When they arrived, M’Benga and Pennington discovered a simple rail system in place, with a pair of Vulcans waiting beside a hand-powered rail car large enough to accommodate several passengers, including the still-unconscious and stretcher-bound T’Prynn. Even the use of an antigravity unit to maneuver the stretcher had not been permitted, but the Vulcans had been more than willing to lift T’Prynn into the car. The journey to Kren’than had taken more than two hours, with their Vulcan chauffeurs setting and maintaining a steady pace on the hand-cranked controls that set the car in motion. Despite what had to be enormous effort on their part, the Vulcans uttered not a word, never so much as displaying labored breathing as they worked.
Showoffs,Pennington thought.
In the village itself, he and M’Benga were quickly greeted by a trio of healers, all of whom were working in some capacity with Sobon, who apparently had excused himself to his private chambers for extended meditation in preparation for working with T’Prynn. With M’Benga’s approval, the healers had taken T’Prynn into the village’s small medical ward, a single-story adobe structure that looked to Pennington to have been created from formed mud or clay, with a wooden roof, as was the case with the majority of the settlement’s other presumably permanent structures. Neither M’Benga nor Pennington had seen her since that time, though one of the healers had come to tell them that T’Prynn had been settled in her room and that he and his companions were waiting for Sobon to emerge from meditation. For nearly an hour, the two humans had sat in this room, which as far as Pennington could tell was but one room in the large building that operated as the seat of Kren’than’s provincial government.
With the sun continuing its descent behind the western range of the L-langon Mountains, the room was growing darker. As if on cue, a door at the back of the room opened, admitting a young Vulcan male carrying a stout white candle in a flat black holder. Pennington guessed him to be in his late teens or early twenties, knowing that his estimate might be off by decades given protracted Vulcan life spans. As Pennington and M’Benga waited in silence, the young Vulcan used the candle to light a pair of oil lamps mounted on the back wall before proceeding to a smaller lamp on the table at the center of the room. His task completed, he turned his attention to M’Benga.
“Doctor,” he said, “I am Sinar, a student of Healer Sobon’s. He has assigned me to act as your assistant during your visit with us. I’ve been instructed to inform you that he is prepared and to ask if there is anything you require at this time.” As the young Vulcan spoke, and despite the veneer of self-control that all Vulcans employed at all times, Pennington still noted a slight discomfort, as though Sinar would rather be anywhere else but here.
Well, that makes two of us.
Nodding toward Pennington, M’Benga replied, “Some water would be sufficient for now. I trust sleeping quarters have been readied?”
“As Healer Sobon requested,” said Sinar. “I will take you there once your business with him has concluded for the evening.”
“Then by all means,” Pennington said, “let’s get this show on the road.” When he caught the irritated glare from M’Benga, he added, “I mean, we’re ready when you are.”
Sinar nodded. “Very well. Follow me.”
As he fell in step next to Pennington and they followed Sinar out of the room and down a long, narrow corridor, M’Benga leaned closer and whispered, “These Vulcans aren’t like the ones you’re used to dealing with. Jocularity and other informal speech mannerisms won’t get you anywhere.”
“If that’s the case,” Pennington replied, “then they’re exactly like the Vulcans I’m used to dealing with.”
M’Benga suppressed a sigh. “All I’m saying is that these Vulcans don’t normally interact with humans—or any outworlders, for that matter. Ordinarily, we’d never have been allowed to set foot in the village at all, much less be welcomed into their homes. The only reason we’re not under armed guard is that Sobon put in a good word for us, but that doesn’t mean they have to like us. They’re not familiar with euphemisms or slang or our plain and simple torturing of what should otherwise be a rather straightforward language. If you talk in anything other than formal Federation Standard, in most instances, they won’t have the first damned clue what you’re saying.”
While his first thought was to respond that such was only fair, in that he rarely, if ever, fully comprehended everything a Vulcan might say during the course of normal conversation, Pennington nodded instead. “Understood, mate. I’ll mind my manners.”
They continued in silence, following Sinar down the corridor, which was illuminated by oil lamps mounted at regular intervals along the left wall. The slight downward slope of the passageway and numerous intersections they passed led Pennington to realize that they were traversing an underground tunnel, likely in a network of such subterranean passages used to connect the village’s aboveground structures.
“Interesting design aesthetic,” he remarked.
“Not atypical in remote villages and settlements like this one,” M’Benga replied. “Underground chambers are better environments for storage, for one thing. The passages also offer shelter during inclement weather, which is probably something of a regular occurrence up here in these mountains. They also offer protection against local predators.”
Pennington frowned. “Predators? You mean beasts of some sort?”
“Of some sort,” the doctor repeated. “You’ll get this advice soon enough, but don’t go anywhere up here alone, particularly after dark.”
“Oh, that’s grand,” Pennington said, shaking his head. What in the name of hell have I gotten myself into?
After maneuvering several turns in the corridor, inclining upward at a gradual angle, they came upon a large wooden door secured by a simple metal bolt. Sinar reached out and slid the bolt aside, the sound of it echoing in the narrow passageway. He ushered M’Benga and Pennington through the doorway ahead of him before pulling the door closed behind him and sliding the bolt back into place.
The trio now stood in what Pennington guessed was a sort of den or study. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with books and scrolls, a dozen crystalline vessels of differing sizes, shapes, and colors, plus various other items he did not recognize. A small wooden desk occupied one corner, and a large, ornately designed area rug dominated the center of the floor. On one end of the desk, an oil lamp provided the room’s only illumination.
“These are Sobon’s private chambers,” Sinar explained. “He has completed his meditation and is now attending your friend.”
Pointing to one of the odd crystal objects, each of which caught the lamp’s light and reflected it in myriad colors across the shelves’ other contents, Pennington asked, “What are those?”
“ Vre-katra.Closely translated, it means ‘ katricark,’” M’Benga replied. Seeing the quizzical expression on the journalist’s face, he held up a hand. “It’s a long story.”
Gesturing for them to follow, Sinar proceeded across the room to the door on the opposite wall. After passing down another corridor, this one decorated with tapestries and paintings, they crossed a larger sitting room and finally came to another door. Sinar paused before it, knocking on its aged wooden surface.
“Come,” a raspy voice called out from the other side. Sinar opened the door and led the way into the room.
Pennington paused as he stepped inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light offered by the single lamp in the room’s far corner. A bed was positioned along the far wall, beneath an open window, and lying on it was T’Prynn. She wore the same Starfleet-issue patient gown in which she had been dressed by M’Benga before departing the Yukon.Her hands were clasped across her chest. The irregular, infrequent rising and falling of her chest were the only indications that she was not dead. Conspicuously absent was any of the Starfleet medical equipment, all of which had remained on the Yukon.