The nature of Vulcans and their culture made it difficult for Ra-ghoratreii to assess how much more time Spock would need to mourn. Not even really understanding what that process might be like for the ambassador, the president had approached one of his advisers about it. But T’Latrek, a full Vulcan, had mentioned Spock’s mixed ancestry, as well as the fact that even Vulcans contended with loss in different ways. Regardless, since the ambassador had asked for only ten minutes, Ra-ghoratreii had told his secretary to find that time in his schedule as soon as possible.
On his desk, the intercom issued an electronic buzz. “Mister President,” came the voice of his secretary. “Ambassador Spock is here for his eleven o’clock appointment.” Ra-ghoratreii consulted his chronometer again, noting the punctuality of his visitor.
“Send him in,” he said. He plucked his spectacles from where they hung around his neck and set them atop the bridge of his nose. He then looked up to the far left corner of his office as a pair of wooden doors there parted, in each a circle of frosted glass bearing the UFP emblem. Spock strode in, a slim data slate held in one hand. He wore traditional Vulcan habiliments, long brown robes that hung loosely on his sinewy form. “Ambassador,” Ra-ghoratreii said.
“Mister President,” Spock replied. He crossed the room and mounted the two shallow steps to the office’s central platform, which contained Ra-ghoratreii’s desk and the sitting area before it.
“Please sit down,” the president said, gesturing to the four chairs that stood in pairs on either side of a low rectangular table. As Spock took a seat, Ra-ghoratreii stood and made his way around his desk, where he sat down opposite the ambassador. “Let me offer my condolences on the loss of your friend,” he said. Though both he and Spock had spoken at the memorial, they hadn’t talked with each other. “As Governor Wesley said, Captain Kirk was a true hero.”
Spock nodded, but he did not otherwise respond to the observation.
“Our time is short, Ambassador,” Ra-ghoratreii said, “so I won’t waste your time with other pleasantries. What did you wish to see me about?”
“Mister President,” Spock said, “I understand from BIA Director Irizal that it was you who recommended me for an ambassadorial post.”
“That’s right,” Ra-ghoratreii said. “Your performance as a special envoy was exemplary. Your willingness to speak with Chancellor Gorkon and your ability to convince him to meet with me were of enormous consequence to the Federation. Once you stepped down from starship duty, it seemed a natural choice to offer you a diplomatic position.”
“Because you personally recommended my appointment, Mister President,” Spock said, “I believe it appropriate that you be the first to learn of my resignation.”
What? Ra-ghoratreii thought but did not say. As a politician, he rarely reacted visibly to anything, preferring to maintain a veneer of composure. “Ambassador Spock, I am surprised,” he said. “Do you not find the role—” He searched for the proper word, mindful that he spoke with a Vulcan. “—fulfilling?” he finished.
“It is not that, Mister President,” Spock said. “I did find my ambassadorial responsibilities compelling and challenging. Indeed, if circumstances permit, I may seek such a position at some point in the future. For now, though, I cannot continue in that capacity.” He raised the data slate he’d brought with him and took a small card from its input/output slot. “This is my formal, written resignation,” Spock said, holding up the card. “Once I’ve left here, I will transmit a copy to Director Irizal.”
Ra-ghoratreii made no move to take the data card, harboring a faint hope that he might convince Spock to reconsider. “May I ask why you want to leave?” he said.
“It has become clear to me that I cannot adequately carry out my duties at this time,” Spock said.
“Perhaps you should leave such evaluations to others,” Ra-ghoratreii suggested. “I have assessments that rate your performance very highly.”
“That is gratifying to know,” Spock said, “but regardless of any appraisal of my abilities, I have… personal business to tend to on Vulcan.”
“I see,” Ra-ghoratreii said. “If all you need is time away…”
“No, Mister President,” Spock said. “It is more than that.”
Ra-ghoratreii nodded. He knew that he would receive no further explanation from Spock. The Vulcan’s claim of “personal business” had clearly been intended to forestall any debate about his resignation. “Very well,” Ra-ghoratreii said. He stood up and opened his hand, and Spock deposited the data card in his palm. Ra-ghoratreii then walked from the sitting area and back around his desk, where he picked up his own data slate and deposited the card in its I/O slot. He touched a control specifying large-print output, and the screen filled with outsized characters. He quickly read through it.
“This seems to be in order,” he said, looking across his desk at Spock. Ra-ghoratreii lifted his hand and offered the customary Vulcan gesture of greeting and farewell. “Peace and long life,” he said.
Spock rose and returned the salute, but then replied with a traditional Efrosian valediction: “May you long hear the song of the future.” He did not wait for a reaction, but turned and exited the way he’d entered.
Ra-ghoratreii sat down behind his desk and leaned forward, reaching to activate the intercom. An instant later, his secretary asked, “Yes, Mister President?”
“Find some time in my schedule and set up a meeting for me with the director of the Bureau of Interplanetary Affairs,” he said. “I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Mister President,” the secretary said.
Ra-ghoratreii sat back in his chair and sighed. He hated for the Federation government to lose somebody of Spock’s caliber. And no matter the positive progress Ambassador Tremontaine had been reporting on Alonis, he wanted to replace Spock as quickly as he could.
He knew that it would be a difficult task.
Spock’s sense of time told him the hour, but he checked the chronometer on the display of scheduled departures anyway. He recognized the illogic of the action, particularly when the readout confirmed what he already knew: twenty-eight minutes remained before he could board the Ri’Luje, a transport headed to Vulcan. Of course, his inability to marshal his logical faculties and to sufficiently control his emotions had been what had driven him to embark on this journey in the first place.
Several hundred other passengers also waited in the large, chilly Port of Los Angeles lounge. Though Spock saw mostly Vulcans, he counted thirteen humans present too, as well as members of half a dozen other species. Three individuals—two humans and a Tellarite—wore Starfleet uniforms, though the Ri’Luje traveled under civilian registry.
Spock sat quietly as the minutes passed. It had been a week since he had visited President Ra-ghoratreii in Paris and officially relinquished his post as a Federation ambassador. Since then, he had put all of his affairs here on Earth in order. As he had pledged to do in his letter of resignation, he had submitted a report to the Bureau of Interplanetary Affairs spelling out his impressions and judgments regarding the ongoing negotiations with the Alonis. Director Irizal had contacted him directly to see if anything could be done to persuade Spock to continue his diplomatic service, and also to ask if the director or the BIA could provide any assistance with whatever personal matters had caused him to step down. Spock had appreciated Irizal’s interest and offer of help, but had demurred on both counts.
In the days that followed, Spock had packed up the few belongings he would be taking with him to Vulcan, had put into storage several personal items he wanted to keep—such as the volumes Jim had left to him—and had recycled or given away what remained. He had given up his apartment, staying the last two nights at an inn hear the port while he waited for the arrival of the Ri’Luje, on which he’d booked passage to Vulcan. He’d considered contacting McCoy to inform him of his plans, but had decided against it, wanting to avoid being drawn into a conversation about why-
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p; “Spock,” said a voice to his left. He looked up to see Alexandra standing beside him. A charge rushed through him, reminding him once again how far his mental discipline had slipped.
“Alexandra,” he said, satisfied that he’d kept any emotion from his voice. He stood up and faced her. She wore a lavender dress that complemented her blonde hair. “This is unexpected.”
“I was told that you left the BIA,” she said. To her credit, she spoke her words plainly, with no indication that she accused him of having failed her in some way. Although they had begun to grow close on Alonis, he had not been in touch with her since leaving there. “I was concerned,” she said.
“How is it that you’re here?” Spock asked, curious not only how she had located him, but what it might mean for the Federation—and for Alexandra herself—that she had left Alonis in the middle of the talks.
“I explained to Ambassador Liss the reason you had to leave the talks,” she said. “I told her of Captain Kirk’s death and of your long friendship with him. She understood and agreed to continue the summit without waiting either for you to return or for the Federation to send another Starfleet expert. Truthfully, I think she might have believed it provided her an advantage in the negotiations.”
“Did it?” Spock asked.
“I allowed her to think it did,” Alexandra said. “We made enough progress after that for me to present the full proposal that you and I had worked out. The day that the Alonis Parliament took up debate on it, Ambassador Thivan arrived to take your place.” Spock knew of Thivan, an Andorian and a former engineer who, while never a member of Starfleet, had been the lead designer on several space facilities. “Since the Alonis didn’t expect to issue a formal response for at least ten days, I was able to get away.”
“And you came to Earth specifically to see me?” Spock asked. He supposed that their encounter could have been accidental, but Alexandra’s initial contention of concern for him seemed to indicate otherwise.
“When Thivan arrived to substitute for you in the talks, I contacted Director Irizal,” she said. “He explained that you had resigned your post. When I asked why, he said only that it was for personal reasons and that you would be going back to Vulcan.” Spock hadn’t written in the letter he’d handed to Ra-ghoratreii and transmitted to Irizal that he would be heading back to his homeworld, but he had said so during his meeting with the Federation president. Clearly Ra-ghoratreii must have mentioned it to the BIA director. “When I heard that, I wanted to see you, to help if I could. I went to your apartment in San Francisco, and when I discovered that you’d just moved out, I decided to check the ships bound for Vulcan. The Ri’Luje was the first ship headed directly there.”
“Logical,” Spock observed with appreciation for her keen intellect.
“So tell me what’s wrong,” Alexandra said. “How can I help you?”
“You cannot,” Spock said. Alexandra peered around at the other passengers present, then to the far side of the lounge. With a look, she invited Spock to follow her toward the corner, near a pillar, presumably to find whatever small measure of privacy they could in this public place. He walked over with her, and when she stopped and turned back to face him, she delicately raised her right hand between them, two fingers extended.
Once more, emotions churned within Spock. He felt desire for this woman, and guilt that came from knowing that he would now hurt her, and shame for all of it. He regarded her hand but made no move to touch her fingers with his own. “Alexandra…” he started.
“Spock,” she said, lowering her hand. Again she masked her own feelings, though it seemed apparent that she wanted an explanation. He knew that he owed her that.
“Alexandra, I have… lost myself,” he told her. “I am returning to Vulcan in order to remedy that situation. I will likely be there for quite some time. In fact, at the moment, I have no plans to ever leave.”
“I see,” she said, though Spock doubted that she actually did. How could she, as a human, possibly understand the depth of the difficulties he faced? “May I visit you there?”
“Alexandra,” he said, “I am going to Vulcan in order to study the Kolinahr.”
“Is that an answer to my question?” she asked. “I don’t know what the Kolinahr is.”
“It is a course of study and a discipline by which Vulcans shed their emotions,” he explained.
“’Shed their emotions,’” she echoed. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means that I will learn to perceive the world and to process information, thoughts, and sensory input without feeling,” Spock said. “I will attain mastery of my emotions to such an extent that they will effectively be excluded from my life.”
Alexandra nodded, obviously taking in what Spock had told her. “And this is a reaction to the loss of your friend?”
“It is more complicated than that,” Spock said. “But it is the case that Captain Kirk’s death has highlighted a deficiency in my life.”
“You view emotion as a deficiency,” Alexandra said. This time, despite her passive expression, her words did seem to carry with them an accusation.
“I grew up on Vulcan as an outsider,” Spock said. Despite his discomfort revealing the facts of his life, he cared for Alexandra and wanted her to understand why he had chosen this path. “I therefore found myself at a young age in the uncommon position of having to consciously select the world in which I would live, that of humans or that of Vulcans. I chose to live as a Vulcan.”
“But you haven’t really done that, have you?” Alexandra asked. “You spent years—decades—in Starfleet, serving aboard ships with predominantly human crews.”
“That is true,” Spock said, realizing that he might not be able to make Alexandra understand. Still, he wanted to try. “Once before, I left that life to pursue the Kolinahr. I nearly succeeded in achieving it, but unusual circumstances external to myself prevented me from doing so. After that, I accepted my twofold nature, as it were: an outwardly Vulcan bearing, and an inner life that, while mostly driven by logic, allowed for some level of emotion.” That emotion included a long and painful run of remorse that he had buried through the years. Jim’s death had helped him to see that he wished to hide from such feelings no longer; he wanted to eliminate them. “Recent events have reminded me of my long-ago choice to live as a Vulcan. I am making that choice again now.”
Alexandra looked at him for a few moments without saying anything. He could read nothing in her countenance that told him how she felt. At last, she said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Spock, that you achieve what you want to achieve.”
“I hope the same for you,” Spock said.
She started to step away from him, but then stopped and said, “Sometimes people don’t always get what they want.” Now Spock saw tension in her features, the mask she wore to cover her pain slipping down slightly. “And sometimes people want what they don’t need.” He did not know how to respond, nor did he think that she expected him to do so. “Good-bye, Spock.”
As Alexandra walked away, he hated that he had hurt her and felt saddened that they would not learn more of each other, that their relationship would not grow closer. Those thoughts reinforced his need for the Kolinahr.
“Attention, passengers to Vulcan,” a male voice announced over the public address system. “The boarding process for the Ri’Luje will begin in five minutes. Travelers in boarding group one, please report to the transporter platform.”
As people within the lounge began to move, Spock continued to watch Alexandra as she walked away. She did not look back.
Thirteen
1930
Kirk walked out of the radio repair shop with two full bags and almost no money. Other than the two dollars he had saved for next week’s rent, he had just exhausted the remainder of the cash he and Spock had earned during the past week. One of the brown paper sacks he carried contained food, which he had purchased before entering the repair shop, while nothing but electrical com
ponents filled the other. With the money he’d had, he’d only been able to purchase perhaps a fifth of the items Spock would need to complete the memory circuit that the science officer had designed. With the few components they’d already acquired, Spock had begun actual construction of the computer aid three days ago, and what Kirk would bring him now would at least allow him to continue that work without interruption.
As he strode along the sidewalk through the midmorning bustle, headed for the apartment that he and Spock had rented, Kirk scanned the faces of the people he passed, peered around at those farther away, and looked for a familiar gait or posture. If Spock couldn’t build a mnemonic memory circuit, or if he did but couldn’t manage to cull from the tricorder the information they so desperately needed, then they would have to somehow find McCoy themselves. Even if Spock succeeded, they didn’t know if it would be too late to do whatever they needed to do to prevent the doctor from changing history. Kirk remained constantly alert to all of that, and he searched for McCoy everywhere.
Bones, he thought, for just a moment setting aside his responsibilities to the crew of the Enterprise, to Starfleet, even to humanity itself. In some ways lost to him in the last week had been the plight of his friend. Since the timeline had been altered, Kirk’s focus had necessarily been on restoring it, but right now he thought about Bones. Regardless of his leaping through the Guardian of Forever and back into time, McCoy would continue to suffer the effects of his cordrazine overdose. If Kirk and Spock found him and stopped him from changing the past—and therefore the future—their next concern would be getting Bones medical help.
The Fire and the Rose Page 15
