It is not hard now to see the appeal of Andrew to us two children, and why he mattered so much to both Michael and me. Untidy, almost chaotic, and with a constant almost nervous energy that kept his hands permanently in motion, or his foot tapping, under no circumstances could Andrew have been mistaken for a Vulcan. And yet his brilliance could not be doubted. Within half-an-hour, he was creating sweet sounds from my ka’athyra that put my years of practice to shame. Satisfied he had mastered the basics, he put the instrument aside and wandered off (two shadows close behind) in search of some new challenge. How could we not adore this mercurial young man, so quintessentially human, and yet displaying all of the virtues impressed upon us as the most important: an insatiable desire for information and knowledge, and an intensity and focus that would have satisfied even the most demanding of our teachers at the Learning Center. And yet… there was no Vulcan parent at home; there had been no Vulcan philosophy behind his education. Andrew was born on Earth, to human parents, and educated in human schools. He was visible proof that our world did not have the monopoly on brilliance. He was balm to our souls.
“Fascinating…” he would murmur, confronted with some new insight into the world about him, and one could see him turn over each new bright jewel of information, setting it in place in the lumber room of his mind for when it would be needed. With great excitement, Michael and I brought him to the kal-toh board, and we watched him tackle it with aplomb, achieving impressive results that had me envy his obvious expertise—until I realized he had never seen a kal-toh board before, and was making up his gameplay as he went along. Michael and I, who had spent long hours memorizing the hundred basic strategies, were dumbfounded. This was my first experience of that very human quality of “blue-sky thinking”, those miraculous-seeming leaps of intuition guided by the nebulous but strong sense of an underlying pattern to the world, that, in the right hands, delivered such remarkable breakthroughs and results. I would see this quality again throughout my life: in brilliant students at the academy; most of all, in my friend and captain, Jim Kirk. This confidence, this vision—Andrew had this capacity in abundance.
I was glad, at this time, also to be able to see more of my maternal grandparents, with whom I naturally corresponded regularly, but whom I had not met in person before. They were gentle, brilliant, intellectual people, with whom I was very shy, but whom I was to come to know better when at last I went to Earth. I remember my grandfather, walking with me along the canal, watching the o’ktath, and quietly asking me about the betrothal to T’Pring.
“I have to admit, Spock,” he said, “that arranged marriages seem strange to me—even repugnant. Are you sure this is what you want?”
I was still very young of course—too young to know what I wanted, other than that I wished to be the Vulcan son my father so transparently desired me to be. I said, “I am not discontented.”
My grandfather gave me an odd look, one which, I realized later in life, was associated with that question my human friends and family would sometimes ask: Yes, but are you happy? He did not ask that question now. “Well,” was all he said, “that’s something, at least. I suppose we’ll have to see what happens. But remember, Spock, your home is Earth, as much as here.”
That, I thought, was a curious thing to say. How could a world that I had never visited be my home? Before he left, my grandfather gave me a beautiful set of hardback books: the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. “You’ll like these,” he said. And then, with a wink, he added, “You’ll like the lead, for certain. There’s a family connection—or resemblance, at least. An ancestor of ours, perhaps. You’ll see.”
I have never quite worked out this claim of my grandfather’s. Since the creation did not exist beyond the covers of the books, and the children of his creator all died without issue, I can only deduce that my grandfather meant this figuratively. Perhaps there is some story still untold—but, leaving this aside, he was quite right. I did like the lead, a great deal. And I did not forget what he said to me—that Earth might provide a home for me.
* * *
And so my later childhood passed. I continued my full range of studies. Michael, a few years ahead of me, departed in due course for the Vulcan Science Academy to study quantum physics, beginning an illustrious career there that caused her younger brother many headaches as he contemplated having to follow in her footsteps. In time, I began my own preparation to enter the Science Academy and, looking back now at my correspondence from this period, I see that Michael reached out to me to offer advice on how best to go about this. I responded cautiously and minimally, but I could see the logic in accepting some guidance, albeit from a distance. Reviewing this series of messages between us, I see now that it is remarkable the extent to which she took time out of what must have been a punishing schedule of study to answer my questions, advise on topics, detail approaches, familiarize me with every aspect of the admissions process. I knew a great deal about the courses on offer, the tutors and their foibles, what questions I might reasonably expect. Seeing her face again in these messages, I recall how centered she appeared at this time and how rightly confident in her abilities. She was—dare I say it—the happiest I had ever seen her. I am grateful that she had this period of certainty in her life.
I would like to end this part of my reflection on my childhood years on a serene and reflective note, but our family faced one last shock, and one which was to have many repercussions in the years to come. After her outstanding time at the Science Academy, graduating top of her class and receiving the Scientific Legion of Honor, Michael’s intention was to join the Vulcan Expeditionary Group. And yet, despite these manifold achievements, her application was rejected. I have subsequently served as an external observer for applications to the Expeditionary Group many times over the years, and I can say confidently that there have not been many applications I have seen that would have matched Michael’s. And yet, for some reason, she was not considered an appropriate candidate for admission.
It was only later, much later, that I learned that the reason why Michael was rejected from the Expeditionary Group. Sometimes, our human background seemed to act like a curse upon us; some fatal flaw which would, at moments of hubris, catch us unawares. There had been considerable consternation, it transpired, at Michael’s success at the Science Academy, and a growing sense that a place in the Group that should be for a Vulcan graduate was likely to go to a human. Was there not a perfectly good equivalent service for such people? Was not Starfleet the place where she should more reasonably serve? This was the Vulcan Expeditionary Group, after all. Such, I gathered later, was the kind of case that was made to my father and, when he rightly refused to accept this, the choice was cast in starker terms. This admission could not be allowed to set a precedent. It would be a special case, for one candidate, and one candidate alone. Did my father prefer this to be his full-human child, or his half-human child?
This decision should never have been forced upon my father. I suspect there were other circumstances that prevented him from telling the Expeditionary Group in no uncertain terms what he thought of this offer. All concerned are long dead, and the politics of that period irrelevant. But not at the time. My father, faced with this impossible choice, chose me. Michael, shocked at her own apparent failure, found herself placed aboard the U.S.S. Shenzhou. I, also unaware of what had transpired, continued my preparation for entry into the Science Academy. But that path now seemed more doubtful to me, for two reasons. Firstly, my sister’s triumphs went before her. I was increasingly aware that, if I attended the academy, I would be known as Michael’s brother, and would struggle to make my own reputation. I was beginning to think that there might be benefits arising from going to a place where I was entirely unknown, and where a complicated heritage was less likely to stand out. The second reason that turned me against the Expeditionary Group was the shock of Michael’s rejection. Although I did not know the full circumstances of this, I was not a fool, and I sensed at the ti
me that the fact that she was human had worked against her. Logically, I would face a similar response, if perhaps mitigated somewhat by the fact that at least some part of me was Vulcan. But to subject myself to this was beginning to seem less and less rational. Quietly, I began to explore other options, enlisting my relatives on Earth to provide me with information about other paths available to me. My grandfather, I recall, proved particularly helpful at this time.
I might wish—as I have wished many times, and in many different cases—that my father had been more open with us. That he had explained to both me and Michael that what happened at this time was not a failure on her part, but that immutable sense of superiority that arose from the deep certainties within Vulcan philosophy that had created such a stable, successful, peaceful society. Above all, I wish that my father had asked us to make this choice ourselves: that he had provided us with the full facts and trusted us, his children, to think logically and unemotionally about our options. We were both, my sister and I, at his own insistence, thoroughly well-trained products of Vulcan philosophy and schooling. We might well have surprised him with our maturity and rationality. Had he done so I believe that the decision that I eventually made might not have been so painful for everyone concerned. Alas, this was not the case, and perhaps there were further complications to this situation which prevented him from disclosing to us what had happened. But the ramifications of my father’s desire to protect us from full knowledge—and, perhaps, from his own sense of guilt at being made party to this shameful decision—were to affect our family for many years to come.
Sybok
THERE ARE MANY SILENCES AND LACUNAE SURROUNDING MY FAMILY, and I had, by my mid-thirties, long accustomed myself to simply not speaking about them. There are many reasons for this, some of which I have already alluded to, some of which shall become apparent as I continue this t’san a’lat, and some of which can be attributed to my natural reserve. Few, for good reason, remember my sister. Few, for other reasons, remember my brother—or, more accurately, my elder half-brother, Sybok. But I find that must now track back in time to speak in more detail about him, about my relationship with him in my early years, and how the course of his life affected my own. He played a part later in my life, which was significant less in its impact upon me than in showing me how far I had come from my very early days, and in revealing once again to my closest friends that there were still hidden parts to me. My brother was a gifted man, both in scholarship and in the deep empathy arising from his unusually powerful ability to mind-meld, but he was, at the same time, troubled in many ways. What I would like now to recall is the brother that he was when I was young, and also to show how the existence of this older brother, and his fraught relationship with our father, had such a deep impact upon my own adolescence.
Although I knew that my father had been married before, and that I had an older brother, the details of that first marriage were largely obscure to me for many years. It was not until after my own mother had died, and my father remarried for a third time, that I learned much of what I know. It is thanks to my father’s third wife, Perrin, that I have much of the information that I shall now recount. Perrin and I did not always see eye-to-eye, but after my father’s death, she was open-hearted and open-handed in allowing me access to his papers in my capacity as his literary executor. From my father’s papers, then, I learned that Sarek’s first wife, T’Rea, was from another aristocratic family, one with similarly strong connections to the diplomatic service. Tying two such families closer by marriage was commonplace; there were, by good fortune, two children of appropriate age. Sarek and T’Rea were bonded in the traditional way at the usual and early age, and this betrothal became a full marriage following my father’s first Pon farr. My father, at this point, had returned from an early diplomatic posting to take up a position within the diplomatic service in ShiKahr, and T’Rea came to live at our family home. Soon after, their son, Sybok, was born.
To all outside eyes, then, this must have seemed a most successful match: scions of two well-established families, with a long history of public service, uniting for the common good of Vulcan. Two years after Sybok’s birth, however, T’Rea went back to live with her family, taking their young son with her. Given her later actions, I have no information as to why she did not leave Sybok with my father, and perhaps she herself had no idea of the life-altering decision she was about to make. Shortly after returning to her own family, where she left her son, T’Rea set out for the sanctuary at P’Tranek Monastery, near Lake Yuron, to begin a short retreat under the guidance of the kolinahr master T’Nel. This in itself was not untoward: a ritual purging of emotions is often undertaken by new parents to assist them in finding the equilibrium required to carry out their new responsibilities. In such cases the retreat is not generally of great duration, and P’Tranek, to this day, is well known as a destination for those seeking temporary respite from the world. But when the three months of the retreat were finished, T’Rea’s family contacted my father to tell him that she had left P’Tranek and was now traveling with T’Nel to a religious community in the L’langon Mountains, where she intended to take Repose.
To understand what T’Rea’s decision meant, one must understand a little more about the history of the L’langon Mountains, and the temples and monasteries there. This far distant region has a very distinct history. Here, Surak faced the greatest resistance to his campaign to unify all Vulcan under his teachings. A great battle was fought on the Bacchus Plateau between the followers of Surak and the followers of High Master Sobok, and, while Surak won the day, the area was never entirely conquered, and there were holdouts of extremists and other outsiders. Rocky and remote, the area is still populated by sects of ultra-ascetics and lonely hermits, and, while these no longer take up arms, they retain a reputation for religious unorthodoxy. You will find many outlandish temples and strange communities here. The village of Kren’then, for example, perched in a bowl upon the top of an isolated mountain, is the home of a community who have rejected all modern technology, living much like your own Earth Amish, Jean-Luc, or the Bak’u, with whom you yourself have experience. A harsh life, in this desert region, but one to which they are utterly committed.
Some kilometers east of Kren’then, deep in the desert, one will find the Temple of Amonak, a shrine that, during the more violent periods of our history, has acted as a sanctuary for those fleeing religious or political persecution. The place, in its last days, was more fortress than temple. After peace was at last established on Vulcan, the buildings fell into disrepair, until a party from Kren’then determined to restore them. Consider the enormity of this task, Jean-Luc: these people, eschewing any form of technological assistance, labored in the desert heat to shore up these crumbling ruins, which symbolized to them all that mattered about L’langon—the freedom to follow one’s own path without external interference or intimidation. These renovations were only concluded at the start of this century, and—should you ever make your long overdue visit to my home planet, Jean-Luc—you will find there one of our most revered religious sites, with a grand sheer façade built over the warrens and hidden places that gave succor during our violent past. The tour of the temple commences at the top of the new high building and takes you down toward the lower levels like an archeologist gently peeling away the layers of history. I believe that you would find this a most stimulating and rewarding experience. Perhaps you will think of my family history when you visit; you might remember my father, and his first wife, and their son.
These renovations were still underway when T’Rea made her journey to Amonak. I have tried, sometimes, to imagine her making this pilgrimage, leaving behind her old life. The scion of a high family that was deeply embedded not only in the life of the great city of ShiKahr, but in an interstellar community, she had chosen to cast this all aside—down to her family, her husband, her son—and journey here. Step by step—yes, she came here by foot across the parched desert, following T’Nel—the layers of her
old life slipping away. She would have seen the nameless mountain where Kren’then lies, rising from the red dust. She would have stayed there for a while, preparing herself mentally for the next step, before she walked along the old road towards the half-built temple. But neither was she staying here. Beyond Amonak, another road—barely more than a dirt track—leads into a narrow clefted valley, the high rock rising up to the left and to the right. If you look closely here, you will see narrow paths zigzagging on each side, and, at intervals, dark holes, like eyes. These are the sel’anar, the Chambers of Repose, hermits’ cells, and here T’Rea came to live out the rest of her days.
You have a similar tradition in your own history, Jean-Luc, of religious figures known as anchorites, or anchoresses, who withdraw from life not to a monastery, but to the enclosure of a solitary cell, to spend their lives fasting and praying. This was the life T’Rea had chosen, one of silence, meditation, and solitude. She will have come to the cell, put down at the door whatever possessions she had brought with her, taken off her shoes, and, barefoot and empty-handed, entered the cell. The temple monks would then have proceeded to seal the door behind her, all the while intoning the itsil’sar, the ritual chant for the dead. When this was done, all that would remain to her of the outside world was the small squint hole, through which food could be passed and the stark sky glimpsed. And here she stayed, practicing the art of kolinahr, until she attained high mastery. Of all the disciplines that have emerged on my world in our attempt to purge the violent emotions of our past, this is surely the most unforgiving. Even the most disciplined of High Masters following the most stringent path to kolinahr at Vulcan’s Forge maintain connections with their families. When T’Rea told her family that she was taking the path of Repose, she was telling them that she was cutting the ties to her old life. That her family—her husband and her son—should consider her dead.
The Autobiography of Mr. Spock Page 6
