Storms in the Desert

[Sorehl 0]

Sorehl stood at the edge of the paved roadway, looking over the stark, yet living landscape.

 

Although the various councils of the Federation government could meet in any one of several chambers scattered across the Terran globe – Paris, Sao Paulo, Tokyo, Sydney – the Security Council had opted to hear his report in San Francisco, as they tended to do whenever the subject involved their direction over Starfleet Command.

 

At the conclusion of his testimony, he had laid down the title of Commissioner and taken a transit tube several hundred miles away from the city. Transporters were not the planetside norm for ordinary civilians like himself, so he had arranged a ground shuttle to take his children into what humans called a desert on their world. He had been interested to learn that the shuttle port itself was built on the site of an old aeroplane facility designed to accommodate flight in the mid-20th Century – its name was also Sky Harbor.

 

His wife had been summoned to the Palais de la Concorde. There, she continued to consult with her superiors in the “foreign service” on the delicate détente with the Gamma Quadrant powers. They would dictate the policies to which she would adhere when resuming her assignment at Camelot Station. So for now, the children and the excursion were his.

 

Hefting his one-year-old son in one arm, he stepped off onto the unpaved part of the trail. The unyielding sun beat down, making it one of the few regions of the planet warm enough for his Vulcan blood. He could wear hiking clothes without the need for a thermal undergarment.

 

Further ahead, his oldest daughter scaled a rock outcropping, avoiding a plant with spines so dense it almost looked furry. His middle daughter T’Ael bounded along in the space between them, her blonde hair trailing behind her.

 

“How much further?” his youngest daughter T’Jen asked beside him, breathing deeply as if to feign exhaustion. They had not gone far by foot and the air was much too rich in oxygen for her to be truly tired.

 

“About two kilometers,” he answered concisely. To give her a sense of distance, he raised his arm, pointing out an upthrust of rocks. “You see that formation beyond T’Kel?” He saw the seven-year-old nodding. “Javelina Rocks is our destination.”

 

The Vulcan girl scrunched her face. “Why do they call it that?” she asked, emphasizing the last word.

 

Sorehl walked on alongside her, craning his neck to avoid being swatted by one of his son’s flailing arms. “It is named for an indigenous species that sometimes dwells in the clefts. Perhaps we will see some as night falls.”

 

Around them hundreds of saguaro cacti towered in one of the few unspoiled collections within the Preserve. Earth, of course, was an alien world to him. The sky was too blue, and there was a greater abundance of plant life, but it still prompted a sense of nostalgia, whether justified or not.

 

He stumbled a bit as he realized his daughter had wrapped her arms around both of his legs. “I love you, daddy,” she declared with unrestrained affection.

 

Logically, he realized, it made sense that children felt appreciation toward those who provided them basic security. But that logic made it no less genuine and no less personal. He reached down to brush her hair and touch her head, allowing a sense of familial comfort and serenity to bleed through the faint touch telepathy.

 

Just as quickly, she let go, bouncing away and kicking up dust in her wake. He watched her go.

 

The vast majority of Vulcan cultures made no attempt to impose emotional restraints on their children before the age of accountability, usually marked by the kahs-wahn or some similar ritual. As with bodily functions, motor skills, social norms, and vocational abilities, all things developed in their proper order. Emotional mastery was near the pinnacle. Eventually, T’Jen would choose one of the logical disciplines – or none at all – and study the doctrines of Surak through them. She might choose the cryptic, ancient Yhri ways of his own fathers or the M'neimon-ahr Order of her mother. Either was preferable to the distortion of the Kolinahr. But that discussion was for future days.

 

He hefted his son again, picking up the pace. Off to the east, beyond the jagged mountains, dark clouds gathered. Brilliant bolts of lightning punctuated the horizon, typical of the intense electrical storms famous in this area. Still, he trusted in the weather nets which had indicated the rainfall itself would pass some distance from them. This time together would not be disturbed by inclement weather.

 

He continued on, unaware of political storms gathering elsewhere, and how vain his attempts would be to avoid them.

Edited August 5, 2008 by Sorehl

[Ambassador TSalik 0]

He continued on, unaware of political storms gathering elsewhere, and how vain his attempts would be to avoid them.

 

Along these lines, I have posted a related link elsewhere on the boards: Diplomacy Near and Far