The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [21]
He knew the way into Camenae’s shadowed office by heart, but he stumbled over the threshold anyway, his feet tangled by haste and a fear so strong it weakened his knees. She waved him to a chair, but he continued to stand, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to sprint away again.
“I’ve just seen the latest report to Miyakawa from the Enterprise,” he said, still panting from his run to the bar. “Camenae, the Vulcans on Atropos are dead!”
“So the Enterprise is handling this matter.
That’s definitely information I can use.” She reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew a token.
“No,” cried Grede, his voice rising in pitch. “I didn’t come here to sell you something.
Camenae, this situation is getting out of hand.
We’re talking the death of prominent Federation citizens. That means an investigation, questions, officials prying into every corner of this starbase.”
She shrugged. “I’m not responsible if you failed to consider the consequences of our last transaction.”
“Dammit, I could get into serious trouble for what I’ve done!”
“In that case,” she said, palming the coin he had rejected, “I’ll put this on your account.
You may have need of it in the future.”
He searched her face for some sign of compassion. The corners of her mouth were turned down, but not out of concern for his misfortune.
Camenae was merely impatient for him to leave.
Sendei shut his eyes.
After a century of practice, this simple act should have slipped him easily into meditation, but today that skill eluded him. The Vulcan struggled to submerge himself and failed. He could still hear the muffled exchanges between students and professors in the hall outside, and the outlines of his office remained clearly visible in his mind.
He took a deep breath. Then, like a child just learning the first steps of emotional control, he summoned the construct of two hands and imagined them cupped over each of his ears.
When all sounds had faded, Sendei passed the hands in front of his face, and his awareness of the room in which he sat receded as well. The removal of these distractions released other thoughts that were not so easily blocked.
He was haunted by memories of the dead.
Over ten years had passed since he had found T’Sara standing on the crest of a moonlit dune, gazing out across the plains to the blackened silhouette of Mount Selaya. Sendei had argued with her for hours, nearly until dawn, but logic could not deter T’Sara from selling her estate to continue her search for the Ko N’ya. He had stormed away when his emotional reserve finally shattered against her obstinacy. By the time he had recovered his composure, she had left Vulcan.
He never saw her again.
T’Sara had no close family, and the distant branches of her clan had severed all contact after she ceded her ancestral lands. As of this moment, Sendei claimed her as his own kin. He would write her name in his family’s annals so that his children’s children would revere her memory.
Her image faded and he was alone in the desert.
Dipping his hands into the dune, Sendei filled cupped palms with sand, then focused his attention on the grains as they streamed from between his fingers. This second construct helped him descend to another level of the meditative state.
He did not see Sohle’s face, but he remembered the gruffness of the man’s voice. Although Sohle had never professed belief in T’Sara’s quest, he had been the first archaeologist at the Academy to announce his decision to accompany her to Atropos, and he had met the storm of criticism leveled against his participation with a short answer. “I will learn more from her folly than from the wisdom of my colleagues.”
Other professors and students had been persuaded by these words, so T’Sara did not leave Vulcan alone.
Now Sendei would have to inform Sohle’s children that their father was dead, just as Tessin’s brothers must be told that their only sister would not return home.
Skorret