Unification - Jeri Taylor [9]
And was this the excitement he was seeking? Warning alarms sounded in his head, and he turned away before their eyes met.
The walk through Sarek’s mountain estate had been calming. It was designed to be just that, Picard knew, with its carefully planned landscape of off-world plants and hybrids. As soon as he had passed through the wall (most Vulcan homes were walled, a practice Picard personally thought somewhat medieval) he was greeted by the sight of formal gardens, their orderliness imparting a sense of tranquility. Foun-tains dotted the grounds, their gentle sounds creating a graceful counterpoint to the symmetry of the plant-ings. The arrangement reminded Picard of certain Japanese gardens he had visited, and from which he had always emerged refreshed and pacified.
Of course, on Vulcan, it was beastly hot. He’d been on the surface only minutes and already he could feel perspiration dampening his body. The heat was oppressive, a blast furnace laid open. Perrin, who had greeted him at the gate, looked over at him and smiled in sympathy.
“Awful, isn’t it? When I first moved here I had to wear a cool suit. Gradually I adapted, but it’s still like living in Death Valley.”
She led him through the gardens and into the house, with its spacious, high-ceilinged rooms and sparse furnishings. Vulcans seemed to enjoy concocting elaborate gardens that delighted the eye with pattern and variety, but their homes were as empty of artifact as they could make them. Furnishings were simple and few; adornments were rare. A visit to a Vulcan home was rather like visiting a temple.
As they passed through the halls, footsteps echoing on the slate floors, Picard was aware of people retreating before them like wraiths. Shadowy figures melted into doorways or rounded corners ahead of them. It was, he knew, a Vulcan show of courtesy, of granting privacy to their guest by not intruding on his presence. Still, it was an eerie feeling, as though he were walking through a house haunted by unseen spirits.
Perrin paused before a great carved door—one of the few examples of ornamentation—and glanced over at him. He could see the strain in her face, the apprehension in her eyes as she prepared to usher him into Sarek’s chamber. Her eyes implored him for— what? Understanding? Compassion? He returned her look, silently promising whatever she asked. The door swung open and the two stepped in. The room was large and airy; walls of windows flooded the room with light. There was one piece of furniture in the room—a huge, raised bed. Upon it lay Sarek. His face was turned toward them but he did not see them; his eyes were turned inward, to some country deep within. Rivulets of tears had dried on his face, and his mouth moved faintly, though no sound emerged.
Picard was shocked at the man’s deterioration. When last he had seen the ambassador, he was in the first stages of Bendii’s syndrome. His emotions were threatening to break their bounds, but with effort and meditation Sarek was able to achieve a measure of control.
The man on the bed before him had lost that capacity. His white hair was matted and clumped; his strong, angular face was haggard, as though rampant emotion had extracted a terrible toll His lashes were wet with tears, and his mouth, cracked and dried, moved ceaselessly.
“He’s like this most of the time,” Pertin said. “His emotions have taken over.”
She moved toward the bed, followed by Picard. Picard had the sensation of awful violation. This man Sarek should be remembered as a prince among men—authoritative and substantial. There was something horribly wrong about seeing him in this pitiful condition.
“Sarek! You will listen!” Picard was startled by the demanding tone of Perrin’s voice. But it produced an immediate result in Sarek. He snarled in rage, anger rushing to the surface in a volatile display.