Worlds in Collision (26 page)

“Fascinating,” Spock said with as much excitement as anyone could ever expect to hear from him. “I have recently reached a similar conclusion based on Sradek's failure to recognize the existence of the Sherman Syndrome as anything more than a statistical artifact.”

“It
is
obvious,” the Pathfinder stated condescendingly.

Spock walked over to the associate who currently housed Two's remote functions. “What data can you produce to support the basic argument of the Sherman Syndrome?” Spock asked.

“Most of the raw data are stored on Memory Gamma but the conclusions are generally evolved here,” Two said. “Give me a few seconds to sift it.”

Kirk had had enough. “Spock, we can get back to agriculture when the assassins have been stopped. Time for my question.” He turned to the associate that had just spoken. “Pathfinder Two, how does the name T'Pel connect with the assassination attempt we have been discussing?”

“Captain Kirk,” Spock said, “there is no logical reason to—”

“Perfectly,” the associate next to Kirk replied. Then the Pathfinder banked to the associate beside Spock and said, “Sherman Syndrome data has been interfered with. I am attempting to reconstruct.”

“What do you mean by ‘perfectly'?” Kirk said, looking from one associate to the next.

“Who else but an Adept of T'Pel would contemplate the assassination of the Federation's greatest scientists,” the third associate in the middle replied, “and be able to accomplish it?”

“Who or what is an Adept of T'Pel?” Kirk demanded.

“Pathfinder,” Spock interrupted, “I ask that you provide the information I requested to support the Sherman Syndrome.”

“Spock!” Kirk snapped. “I said that can wait!” He turned to the associate. “Pathfinder, explain the meaning of an Adept of T'Pel.”

“They are the guild of Vulcan assassins,” the associate by Kirk said.

“Sherman Syndrome data has been recon—” the associate by Spock said.

Kirk was locked into position, not daring to breathe so he wouldn't miss an instant of the bizarre three-sided conversation. But his associate said nothing more. Neither did Spock's.

“I/O port shut down,” Romaine said finally, breaking the silence. “It cut out in midword.”

“Spock,” McCoy said in wonderment, “a
Vulcan
guild of
assassins?
Is such a thing possible?”

Everyone turned to look at Spock. The Vulcan's face was frozen in an expression completely devoid of meaning.

“What about it, Spock?” Kirk said, his anger apparent. “You've known something all along, haven't you?”

“Not known, Captain. Suspected,” Spock said at last.

“Isn't that splitting logical hairs, Mr. Spock?” McCoy asked. “Have you actually had information that might have stopped any of this?”

“No, Doctor, I have not had information that could have stopped any of the steps that have been taken thus far. I had suspicions, based only on my own knowledge, and with no supportable evidence. The suggestion that Memory Prime was to be subjected to an attack instigated by the Adepts of T'Pel, would have been met with ridicule”—Spock looked at the captain as if only he would understand—“and violated a sacred Vulcan trust.”

“Then there
are
such things as Vulcan assassins?” McCoy gasped.

“Absolutely not, Doctor,” Spock stated. “Such a concept would not be tolerated on my planet. Indeed, it is not tolerated.”

“Which is why none of you will talk about it,” Kirk said, suddenly understanding the connection between Stlur's cold response to the name of T'Pel and Spock's determined effort to keep Kirk from looking further into its meaning. “It does exist.”

“But not on Vulcan,” Spock said. “Not anymore.”

Kirk walked over to his friend, stood beside him, and spoke softly.

“Start at the beginning, Spock. There's not much time.”

Within each Vulcan dwelt a secret heart, a voice and a message from their beginnings, passed on from one mindmeld to the other through the long years since the Reformation, whispering of the madness that had been their crucible. That secret heart was their witness to the past, their window on their culture's birth, more than two thousand standard years ago.

Even then, the Vulcan intellect was unequaled. The specter of ruin that haunted their planet was known by all, embraced by some, and rejected by but a few. Resistance seemed futile, and the great minds and orators of Vulcan prepared their followers for the ultimate reward of emotions run wild: the war and destruction and extinction that had claimed so many other worlds.

As had also happened on so many other worlds, some individuals spoke out against the inevitable, and made themselves heard, and the greatest triumph of Vulcan was that in its final hour, the people listened.

His name was Surak, and his message was simple and direct. If emotions unchecked are to control us until we are destroyed, then we must first control our emotions and survive. It was a call for Total Logic, and it offered the planet salvation.

A hundred years earlier, Surak would have been ignored. A hundred years later, he would have been cut down before any could have listened. But at the time he spoke out, Vulcan was poised on that precarious threshold—still civilized enough to have political forums where Surak could present and debate his ideas, and yet chaotic enough that some could read the warning signs.

As the debates proceeded across the planet, Surak assembled supporters and faced enemies. Though not the most numerous, the most deadly faction among his enemies was from his own family, the woman T'Pel.

She was a warrior by nature and longed for the ancient days when an individual's worth was easily measured by the torrents of emerald blood she had unleashed upon the deserts' red sands. A future, however brief, of war and glory was infinitely preferable to the stultifying boredom that her cousin preached.

So T'Pel stole Surak's message, and twisted it into one of her own. To a world crying out for answers, she brought a release from the need for answers, an escape from the tyranny of cause and effect. She called it Analogics, and in her public debates with Surak, she used its twisted precepts to logically negate his call for logic.

Some in the audiences laughed. Some cringed. And some saw that in a system that required they no longer think critically, they could at last find peace. As T'Pel taught them, there was no greater peace than death. So it was that before the glory of the Reformation, there was the blackness and the disgrace of the nights of the assassins. Her Adepts, she called them, the Adepts of T'Pel.

T'Pel trained her most trusted Adepts in the long unpracticed schools of deadly arts, instilling them with terrifying powers of destruction to be used without regard for motive. Then she offered them to her world, to perform whatever acts of terrorism were asked of them. Escape was not a requirement of any plan. The shock of mindless killing and destruction was.

In a sense, it was the horror and revulsion that the majority felt for the acts of the Adepts that made more and more Vulcans listen seriously to Surak. Surak
told
his listeners what the world of the future might be like if Vulcans' emotions remained unchecked. T'Pel
showed
those same people exactly what it
would
be like. The tide slowly and inexorably turned to Surak and Total Logic. T'Pel and her Adepts were reviled and hunted. The path to Vulcan's future had been clearly laid out by Surak, and his followers would find no place for the madness of T'Pel. Beneath the swelling wave of irrefutable logic, T'Pel and her Adepts disappeared from Vulcan and its records; a part of the past that logical Vulcans could know of and accept, but that which no outworlder could possibly comprehend. Her acts, her schools, her followers, were relegated to the vaults of the secret histories of Vulcan, which some offworlders had often suspected existed, but which none had seen.

But Surak had had other enemies, not all as extreme as T'Pel…at first.

The Travelers were those who had rejected Surak and his ways and, by doing so, had rejected Vulcan. In monstrous ships, they had abandoned the world that had forsaken them and set out to find a new world to tame with the ancient traditions intact and venerated. And among them were others with different motives for leaving Vulcan, others for whom exile was preferable to death. Deep within the Travelers' ships, T'Pel and her last Adepts journeyed for their own chance for freedom.

At last the Travelers came to a system with two planets that some, in desperation, would call suitable for life. The most hard won of the two was called ch'Havran, and on it were the harsh lands of the dreaded East Continent. It was there that the clan that would spring from T'Pel and her Adepts would find a home suitable for their talents.

The Travelers had willingly discarded all that they had that was Vulcan. A new language was created, new customs explored, the hatred for their origins grew until they had wiped out all traces of their Vulcan heritage. Except on the East Continent. Except in the nations of Kihai and LLunih, where in the darkened secret rooms, the old traditions were passed, and the name that was whispered from lips that dripped with the green gore of their blood sacrifices was the name T'Pel.

All other names from Vulcan passed from their knowing. The Travelers themselves were now the Rihannsu. But when the humans came, the name that was given in ignorance was Romulan, and among the proud people who had once given up an entire world for what they perceived as justice, the time for action had once again come.

Some among the Rihannsu were willing to listen to the humans and risk meetings and exchanges. But in the East Continent, in the nations of Kihai and LLunih, the ancient traditions lived. The ships from the clans of those nations were the ones that dogged the Federation vessels, becoming more and more brazen in their actions until war was inevitable.

It was a glorious time for the Adepts. They fueled the images of their nation's atrocities that burned into the minds and souls of a hundred worlds, rekindling the horror of what might have been the last great days of Vulcan.

But in that first war the Federation was victorious, and once again the Adepts of T'Pel sank beneath knowing in defeat. But the war they had helped start had brought them important new knowledge: the universe had changed since the time of the Travelers. There were innumerable new worlds and new civilizations joined into one.

Why should the Adepts content themselves with the destruction of just one world and one culture when there were so many now to choose from?

The Adepts of T'Pel had waited two thousand years for this moment. Before them the galaxy beckoned, and they moved out into it, learning its ways, swearing by the ancient blood and the ancient name that before they were forced to retreat again, they would hear that galaxy scream.

They had been true to their oath. In the dark reaches of the galaxy, in the ports and shadows where such things were discussed, the ancient name was passed from one to another, offering unspeakable services…for a price. Thus far the galaxy had been silent. But that silence would not last. The Adepts of T'Pel had sworn it.

They had returned.

“Good Lord,” McCoy whispered. The others in the room remained silent. Only the soft rush of the pumps could be heard.

“How long have you known?” Kirk asked, his anger replaced with sorrow. Alone among the others he knew the cost to Spock of what had been revealed. A sacred Vulcan trust, Spock had called his knowledge of T'Pel, and he had been forced to break it.

“Of T'Pel,” Spock said, “since I was a child and experienced my first melds with the ancient memories. Vulcans do not blindly follow the teachings of Surak simply because it is our tradition. Through the melds, each of us has experienced firsthand the chaos from which those teachings sprang and the chaos to which we might return if we do not continue in the ways of logic.”

Spock looked in turn at each of those listening, making sure to meet their gaze, especially McCoy's. Kirk knew it was Spock's way of making his plea that none of what he had told them be repeated, a plea that logic forbade him from making aloud.

“How long have I known that the Adepts of T'Pel still exist among the Romulans of today?” Spock continued. “Classified documents from the first Romulan war hint at it. Analyses completed in the century since then tend to confirm it. But there is still no absolute proof, as no Adept has ever been captured. Alive.”

“But how long have you known, or suspected, that they were responsible for the events on Prime?” Kirk asked gently.

“Since Mira's message informed me that Commodore Wolfe commanded the troopers to search for me with phasers set to kill.”

“How does that prove anything?” Uhura asked before anyone else had the chance.

“It's against every regulation in the book,” Kirk answered so Spock could continue.

“Exactly,” Spock said. “Starfleet expressly forbids the use of deadly force against unarmed personnel.”

“Then how in blazes could Wolfe order her troopers to use deadly force against you?” McCoy demanded.

“Quite obviously, the commodore had some reason for believing that I was no longer to be considered unarmed.”

“But why?” Uhura asked.

“She thought you were part of the Adepts of T'Pel,” Kirk said softly.

“Precisely,” Spock replied. “And as such, trained in the ancient schools of unassisted combat; a being whose entire body can be considered a living weapon and sworn to the destruction of life and order at all costs. The commodore could not send her troops unprotected against such a being. She had no choice but to order them to defend themselves and this facility in the most decisive manner, just as we would respond to any comparable military threat.”

It took only a moment for McCoy to see where that conclusion led. “You mean
Starfleet
knows?” he asked. “About the
Adepts?”

“Precisely, Doctor,” Spock answered. “It would not be logical for Vulcans to refuse to share information that could preserve the stability of the Federation. There are those within Starfleet who have been made aware of the Adepts of T'Pel and the role they might play in any potentially destabilizing activities. However, that information is strictly classified.”

“But why?” McCoy, as usual, bridled at the machinations of the government.

“Think, Doctor,” Spock explained. “If the general population learned that an organization of Romulan assassins threatened the Federation, then surely there would be an increase in those who clamored for a resumption of war. Furthermore, revealing that the Federation is aware of the Adepts' existence would provide the Adepts with proof that their organization has in some way been penetrated by the Federation Security Service. Whatever means the service has been using to monitor the Adepts will have been compromised and lost. Unable to be kept under surveillance, the Adepts will then become even more dangerous. The Federation's knowledge of them cannot be revealed.”

“To say nothing of what it might tell the general population about Vulcan history,” Nensi commented.

“We prefer to think of it as
pre
history,” Spock corrected, “but that is also a consideration. Though by no means the most important one.”

“So we're cut off,” McCoy railed, “being hunted down by a commodore who'd rather see us dead than risk having knowledge of the Adepts revealed, and at the mercy of a bunch of Romulans who want to kill the Federation's best scientists so they can start a war!” His arms flapped at his sides. “I should have been a vet,” he said in disgust, and slumped against the wall.

“I will agree that we are cut off,” Spock said calmly, “and concede that the commodore would rather have me, at least, killed. But we cannot assume that the Adepts wish to start a war.”

“And why not?” McCoy demanded.

“The Adepts follow the so-called discipline of Analogics,” Spock said. “They have no motives. They are assassins for
hire.”

“Without a motive,” Kirk said, “most crimes can't be solved. That's why it's been so hard to determine who the victim of the assassin or assassins might be: they aren't connected, except by the third party who hired one to kill the other.”

“But who?” McCoy was becoming more aggravated by the second.

“Think motive, Bones,” Kirk said. “What motives would the Adepts work for? Illogical motives. Madness. Confusion. Destruction of order, of…” He turned to Spock, eyes afire. “Sradek!” he cried.

“The assassin?” Spock asked in surprise.

“No, the victim!” Kirk reached out his hands. “You've been investigating his work. Pathfinder Two confirmed it. Sradek's interfering with the operation of the Sherman's Planet famine board of inquiry, is he not?”

“So I believe,” Spock confirmed.

“Agribusiness! Big business,” Kirk continued. “Billions upon billions of credits at stake. The stability of the whole sector. What if Sradek is
not
interfering? What if the Sherman's Planet famine and all the ones like it have been specifically engineered? It's possible. A conspiracy by some group to ensure that environmental data for agricultural worlds is misreported or misrepresented. That leads to improper crop selection, therefore crop failures, financial drain on the interplanetary banking system, famine, disease…political instability. What would happen if that type of disaster was being manipulated to appear on dozens of worlds at once on purpose, instead of just one or two by accident? Sradek's brilliant, trained Vulcan mind may be the only one that can see the truth that the famines have been artificially created. He could be the target of a campaign to discredit him and his work so that no one will believe his conclusions. And since that campaign isn't totally working, the only other way to prevent his interference is to kill him!”

Spock considered the captain's hypothesis. He raised both eyebrows and nodded. “It does fit the facts,” he admitted.

“But you're not convinced?” Kirk prodded.

“I would have to accept that my independent study of Sradek's conclusions was in error—”

“Heaven forbid your work should be in error, Spock!” McCoy muttered.

“But it
could
be if the data you were working with was wrong!” Kirk said in triumph. “Pathfinder Two said that the Sherman's Planet data from Memory Gamma had been interfered with! If the conspiracy has penetrated the Memory Planets, there's no end to the chaos that incorrect data could cause.”

“I believe we must warn Academician Sradek,” Spock announced. The debate was over.

“At least you could have the courtesy to say the captain was right,” McCoy suggested.

“I believe I already have, Doctor.” Spock studied Kirk. “Considering your injuries, are you able to join us, Captain?”

Kirk refused to dignify the question with a response and turned to Romaine. “Mira, how can we get to Sradek?”

Nensi stepped forward before Romaine could answer. “The doctor and the lieutenant are in civvies, so they can come with Mira and me. I've got the VIP passes to get them into the scientists' compound on my authority. You and Spock can come up in the associate equipment cart.”

“Equipment cart?” Kirk asked.

Nensi blinked at the captain. “How do you think Pathfinder Two had the associate bring you here? Drag you through the tunnels asking the troopers not to look?” Nensi pulled a sheet of insulating fabric off the platform Kirk had come to consciousness on. It was a wheeled, closed cart, about the size of an associate, with a hitch at one end that Kirk saw could attach to an associate's rear appendage bay.

“Oh,” Kirk said. “That was going to be my next question.”

 

Scott felt the vibration of the glowing verifier dome flutter against his hand. He looked nervously over to the technician who operated the Mark II desktop terminal in Prime's security interrogation room. The technician ran a hand through his dark beard and looked up at Commodore Wolfe standing beside him.

“Verified,” the technician said resignedly. “He's telling the truth, Commodore. Three times out of three. Just like Dr. Stlur.”

The commodore glared at Scott. Scott felt his indignation grow but forced himself not to say or do anything that would interfere with his chances of getting the commodore to believe him. Spock's life, even the captain's, depended on his convincing the commodore that the real threat to the scientists on Prime came from robots and not from Scott's fellow officers.

“Medical analysis!” the commodore snapped.

The Andorian trooper that stood beside the verifier stand waved a medical scanner in front of Scott's head and chest and checked the readings on a tricorder.

“Absolutely no indication of blocking drugss or nonbiological implantss, Commodore,” he hissed in disappointment.

Wolfe leaned over and checked the readings on the terminal again, tapping her hand on its status indicator bar. Then she stood up, a decision made. “Set that to automatic,” she told the technician, “and leave. Both of you.” She held out her hand to the Andorian. “But you give me your phaser,” she added.

A few moments later, the interrogation room cleared except for herself and the prisoner, Wolfe leaned back in her chair and regarded Scott with a look of contempt.

“Mr. Scott,” she finally began, “we will proceed on the assumption that at the end of all this you will still wish to be a part of Starfleet…no matter what your eventual rank downgrading might turn out to be. That is what you wish, is it not?” She turned to watch the computer display.

Scott swallowed hard. “Aye, Commodore, it certainly is.”

“Good,” Wolfe said, seeing that the engineer's reply was confirmed by the verifier. “Now, Mr. Scott, are you aware of the penalties as set out in Starfleet regulations pertaining to the disclosure of classified material?”

“Aye,” Scott said. What did this have to do with anything? he wondered.

“Very good,” Wolfe said, narrowing her eyes at the engineer. “Therefore, as stated in those same regulations, let me inform you that some of what I'm about to say may or may not fall under level-eight classification. I will not tell you which parts are so classified so you will be bound by your Starfleet oath not to reveal any part of this conversation without risking solitary life imprisonment on Rock. Do you understand what I have just said?”

“That I do, Commodore,” Scott answered, his voice dry and threatening to crack.

“What knowledge do you have of an organization known as the Adepts of T'Pel?” Wolfe's eyes stayed locked on the Mark II's display lights.

Scott glanced up at the light strips along the ceiling, desperately trying to determine why the name sounded familiar. “I, ah, I have nae knowledge of such an organization,” he stammered.

“The verifier indicates otherwise, Mr. Scott,” the commodore said in a voice of judge, jury, and executioner. “I will allow you one more chance to tell me the truth.”

“T'Pel!” Scott suddenly said. “That was the name the captain asked Dr. Stlur about!”

The commodore smiled and Scott had a sudden fear that he was somehow betraying the captain.

“And what was the nature of that inquiry?” Wolfe continued.

Scott bit his lip, trying to replay the discussion in the reading lounge. “Ah, the captain…the captain asked Dr. Stlur what the name meant just as we were getting ready to leave the lounge.”

“What was the Vulcan's response?”

Scott wrinkled his brow as he remembered. “The doctor said it was his…his grandmother's name.” It wasn't making sense to Scott, but from Wolfe's expression, it seemed that she saw a pattern forming in his replies.

The questions and answers continued as the commodore led Scott through a reconstruction of Kirk's exchange with Stlur. When Scott had finished, Wolfe scratched at the side of her face, deep in thought.

“Uh, Commodore?” Scott said, unable to remain in the dark by choice.

Wolfe nodded at him to proceed.

“Why the change?”