The Fire and the Rose

by David R. George III

  “I do,” Spock said, “but I am also human.”

  “Does your mother live as a Vulcan?” Tremontaine asked. “Does she control her emotions, practice the—” She stopped, realizing the personal character of her questions. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “But you do,” Spock replied. “Or am I mistaken in thinking that you are interested in learning about me?”

  Tremontaine felt herself flush. “Am I that transparent?” she asked.

  “Transparent?” Spock said, raising an eyebrow. “No. But we have spent a great deal of time together in the past month, and I am perceptive.”

  “You most assuredly are,” Tremontaine said with a laugh that utterly failed to cover her embarrassment. Silence settled between them, and Tremontaine felt terribly self-conscious. She hunted for something, anything, to fill the empty space, but her mind blanked. For all of my political and communications skills, she thought, how can I be so bad at this?

  Mercifully, the musicians began to play once more, their notes lightening the weight that seemed to have fallen on her. She looked away from Spock and over the railing, at the spotlights reaching into the purplish blue waters to illuminate the Alonis performers. When she glanced back up, she saw Spock’s gaze still on her.

  He leaned forward and said, “It may help you to feel less uneasy to know that I am interested in learning about you, Alexandra.” He sat back, then said, “Do you return to Earth often? I assume you were raised there.”

  Again, Tremontaine smiled, this time more widely. “I was born in the city of Montreal,” she said. “In an area known as Plateau Mont-Royal.”

  They talked for a long time. She told him about her childhood in Quebec, about her parents and her sister, about her abortive attempts to become a concert violinist. Spock asked many questions, and Tremontaine happily answered with the details of her life. He spoke of his own parents, of his half brother, and most revealingly, of his long reluctance to accept the human aspects of his nature. Eventually, though, Spock had come to know himself and to learn how to forge his duality into an integrated whole.

  They stayed at the cafe until it closed, then hailed an airpod and flew back to the embassy. Like a gentleman, Spock walked Tremontaine to the door of her suite. She looked at his strong, handsome features, peered into his dark eyes, and felt enormously attracted to him. “Good night, Spock,” she said.

  “Good night, Alexandra,” he said. He raised his hand between them, offering his paired middle and index fingers to her. Tremontaine had seen this before, among Vulcan couples, though she had never done it herself. Still, she recognized it as an act of physical affection, like a kiss, she thought.

  Tremontaine slowly lifted her own two fingers and touched their tips crosswise to the tips of Spock’s. A pleasant jolt charged through the point where her flesh met his, that first electric sensation shared between new lovers. And then she felt something more—no, she didn’t feel it, it didn’t affect her through any of her senses, but in-

  In my mind, she thought. A tendril of existence not her own whispered along the core of her being. It seemed frightening, but in an exciting way, and Tremontaine didn’t quite know how to react. She wanted to be open to Spock, though, and she strived to let down the mental barriers she hadn’t even known she had until just now. She imagined her thoughts, her being, flowing free, slipping from the coffers of her mind. Her guard came down, slowly and ever so slightly, but when it did-

  Spock’s mind found hers. His being, his very essence, commingled with her own, allowed a glimpse of everything he was, allowed him to see her. For an impossibly short span, the two became one, the joining supremely satisfying and promising joys to come. Her mind reacted strongly, and her body too, fulfillment there and in the distance. The moment of contact extended and then—

  Ended. Spock’s fingers parted from hers, and his mind withdrew from her mind, their connection severed. But the echoes of their physical and mental touch lingered, like the remembered press of lips against lips, but more than that too.

  “Good night, Alexandra,” Spock said again.

  “Good night, Spock,” Tremontaine said, her voice drawn down almost to a sigh. With an effort, she turned from him and entered her suite. She closed the door and then leaned heavily against it.

  Live long and prosper, she thought. Never before had that seemed like such a marvelous possibility.

  In the chill just after dawn, Spock sat alone on a concrete bench near the center of the embassy courtyard. The large square area, located at the heart of the single-story edifice, boasted a colorful assortment of flora scattered across a green expanse of lawn. Several gnarled trees invested the space with age, and paved walking paths wound through the lush foliage.

  He held his hands out before him, fingertip to fingertip, and his surroundings faded as he performed his morning meditation. The twitter of birds slipped away as he concentrated on the infinite, the misty gleam of the sun-drenched dew vanished as he focused on the void. His mind crystallized, taking shape about the dimensionless of a single point. Within, he found stability, he found peace.

  And he found Alexandra.

  It had been eight days ago that he had confirmed her interest in him at the Notes on the Water cafe, and that he had declared his own interest in her. Since then, most of their time together had been spent in conference with the Alonis ambassador and her chief of staff, as well as with their own aides. Outside the summit, they continued to work on finding a way to broker a deal that would see a starbase constructed in this system. But they had made a point of taking their evening meals together, and last night, with great discretion, Spock had stayed with Alexandra.

  They had grown very close, very quickly, in a way that Spock didn’t know if he’d ever experienced. His childhood betrothal to T’Pring had been arranged by their parents, a connection severed by the kal-if-fee, the challenge T’Pring had brought when they had been drawn together to commit themselves to, or to release themselves from, their marriage vows. His relationship with Leila Kalomi had been chaste, despite the love she had professed for him and the love for her he’d refused to admit, even to himself. Later, on Omicron Ceti III, under the influence of spores that broke down mental defenses, Spock had felt that love for Leila, had confessed it to her, and had spent a brief time exploring it with her. And neither his unanticipated but fiery liaison with Romulan Commander Charvanek, nor his joining out of necessity with Saavik, had occurred in circumstances that would have allowed the possibility of continuing those relationships.

  But with Alexandra, Spock sensed the potential for much more. No longer the outcast child he had been on Vulcan, no longer struggling to deny his human, emotional heritage, he had arrived at a place in his life where he had found satisfaction—where he felt contentment. He knew himself and no longer needed to change that person in some substantive way.

  Spock parted his hands and reset himself on the bench. Meditative peace eluded him at the moment, so he would need to reach deeper for it. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his hands together again and concentrated on the space formed within them. He closed his eyes this time and listened to the rhythms of his own breathing, his own heartbeat. He let the repetition of each carry his thoughts away, leaving behind the kernel of his mind. A shroud of lightlessness, of stillness, of silence, descended around him. He saw nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing, his very being settling into a revitalizing tranquility.

  Minutes passed liked hours, the serenity renewing him.

  “Spock,” a voice said from outside his internal universe. He resisted it, not yet ready to surrender the calm he had found. “Spock,” the voice said again, familiar and insistent. The living peace of his reverie dissolved, and Spock opened his eyes.

  Dr. McCoy stood before him in his crimson Starfleet uniform, a red data card in one hand. Dark crescents below his eyes revealed that he hadn’t slept well last night, and an overall look of fatigue suggested that he hadn’t done so in quite so
me time. Spock perceived at once that something was wrong. Whether he had drawn that assessment from the unforeseen and exceptional quality of McCoy’s appearance here, or from some telepathic sense of his troubled mind, Spock could not tell. “Doctor,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides. “I thought you had been scheduled to return to a research position at Starfleet Medical. I did not expect to see you here on Alonis.”

  “I… yeah, I deferred my start date by a couple of weeks,” McCoy said. “I needed some time…” He hesitated, and Spock waited for him to go on. “How are you?” he finally asked.

  “I am well,” Spock said, rising from the bench to face his old friend. “And you?”

  “I’m…” McCoy reached up and rubbed at the side of his forehead, as though in pain. “I’m all right, Spock, but I need to talk to you.”

  “By all means,” Spock said.

  “There’s just no easy way to say this,” McCoy told him, the anguish in his voice corroborating his words. “Jim’s dead.”

  In an instant, Spock knew that McCoy had been provided faulty information, and in the next, that his denial would not, could not, change reality. Rage burned within Spock, an undirected, white-hot fury that threatened to push him to violent action. At the same time, he knew he could do nothing. “What has happened?” he asked, actually shocked at the composed tenor of his voice. Although he remained outwardly calm, he knew that his facade could fracture at any moment.

  “Jim was aboard the new Enterprise,” McCoy said. “Starfleet asked him to attend the christening and the first voyage.”

  “I was aware of that,” Spock said. “I read press accounts that indicated he’d accepted Starfleet’s invitation.”

  “He and Scotty and Chekov went,” the doctor said. “It was just supposed to be a press event, a quick jaunt around the solar system. The ship went out with a skeleton crew, no medical staff, no tractor beam—” As he’d spoken, McCoy’s voice had grown louder. He turned away from Spock and thrust his arms into the air. “If you ask me, it was an accident waiting to happen. I don’t know what Starfleet Command was thinking.”

  Spock wanted to prompt the doctor to continue telling him what had transpired, but he didn’t. He concentrated on controlling his anger, his pain, his helplessness. And deep within him, he felt the smoldering ember of something he’d thought long dead: guilt.

  McCoy turned back around. “I’m sorry, Spock,” he said. “A pair of transport vessels got trapped in an energy anomaly and sent out a distress signal that they received aboard the Enterprise. It was the only ship near enough to respond in time. They managed to save some of the transport passengers before the two vessels were destroyed, but by then the Enterprise had become trapped as well. Scotty figured out a way to break the ship free, something having to do with the deflector dish, and Jim made it happen. But as the Enterprise escaped, it was hit by a burst from the energy field, rupturing the hull across three decks. Jim was… Jim was thrown out into space.”

  Spock could see tears forming in McCoy’s eyes, and he suddenly had the urge to reach out and wrap his hands around the doctor’s throat. Misdirected anger, Spock thought. Destructive, pointless anger. But in his mind’s eye, he permitted himself to see his fingers clench about McCoy’s neck, crushing the life from his friend. The foolishness, the emotional immaturity of the thought allowed him an outlet for his wrath. On the outside, he still managed to wear his stoic mien. “When did this happen?” he asked.

  “Just a few days ago,” McCoy said, and then he amended his reply, stating the exact date and time of Jim’s death. “Starfleet Command’s not releasing the news to the comnets until they’ve been able to notify Jim’s nephews, which should be soon.” With a heavy sigh, he moved past Spock and dropped onto the bench beside the walking path. “Remember how Jim told us that he knew he’d die alone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Spock said. As his ire simmered, he recalled the time when the three had gone camping in Yellowstone National Park on Earth. Jim had fallen while free-climbing El Capitan, but Spock had been present and wearing jet boots, and he’d saved him. Jim had claimed that he’d known he wouldn’t perish from the fall because his two friends had been with him.

  “Damned if he wasn’t right,” McCoy said. “You can’t get much more alone than in the vacuum of space.” Spock turned and peered down at the doctor but said nothing. “Here,” McCoy said, holding out the data card. “This contains accounts of what happened. I thought you might want to see for yourself.”

  Spock accepted the data card. “Thank you,” he said.

  “That’s also got all of the details about the memorial service for Jim at Starfleet Headquarters,” McCoy said. “It’s being held next week. I don’t know when you want to leave, but I thought I’d stay until you do so that we can go back to Earth together.”

  “That will not be necessary, Doctor,” Spock said. His anger had dulled now, leaving in its wake a haze of sorrow and regret. Through all of that, though, he could see the impossibility of doing as McCoy wanted.

  “What do you mean that won’t be necessary?” the doctor asked, suspicion tingeing his words.

  “You needn’t wait to travel with me,” Spock said, “because I will not be attending the memorial service.”

  “What?” McCoy said loudly, rising to his feet. “How can you not go?”

  “I have a duty to perform here,” Spock said.

  “Doing what?” McCoy demanded. “Negotiating with the Alonis? Aren’t there other ambassadors who can fill in for you while you’re away?”

  “Doctor, we are attempting to reach an agreement with the Alonis for the construction of a starbase within this system,” Spock said. “This is of vital interest to the Federation, and a task to which I have been assigned for my obvious knowledge of Starfleet. There is no choice in the matter.”

  “There’s always a choice in the matter,” McCoy barked at him. He stopped for a moment and appeared to gather himself, then continued in softer tones. “Jim was your best friend for almost thirty years,” he said. “But I’m not saying that you owe this to him; I’m saying you owe it to yourself. Whether you can see it or not right now, you need to be there.”

  “As I’ve explained,” Spock said, “I need to be here.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing, Spock,” the doctor said. “For that matter, I can’t believe what I’m seeing.” McCoy marched past him, then turned around and faced him from a distance. “I know you’re a Vulcan, but I also know that you feel things too. You and I, we shared a great deal.” He obviously referred to the incidents involving the Genesis Device, when Spock had reconfigured McCoy’s brain to store his katra, and later, when they had endured the fal-tor-pan, re-fusing Spock’s mind to his body in a process that had linked him and the doctor together in an intensely personal way.

  “I will mourn Jim, of course,” Spock said. “But of all people, the captain would have understood my commitment to my responsibilities.”

  “There are responsibilities other than those to the Federation and the Bureau of Interplanetary Affairs,” McCoy said. “There are personal responsibilities, and you have them: to Jim, to the people who loved him, and most of all to yourself. You need to be at this memorial.”

  Spock did not respond, having already said all he intended to say. The doctor waited out the silence between them, then shook his head. “In case you change your mind, I’ll be on the next ship headed in the direction of Earth,” he said at last. He started to walk away, but then he looked back. “I have to tell you, Spock,” he said quietly, “I’m disappointed.” Then he turned and made his way to the nearest door.

  Spock watched McCoy until he entered the embassy and disappeared from view. Afterward, he sat back down on the bench, closed his eyes, and sought the peace of meditation. It never came.

  Seven

  2267/1930

  Uhura monitored her tricorder as it copied the second set of data from the Guardian of Forever. Though she understood the plan that Captai
n Kirk and Mister Spock had developed, she saw virtually no means of it succeeding other than by sheer luck. At the same time, she knew that they really had no other choice in the matter but to try.

  Behind where she stood with Spock, she heard the captain talking with Scotty. “You keep rubbing the back of your head,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “Aye,” Scotty said, somewhat sheepishly. “Just a wee bump.”

  “What happened?” the captain asked.

  “Ach, when Doctor McCoy ran toward that thing,” Scotty explained, “Galloway and I ran into each other trying to stop him. Our feet got tangled and I fell backward.”

  To Uhura’s surprise, the captain actually chuckled. “Next time,” he joked, “remind me not to assign engineers and security guards to the same landing party.” Uhura found Captain Kirk’s levity, as well as his reference to “next time,” reassuring.

  After Dr. McCoy had leaped through the Guardian and altered history, Spock had attempted to find in his tricorder some evidence of the doctor’s existence in Earth’s past. At the time McCoy had disappeared, Spock had been recording the portal’s output. He had been unable to locate any record of the doctor, though, because of the enormous volume of unprocessed, unindexed data conveyed by the Guardian.

  Uhura compared it to having the numerals from one to a trillion each written on one of a trillion pieces of randomly stacked paper; there would be no swift means of locating a particular number without simply examining the sheets of paper one by one. You might have fortune on your side and find your number on the first page you inspected, but then again, you might also find it on the last. If you spent only one second per sheet, it would still take more than thirty-one thousand years to go through all of them. The tricorder could search data far faster than a person could page through pieces of paper, of course, but the Guardian had also provided far more than a trillion bits of information. With a superior computer, the data could be analyzed, refined, sorted, mined, and then efficiently searched; without such a computer, and without preprocessing the data, that search could take an eternity.