she gasped out a desperate entreaty.
"Stop them!"
The realization of the telepathic nature of Ruth's distress hit him, and he called out instinctively.
"Kroykah!"
The Vulcans turned their attention to the portal. All five warriors, as if on a prearranged signal dropped to one knee. But four of them suddenly had very modern weapons in their hands: two of them pointing at Sulu, two at Spock.
The fifth warrior struck his chest with his fist and bowed his head. Toward Sorrm. And he spoke in an ancient dialect.
"All glory to thee, Sorrm; Lord Prophet and Savior of all the Clans! Your promise is fulfilled!"
Sorrm laughed. He strode forward and said, in the same dialect, "Rise, my most worthy sons. You do honor to the Soul of the Warrior!"
Spock felt the blood draining from his face, felt an icy fear creeping through his veins. Something had been changed. And Sorrm knew it.
"What have you done?" he growled, only dimly aware of the threat in his voice, or that it had made two of the warriors approach him most menacingly.
"I rescued Vulcan," Sorrm announced. "I nipped the weakening cancer before it took hold. I pulled the rug out from under a moment that would have otherwise emasculated and destroyed the best of what we were meant to be!" He paused dramatically. "I killed Surak!"
Spock was filled with rage and disbelief. The savagery that he had just witnessed, the barbaric, irrational beings who were his ancestors; here, now, with modern weaponry and star-faring capability? No, it could not be... must not be...
He was fighting with his emotions, determined to get his mind functioning, to prove Surak's Way at least within himself, when he heard Jilla cry out. She was staring at Sorrm in wide-eyed horror. An instant later, she leapt to her feet, flinging herself at him with all the rage he himself felt, a blur of silver fury.
One of the warriors turned and casually struck her. She crumpled to the sand.
Sulu gasped sharply, almost as if he had been the one hit. Sorrm was immediately upon the warrior, kicking him savagely. The Vulcan flew backwards to land, unconscious, in the sand.
"They are not to be harmed!" Sorrm shouted in Anglo-Terran, then switched back to ancient Vulcan. "Do not harm them!" He pointed at Jilla. "Especially that one." He kicked sand at the warrior laying still on the ground before him. "Take him," he said to the others. "Inform him of my displeasure. Take this one." He pointed to Sulu. "Keep him restrained, with the women. If they are harmed in any way, I will not be pleased." He once again switched languages, turning. "Spock, we have to talk."
It was with great difficulty that Spock was able to master his emotions. He closed his mind to the brutality of 5000 years past, to the terrifying reality that had supplanted his life and the existence he knew. He called upon all his strength and all his control, pulling around him a shield of civilization. He faced Sorrm with rigid, crushing detachment and said, only, "Indeed."
Sulu's mind was numb. He had watched the Vulcan drama before him like one in a dream. Sorrm's stories filled his head and horror slowly began to build. Spock's reaction terrified him further. Only Jilla's attack broke the trance, but when the Vulcan - my god, a Vulcan?! - hit her, he felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping, his fear for her nearly making him sick. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled with Ruth toward a large group of standing ruins and pushed to his knees before the rubble. Jilla was carried in and carefully laid in the sand. His arms were bound tightly behind him with the weapon he recognized as the Vulcan ahn-woon, a loop of the weighted leather going around his neck, able easily to cut off his supply of oxygen if he moved too quickly or too rashly. Then they were left alone. He tried to crawl toward Jilla, and just barely prevented himself from falling over her. He swore bitterly, and Ruth's voice startled him.
"Roy?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." Her puzzled look made him add, "Where've you been?"
She took a deep breath. "Telepathic attack. My head still hurts like hell. What in god's name...?"
"Sorrm killed Surak."
"What?!"
"Before he started his preaching about logic. Don't ask me how, but he did it. There was a sandstorm, I don't know how he got the chance. Spock and I just barely held on for dear life."
"Oh my god," Ruth breathed. "The Federation..."
"Gone," Sulu cut in. "Or maybe never was. All that matters for the moment is what's happened to Vulcan." He took a deep breath. "Ruth, can you check Jilla?"
Ruth glanced at the motionless form, seeming to see her for the first time. She hurriedly crossed the space between them, concentrating... then gasped and grabbed her own head.
"Ruth, what..." Sulu began.
"Fuck!" she rasped, then closed her eyes, taking shuddering breaths. After several tense minutes she exhaled slowly. "There's some sort of lock on my mind," she said, her voice tight and trembling. "Vulcan telepathy isn't that strong."
"Our Vulcan telepathy isn't. I doubt if these learn any restraint at all." Sulu's eyes held anxiety, sympathy and loathing. "I hope Spock can do something." His gaze settled helplessly on Jilla, and Ruth bent her head, each lost in private fear.
Sorrm led Spock to a large boulder and perched on top it of. The exhilaration of his success still sang within him: warriors, true Vulcans at last, with ships to take them to the stars! And with Selar's information, Jilla's example, there need never be fear of loss or stagnation...
"I cannot believe you to be sane."
Spock's words made Sorrm smile indulgently. "Of course you can't, my friend. You've been thoroughly brainwashed."
"To destroy an entire existence..."
"That should have never been. I've only set history right, Spock. Surak destroyed Vulcan existence."
"Surak gave peace, a way to survive Clan warfare, blood feud, land feud..."
"But Vulcan has survived, strong, dynamic, as we truly are. Doesn't the presence of these warriors here prove that? We've reached the stars. We didn't, as Surak predicted, destroy ourselves."
"How did they know to come here, Sorrm? What is meant by their salutation of 'Lord Prophet'?" Spock demanded.
Sorrm chuckled. "A little 'prophetic writing' I left behind at Mah-nor-fen. Le-matya hide survives centuries." He met Spock's eyes. "I'm right, Spock, and he was wrong. Surely you see that now?"
"But to what end? Where is the logic..."
Sorrm pushed himself off the boulder, his eyes filling with disgust. "Logic is dead, brother. I killed it."
"Then by what are we to judge?"
"By our needs!" Sorrm blazed. "By what is right and good for us!"
"Selfish, thoughtless, calculated egocentricity..."
"Survival!" Sorrm thundered. "We have that right, as all species do! To exist as we are, to be able to live as we choose..."
"All life needs compromise, there is give and take, a balance of needs..."
"Compromise?!" Sorrm paced furiously. "Do you call the subjugation of our way 'compromise'? Is the denial of our very life's blood 'give and take’? Where is the balance, Spock, in the suppression of our needs, our objective, literal, inevitable, biological needs?!" He turned to face Spock, his voice softening. "My friend, you know this best of all. What were you on Surak's Vulcan? Half, always half; and unable even to admit to the misery of your heart and soul. Where was compromise for you, where was balance?" Spock began to speak and Sorrm cut him off. "No, it was only when you left, sought and accepted that part of yourself all Vulcan would deny that you have found peace. There is no logic in Ruth, yet in her is your joy and release. And little Jilla - what fire would there be if she had not been taught that to be Vulcan is to deny!"
Spock frowned. "You speak of a bonded woman," he growled.
Sorrm laughed. "You see? That is Vulcan, my friend! Would Surak have approved of such savagery over, mere words, simple intent?" He laughed again. "I think not!"
Spock took a deep breath and Sorrm listened impatiently to all the words of shame and denial that always fought against his truth. He had known words would not convince Spock. There was only one thing that would.
He could have ordered death for the warrior who had struck Jilla. He had not done so for a very good reason: His leniency signaled that while the females were not to be harmed, they were still only females. Vulcan warriors in a campaign would ignore the presence of sexually mature females only so long. Jilla had been acknowledged as important. The warriors would not touch her without further signal from their Lord Prophet. But Ruth would be fair game, and her telepathy an added enticement - as if she needed one.
And when Spock sees the only way to prevent his wife's imminent defilement is to behave as a true Vulcan, then he, too, will feel the glory and power in his veins and will understand and accept.
Ruth helped to calm Jilla when she woke, and to explain what had happened. There was an ugly bruise on the side of the Indiian’s face. Ruth ached to heal it, but each attempt only brought the sharp constriction around her mind. So she contented herself with soothing words and helping Sulu to a position where Jilla could lean against him without toppling them both over. Then she moved several feet away and miserably nursed her aching skull.
Spock, where are you? she thought miserably. She could remember his voice calling, "kroykah," but had no idea where he had gone or what was happening. And thinking too hard made her head hurt like crazy.
She became aware of a shadow falling over her and looked up, hoping.
A Vulcan face that wasn't Spock's gazed down at her, the dark eyes full of hunger. He growled words at her, and her telepathy translated the intent even as it wrenched in renewed anguish.
Woman, I need. Serve me.
She stared, swallowing, denying, unable to do more, She gasped as her arm was grabbed, strength greater than Spock's pulling her into a harsh, groping embrace. She heard Sulu's cut-off cry of protest, and Jilla's breathless plea which her mind didn't even try to translate. No, no! it cried instead, ignoring the waves of pain crashing in it. Spock, help me, no!
Spock was aware that Sorrm was no longer listening. There was nothing he could say that would clear the cloud of megalomania that engulfed Sorrm’s mind. He had no way of convincing Sorrm to undo what he had done. Therefore, in order to restore the proper course of history, he would have to devise some way to undo it himself. He could not simply re-enter the Guardian: Sorrm would hardly allow that and with Sulu bound and Ruth's mind under attack, he and Jilla could neither defeat or distract Sorrm and the five warriors.
There must be a way, Spock thought savagely. There are always possibilities....
Spock, help me, no!
At the cry in his mind, Spock's head came sharply up. Ruth was struggling against the assault of one of the warriors. For one, terrible instant, instinct took him and he was racing across the ruin-littered terrain, his eyes and heart aflame with raging fury. Before he even thought it, the words were torn from his lips, ancient words of possession and claim. Then horror struck him as he realized what he had said: The woman is mine. He had not called Ruth 'wife'.
Was Sorrm right? Would Vulcan deny her if not for concession to him? Sorrm had told her warriors would recognize his love for her... but only if he claimed her as his possession, his property, as had been done in the days before Surak. That, he would not do. It was the modern part of him, the logic so carefully built, that recoiled at the idea of owning her. A warrior would as soon enslave her. Warriors would deny his love, as Vulcan had not. As it was a warrior who called out claim in a mindless rage.
Spock stopped abruptly and stood still. His thought took only a fraction of a second. There was no escape as long as he was at odds with Sorrm. But if he could convince the madman that he had changed, that he now could see and that he agreed, perhaps Sorrm’s guard would drop enough....
And how better to convince him than with a display of true warrior passion?
He locked his eyes on the man who had sought to attack Ruth, and spoke in the ancient tongue of his fathers.
"I repeat my claim. The woman is mine. No one touches her but me."
The warrior gazed contemptuously back. "I see no claim, clan-less one."
Spock heard and ignored Jilla's sharp gasp at the insult. "I am of the Clan of Scarn, and you will pay for your insolence."
There was a murmur of awe and respect from the Vulcans, as Spock had known there would be. Scarn, while one of the first disciples of Surak, had, before accepting the way of logic, been one of the most fierce and relentless of warriors of that time. He was also Spock's most renowned ancestor, the founder of Clan Xtmprosqzntwlfd.
After a pause brief enough to do him credit, Spock's opponent stated, "I am Silak of the Clan Tnladhnen. I see no claim and challenge for possession of the woman."
Spock did not glance at Ruth, though he could feel her eyes on him. To do so, and see the incredulous dismay he was certain his words would cause might well break his resolve. He had vowed never to hide from or hurt her again. Yet if he was to save her from assault, and have a chance to put history right, he had no other choice.
"Challenge accepted," he declared in a scathing tone, then continued to the other warriors. "Prepare that one's pyre."
Behind him, Sorrm smiled.
"What the hell is going on?" Sulu whispered urgently in Jilla's ear. Ruth had been brought back to them, her eyes closed in pain. The Vulcans were clearing an area of land while Spock crouched before the Guardian portal, silent and separate. Sorrm occasionally shouted orders, strutting like a peacock.
Jilla shuddered. The tia surrounding her was nearly overwhelming. Only fear and force of will kept her from succumbing to an emotional overload. She answered Sulu's question in a voice that wasn't steady. "There - is to be - a Challenge."
"Challenge?" Sulu repeated.
"For Ruth."
"For...?! But she and Spock are married. Why doesn't he just..."
"Sulu, there was no Reform!" Jilla hissed. "A male can only claim a female by combat!"
After a pause, Sulu said, "And Spock has to claim Ruth, or..."
"Yes." The pause was longer.
"Jilla, I don't have a prayer against a Vulcan." Sulu's voice was quiet dread.
"We are already bonded. Sorrm knows this. Their telepathy will see it. By tradition, you have already made your claim successfully. I will be safe," Jilla stated, but her tone was far from certain.
"I want to hold you!" Sulu groaned, his shoulders twisting in his bonds. Jilla swallowed a sob, pressing closer to him.
Sorrm strode to the center of the cleared area, declaring the challenge. Jilla translated for Sulu and Ruth, even though Ruth seemed unaware of what was going on. Jilla held onto Sulu almost desperately, clinging to the feel of the bond as much as the reality of his flesh, and was unable to watch as the combat began.
Sorrm deftly tied his copper sash around Spock's waist. "I can't let you go into combat without a claimant's sash," he whispered. "You wouldn't want to make me look bad, would you?"
Spock only snarled at him in answer. "My only concern is for the Challenge."
Sorrm nodded approvingly, then stepped back. "For the possession of the woman, Ruth," he began, and Spock’s voice interrupted him.
"Dei'larr'ei,” he said.
Again Sorrm nodded. "For the woman, Dei 'larr'ei," he amended, then stepped aside.
Spock had been given one of the lirpas that the warriors had carried. He carefully tested its weight, silently asking Ruth's pardon for so defaming the name he had given her out of love. Dei'larr'ei was the expression, in Vulcan, of the concept that went both with the history of her name and with the symbolism of their shared commitment to their union; where-one-travels-another-follows, whither-thou-goest-I-shall-go. That Sorrm and the other warriors would see it solely as an expression of her slavish devotion was his reason for stating it.
The attack came swiftly, and Spock lost all time to think of anything but strategy. He expected the challenge to be difficult as long as the heavy Vulcan weapon was used. He had mastered its use according to modern standards, but it was certain his opponent used it daily. He employed mostly defensive tactics, attacking only when there was a chance of breaking the shaft of Silak’s lirpa.
His uniform tunic was rent, the skin beneath sliced but not deeply and Silak cried out in a victory too soon anticipated. Spock swung the heavy cudgel sharply downward, and with a resounding crack, Silak’s weapon broke in two. Sorrm called “Kroykah!” and the lirpas were replaced with the long, bolo-like ahn-woon. Spock schooled his features into the mask of arrogance and carelessness he had seen on the warriors in Vulcan's past. He fed his emotional display with the desperation of knowing that he must succeed in this, or doom Ruth, Sulu and Jilla to a life within Vulcan's savagery.
After long, arduous minutes it became apparent that there was little chance of his successful completion. Silak was simply too good. He had the knowledge of one who employed such methods to survive, not merely as an exercise in discipline. Yet Spock had to win. As the ahn-woon again came whipping toward him, he realized that his only chance was to fight in a way that Silak was not and could not be familiar with. His own words to Sulu echoed in his mind: 'The martial arts at which you excel do not require an advantage in physical size or strength.' And were most effective when one's opponent knew nothing of them.
He grabbed Silak's ahn-woon and pulled with a rapid, snapping motion. Silak fell forward, stumbling awkwardly to keep his balance. Spock quickly spun, not as graceful as Sulu would have been, but effectively enough to catch Silak under the ribcage with his foot. With an "oof!" Silak doubled over. Spock shifted the balance of his body to the leg that was coming down and lashed out with the other, connecting with the side of Silak's head. The warrior fell to the ground. Immediately, Spock's ahn-woon was around his neck...
...and Spock realized he would have to kill him. Challenge was only completed with the death of one of the combatants. One life for the entire Federation was not unreasonable....
And yet, if I kill, is not Sorrm right, after all?
No. I kill not for possession of Ruth, nor out of rage nor even blood fever. I kill because it is necessary. And furthermore, I kill one who in the proper course of history will never exist. Can one murder a shadow?
No. But this is flesh in my hands, not formless possibility. If I kill, I must not excuse my action. I kill because I must. It is logical.
Yet, how cold.
It was only with great effort of will that Spock was able to give the ahn-woon the sharp jerk necessary to break Silak's neck and give him, at least, a quick, merciful death.
Sorrm held his breath. This was the final moment of truth. He had been more than gratified to see Spock complete the battle without a moment's hesitation. His grip on the ahn-woon had been steady and sure. He had not wavered, but fought honorably and well. But even modern, emasculated Vulcans would kill over a mate. Had it been enough to free his imprisoned soul?
He watched anxiously as Spock rose from the lifeless body of his opponent and slowly reoriented on Ruth's staring, huddled form. His hopes rose as Spock stalked with a true warrior's cat-like grace toward her. Her hands were grabbed, bound with the claimant's - victor's - sash, her uniform torn from her right shoulder. And Sorrm laughed with exultant delight as Spock harshly kissed her and called for the aro'din.
Ruth did not see the combat. All was a cacophony of thoughts battling in her mind. She knew and called to Spock's familiar precision and screamed as shields he promised never again to erect shut her from his strength and comfort. Her beating at them only renewed the merciless constriction of the other Vulcans and brought her more pain and more hysteria. Not since the sauvrn had she known such terror, and she cried in panicked entreaty.
Then, abruptly, the raging din was quieted. The cage remained, but only as impersonal restriction. Only Spock's mind had life within her, and it was a bright, commanding presence even though still shielded from her own questioning thoughts. Spock? she called hesitantly. Beloved?
Be still, wife, and obey. For now, obey!
Ruth blinked, catching her breath. Spock's tone was anguish and determination and she did her best to banish the specter of his past abandonment. He approached her and knowledge of death assailed her senses. Fear returned at the feral glint in his eyes.
Trust me, my wife! came the silent entreaty. I do what I must!
Then he was before her, binding her hands, tearing her clothing, his lips harsh on hers, careless and brutal. A scream gathered in her throat as words she didn't understand seared their intent into her mind.
Trust me! Spock's thoughts thundered.
It was all she could do to keep the words echoing weakly through her as a horror beyond her conception twisted into terrible reality.
Spock slowly and carefully used the aro'din, the Vulcan ritual dagger, to carve the ancient lines of his family's symbol and his name into the skin over her breastbone.
Jilla had fainted with emotional excess, slumping awkwardly against Sulu. His own heart pounded painfully in his chest and it was hard to swallow. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He had finally begun to believe the nightmare of Captain Bastard was over. But there was Spock, humiliating, destroying Ruth all over again, cruel beyond understanding. The surety that he himself would be required to fight for Jilla - and would lose - grew in him as he watched the power and possessiveness grow in Spock's eyes. It was made all the more horrible by the bitterly acknowledged fact that Sulu knew the thrill such power and possessiveness could engender. It sickened him to see it turned against Ruth; as the thought of her even knowing it existed within him had sickened him so many years ago when they had been lovers. He turned his face away from the sight as Ruth screamed.
His attention was jerked back at Spock's voice, arrogant, triumphant, awful:
"Sorrm, you are right."
Sulu struggled to his feet, trying to let Jilla slip easily to the ground. No, no! Blood lust he could comprehend, and Vulcan's driving possessiveness, but this...
"The hell he is!" he shouted hoarsely.
"Silence, Human," came Spock's disdainful reply.
"If you think I'm going to let you..." His words were choked off as one of the Vulcans grasped the ahn-woon that bound him, pulling his arms painfully up and cutting off his oxygen. Spock strode toward him, wiping the blade of the knife he carried, leaving a sickly, rust-colored stain on his tunic.
"Hold him," he said. Sulu burst into furious struggles that were immediately subdued. Spock's eyes burned into his as the Vulcan's hand tore the shoulder of his uniform. "Lord Prophet, as this one's commander, I claim him!"
"It is done!" Sorrm's voice answered. It was a clarion of approval and victory.
"Spock, no..." Sulu managed to gasp.
The long, skillful fingers touched his flesh and his mind was numbed by a desperate plea:
Trust me!
Then he lost all awareness except the concentration necessary to bite down on the cry of pain as the blade bit into his shoulder.
"The ka'din will heal well, my friend," Sorrm said as Spock watched the warrior who gave his name as Sinoc apply an herbal paste to Ruth's chest and Sulu's shoulder.
"Perhaps too well in the case of my kal'aroun," Spock replied. The words stung his mind: ka'din - that which makes one commanded, the brand all Vulcan slaves once wore; kal'aroun - a commanded female, one whose rights had been forfeited; chattel. It was, technically, what T'Pring had become when her Champion had lost the Challenge. In ancient times, she would have been branded. The error then would never have been rectified; a branded female's rights were not considered important. It was with difficulty that Spock pulled his thoughts back to the charade he was forced to play.
Sorrm laughed. "I think not. Her abilities are restrained, for now by the warriors. When your mind has been healed of its weakening inhibitions, control will, of course, be left to your discretion."
Spock nodded, then let his gaze sweep over the horizon. "How could I have been so blind?" he murmured. Sorrm stood in front of him, reaching out to clasp Spock’s forearm.
"What matter, lrn’an, now that you can see?" he said. Spock kept his reaction to himself, forcing himself to return the gesture. It was an acknowledgement of kinship, and it pained Spock to give even Sorrm such a lie. To be called ‘brother’ was a great honor among Vulcans.
Sorrm's eyes, too, scanned the distance. "Ah, Spock, what glories lie before us!"
"And what history behind us. We have much to learn, Lord Prophet."
"And I suppose I'd best learn quickly if I'm to be considered divine, eh?" Sorrm chuckled. "Unless I give them too much future to worry about the past."
Spock raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Sorrm.
"Genetic alteration, Spock. A way to ensure against any lingering fear of Surak's prophesied stagnation. Jilla is proof and Indiians breed like rabbits. With their sensitivity, they'll make perfect kal'arouns. Permanent, guaranteed Vulcan survival!"
For a moment, Spock's thoughts froze. Not only Vulcan supremacy, but enforced, eugenic slavery of another race. If Selar's theories could be adapted, many other races. Fathers, how can I... to prevent it, true son of Vulcan! Spock blinked, then ordered a smile to his lips.
"Of course, Lord Prophet. Of course! Why did I not see it? Truly you are worthy of all Vulcan's praise!"
Sorrm smiled. Spock signaled to Sinoc.
"Warrior," he said, "what is the extent of Vulcan's empire?"
"We have conquered all in an area over 100 parsecs from Vulcan," Sinoc replied proudly.
"What of conquered races?"
"Enslaved, if manageable."
"And if not?"
"Destroyed."
Spock pointed to Jilla's still unmoving figure. "Have you seen beings such as the silver female?"
Sinoc glanced uneasily at her. "No, Great-son of Scarn."
Spock looked at Sorrm. Sorrm’s face was grim. "Who keeps the records among you?" he asked.
"Shern, Lord Prophet."
"Send him to me at once."
Sinoc took a device from his forearm cuff and began speaking, for the first time, to the ship that was in orbit around the Guardian planet. Spock's heart leapt with a wild hope: that without Indiians, Sorrm would relinquish his crazed ideas and Spock could convince him to return home.
Ruth watched Spock and Sorrm talking. The salve that had been put on her chest eased the burning, but not the pain. She tried with all her being to do as Spock had asked, to trust him, but the longer he ignored her, the harder it became. The pressure of confinement was gone, though the confinement itself remained. It was interfering with her healing attempts, and made her mind feel numb and heavy. She tried to understand why Spock would have done this but was incapable of thinking clearly.
Ruth?" Sulu's voice broke into her reverie. "Are you alright?"
"I can't think," she replied, her voice hoarse and hesitant.
"I know it's hard, but..." The pause made her look at him. His eyes were as uncertain as his tone of voice. "I think... did Spock... tell you... tell you to trust him when he..."
His torn uniform registered on her senses, as well as the patch of salve on his shoulder. Her eyes widened. "I thought - " she stammered, " - only women - "
"Did he?" Sulu repeated more urgently.
She swallowed her despair. "Yes."
"Then there has to be a reason. He told me the same thing."
"I can't think!" Ruth cried in quiet frustration.
"It's alright," Sulu tried to soothe. "There's a reason, he wanted us to know that. He's playing Sorrm somehow and we've got to - "
His words stopped, his features suddenly shuttered. Ruth quickly glanced up. One of the Vulcan warriors was approaching. Sulu knelt up over Jilla's still unconscious form and was unceremoniously kicked aside. The warrior bent to lift Jilla into his arms.
"No!" Sulu shouted. "She's mine!"
He was ignored and frantically looked to Ruth. She stared helplessly back, her head pounding. "I can't... Roy, I'm sorry!"
Desperation shone in his eyes, and as the Vulcan turned, he called, "Kroykah! An farrei!" The tense was wrong, and the construction, Ruth knew, but he'd essentially said 'stop, she's my wife'.
The Vulcan froze, then slowly faced Sulu. His voice was a sneer of contempt and he followed his words with another kick, this time aimed at Sulu's head. Ruth gasped sharply, moving to his side and received a kick herself. She cried out to Spock in anguished fear.
He was at her side in moments, snarling furious commands at the warrior. The Vulcan knelt before him, offering Jilla. Spock snatched her up and Ruth watched Sulu's relief turn to sickened fear as Spock carried Jilla away.
Spock, how can I trust you?! Ruth called in silent misery. Unexpectedly, she got an answer.
I love you, my wife. For now, trust that.