The Fire and the Rose

by David R. George III

  Spock nodded. “I have done little else beyond my research, other than occasionally spending time with my parents,” he said. “Last year, my mother died.”

  As soon as Spock had mentioned his parents, McCoy recalled learning about the accident just after it had happened. “I heard about that,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft level. “I thought about trying to contact you, but…” He remembered changing his mind over and over again about whether or not to reach out to Spock, until too much time had passed and he’d simply let it go.

  “You made the correct choice in not contacting me,” Spock said. “You would have been… disappointed… if you had.”

  “Look, Spock,” McCoy said, “I don’t pretend to fully comprehend the Kolinahr or even the Vulcan belief in suppressing emotions, and yeah, I was hurt when you wouldn’t be in my wedding, but I never thought you were a bad person.” The words pouring out of McCoy made him feel as though he’d been waiting to say them for a long time. “You and I have been through a lot together, Spock. All those years aboard the Enterprise… exploring the galaxy… life-and-death situations… losing Jim… almost losing you.” McCoy leaned forward on the davenport. “You can’t disappoint me, Spock, because I know too well who you are.” He tapped at the side of his forehead, making obvious reference to having housed Spock’s katra and having gone through the fal-tor-pan with him.

  “That may make it easier for you to understand why I have come,” Spock said. “I do not miss my mother.”

  McCoy sat back up straight as he tried to fathom what seemed like a non sequitur. “What?”

  “When my mother died,” Spock said, “I did not miss her, I did not feel sad. I still don’t.”

  “But… Spock, I know you loved your mother,” McCoy said.

  “Yes,” Spock agreed, “I did.”

  And suddenly McCoy saw Spock’s point: he had loved his mother, but after the Kolinahr, he no longer possessed the capability of doing so. “I’d say I’m sorry, Spock, but if you’ve purged yourself of feeling, what does it matter?”

  “It shouldn’t,” Spock said. “At least, it can’t matter emotionally to me. But I have discovered that it does matter. I have concluded that I made the wrong choice in seeking the Kolinahr.”

  McCoy shook his head, overwhelmed by the admission. “I think you’re right,” he said. “I think I do need a drink.” When Spock said nothing more, McCoy stood up and walked back over to the bar cabinet. He opened its doors and peered inside, but then Spock spoke again.

  “Doctor,” he said, and McCoy turned back to face him. “Leonard,” he said then, rising, “I need your help.”

  McCoy walked back over and stood before him. “Of course, Spock,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

  “There is a process by which to reverse the Kolinahr,” Spock said. “I could find no record of it being practiced in modern times, but there is anecdotal evidence of it being used in centuries past.”

  “Wait a minute,” McCoy said, holding up his hands and pacing away across the room. “A Vulcan process that isn’t used in modern times? Haven’t we been here before?” McCoy remembered standing on Mount Seleya and hearing T’Lar state that the fal-tor-pan had only been accomplished in the legends of previous generations. She had also revealed that the process would be dangerous to both himself and Spock.

  “This is not the fal-tor-pan,” Spock said, obviously understanding McCoy’s implication.

  “Maybe not, but…” He stopped. In other circumstances, he wouldn’t have hesitated to help Spock, but now…“Spock, I have a wife,” he explained. “I have an obligation to her. I can’t put my life in danger and risk leaving her. I want to help you, but I just can’t do that to her.”

  “I cannot tell you that there is no danger,” Spock said. “But it would be only the danger associated with mind melds. Your life would not be at risk.”

  “A mind meld?” McCoy asked. He walked back across the room to stand by Spock once more. “That’s it?”

  “A series of them, but only mind melds, yes,” Spock said. “I would tap into your emotions and the recollected feelings within your memories and use them to infuse my own thoughts, my own memories, essentially to… reanimate… them.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” McCoy said.

  “It will likely be very difficult,” Spock said. “The effort will require a series of melds performed one after another, over the course of days.”

  “We can use lexorin between melds to combat the aftereffects,” McCoy suggested. He had used the drug himself after Spock had transferred his katra to him.

  “That will no doubt help,” Spock said, “but the real difficulty will lie in the extreme degree to which your privacy will be invaded.”

  “My privacy?” McCoy said. “What about yours?”

  Spock nodded. “This process will not be pleasant, and it will leave us with few secrets between each other,” he said.

  “As I said, haven’t we been here before?”

  “In the fal-tor-pan, our minds were linked and guided by T’Lar,” Spock said. “In this process, our connection will be more direct, more intense, and more personal.”

  McCoy turned and drifted across the room in the other direction, wiping a hand across his face. This didn’t sound like something he wanted to do. But after all he and Spock had been through together, how could he say no? How many times had Spock saved his life, and how many times had the reverse occurred? For goodness sake, McCoy had held Spock’s katra within him. What point would there be in denying him this?

  At the other end of the room, he turned around to address Spock again. “Let me fill a prescription for lexorin,” he said. “Then we can start.”

  McCoy wept.

  The heels of his shoes rapped loudly on the concrete as he pounded along the empty city thoroughfare, the reports echoing off the nearby building facades. The moderate temperatures of the day had fled, and as he cried, the trails of his tears felt cold in the night air. He felt angry and deceived and-

  Ashamed.

  What had he done? No matter how bad the situation had become with Jocelyn, how could he have walked out, not only on his wife, but on his daughter? Had he learned nothing from his experiences with his father?

  In the darkness, McCoy stopped walking. As he wiped his face dry, he thought about his own childhood. He had grown up alone, his mother dying as she had given birth to him, and his father abandoning him without even leaving the house. David McCoy had held his son responsible for the death of his beloved wife, and he had treated him accordingly. The injustice of the charge hadn’t mattered, and whether David McCoy had blamed his son willfully or unconsciously hadn’t mattered either. Would Leonard McCoy do the same to his own child, deserting her not just in spirit, but in actuality?

  But what should he do? Remain in an emotionally brutal relationship, teach his daughter by example that romantic love consisted of arguing and resentment and anger? He wouldn’t be abandoning Joanna; he would be sparing her a childhood lived in a battle zone. He needed to leave, not just for his own sake, but for his daughter’s as well. She would still have Jocelyn.

  McCoy began walking again, putting more distance between himself and the place that, until just moments ago, he had called home. More distance between himself and Joanna. And whether or not he’d made the right decision in leaving his daughter, McCoy knew that he would feel shame for doing so for the rest of his life.

  Spock watched all of this, and saw McCoy begin again to cry-

  And Spock saw himself, not crying, but laughing. He hung by his arms and legs from a log wedged between two trees and enjoyed playing, and liked the peaceful rural surroundings, and loved the beautiful woman who peered up at him with the most radiant of smiles. Leila loved him, had loved him since they’d known each other six years earlier on Earth, and now finally he’d found the ability to love her, to admit—to her and to himself—to loving her.

  But the ability to admit his love hadn’t lasted. Spock aban
doned Leila a second time, telling her that he would go on with his life, but not telling her—or himself—what he felt. The injustice of the situation didn’t matter, and whether his love had been induced by the spores or merely revealed by them didn’t matter either.

  In the transporter room aboard the Enterprise, he said good-bye to her a second time. Her tears flowed, and the deep pain she felt released her from the effects of the spores as well. But still she loved him. And whether or not he’d made the right decision in leaving her, Spock knew that he would feel shame for doing so for the rest of his life.

  McCoy watched all of this, and saw Leila begin to cry-

  And McCoy saw himself crying too. He stood by himself in the soothingly decorated room, away from the people who managed the facility. As the casket closed on the still form of his father, McCoy provided mute witness to the fact. A man peered over at him and asked by way of a silent expression if they should continue. McCoy nodded, then looked on as his father’s casket was slowly conveyed into the crematorium.

  He had killed his father, deactivating the life support machinery that had kept him alive. He’d done so at his father’s request, but as it had turned out, he’d done so only a short time before a cure had been found. And painful as all that remained, as McCoy observed the casket sliding into the furnace that would turn it and its contents to ash, all he could think of was how, at the end, he hadn’t even been able to tell his father that he loved him. The casket vanished from view, but McCoy didn’t move. For a long time, he stood there, the tears flowing silently down his face.

  Spock watched all of this, saw McCoy crying-

  And Spock saw himself crying too. He stood by himself in a briefing room aboard the Enterprise, away from the crew. As the ship spiraled in toward the dying planet, Spock had abandoned his post, his duty. He’d been called to the bridge, but he hadn’t responded, couldn’t respond.

  He had wounded his mother, adopting Vulcan customs to the exclusion of human ones. He had done so partly at his father’s urging, but also as a result of the accusations he’d endured from his schoolmates that he wasn’t truly Vulcan. And difficult as all that remained, as Spock hid himself away in the briefing room, all he could think of was how he had never told his mother that he loved her. He moved to the conference table and put his head down, and he sat there sobbing, knowing how badly he had hurt his mother-

  McCoy watched all of this, felt the ignominy of Spock’s betrayal-

  And McCoy saw himself committing an act of betrayal himself. He stood at the monorail station in San Francisco, a cold breeze blowing in from the bay. He saw Tonia lower herself to one knee, saw her raise her right hand, a jewelled ring held in her fingers. In eloquent words, she expressed her love for him, and then she proposed marriage.

  McCoy denied her, and in so doing, hurt her badly. She fled from him, and he understood. He had known that she loved him, had known too that he loved her. How could he have let this happen, how could he not have at least tried to avoid letting this come to pass? For a moment that seemed like forever, he stood motionless, realizing the agonizing effects of what he had done to her.

  Spock watched all of this, felt the ignominy of McCoy’s betrayal-

  And Spock saw himself committing an act of betrayal himself. He stood in a boarding lounge in Los Angeles, the air uncomfortably chilled. He saw Alexandra peer around at the other passengers, saw her invite him with a look toward a pillar in the corner. With delicate movement, she raised her hand and extended two fingers toward him, expressing without words her love for him.

  Spock denied her, and in so doing, hurt her badly. She fled from him, and he understood. He had known that she loved him, had known too that he loved her. How could he have let this happen, how could he not have at least tried to avoid letting this come to pass? For a moment that seemed like forever, he stood motionless, realizing the agonizing effects of what he had done to her.

  McCoy watched all of this, felt Spock’s reciprocal agony-

  And McCoy felt his own agony. He clutched the holo to his chest, unwilling to let go of the image of his mother. His father stood there, silent now, his posture accusatory. McCoy had never known his mother, and this one small token of her did not seem like too much to ask.

  But whatever else had happened, he was still a son to his father, and right now, his father ached in a way that he could not understand, though he wanted to understand, wanted to help. But he could not hold on to the image of his mother. Unsatisfied but not knowing what else he could do, he surrendered it to his father and tried to feel nothing.

  Spock watched all of this, experienced McCoy’s sudden stoicism.

  And Spock experienced his own stoicism. He clutched his hands to his chest, calling to mind the image of his mother. His father stood there, silent now, his posture defeated. Spock had never really known his mother, and being able to keep one small token of her, even just a mental picture, did not seem like too much to ask.

  But whatever else had happened, he was still a son to his father, and right now, his father ached in a way that he could not understand, though he wanted to understand, wanted to help. But he could not hold on to the image of his mother. Unsatisfied but not knowing what else he could do, he surrendered it to his father and tried to feel—

  Something.

  And did. After all the denials of his human half, after running repeatedly in his life from his emotions, from his very nature, Spock again felt something. And it poured forth in a torrent of feeling-

  Disappointment and contentment.

  Sorrow and happiness.

  Regret and hope.

  All the pain, and all the love.

  “Spock!”

  He was not Vulcan. He was not human. He was both.

  “Spock!”

  He opened his eyes and saw McCoy. A hand hung in the air just centimeters in front of the doctor’s face, its fingers apart. Spock blinked and realized that the hand belonged to him. He lowered it to the davenport on which he now saw that he and McCoy sat, in the room of the old plantation house where for weeks they had returned again and again.

  “Are you all right?” McCoy asked.

  “I… I’m…” Spock stammered, not quite able to find his full voice yet.

  “How do you feel?” McCoy wanted to know, and the words resonated for Spock.

  “A long time ago,” he managed to say, “my mother insisted that question held relevance for me.”

  “I know,” McCoy said. “She was a good mother to you, Spock. Through it all, she loved you.”

  “I know,” Spock said, which made the way he had withdrawn from his love for her that much more painful. But that was all right, because the ability to feel that also allowed him to feel this: “I loved her too. And I miss her.”

  “I’m sorry, Spock,” McCoy said.

  “No,” Spock told him, understanding that this particular journey with McCoy—with Leonard—had come to an end. “This is what I wanted.”

  Leonard nodded with obviously precise awareness of the situation. “You’re not just Vulcan,” he said, “and not just human.”

  “I am, imperfectly, both,” Spock agreed. “But I am whole.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Leonard said.

  “Thank you,” Spock said. “For all that you have done for me, I am most appreciative.”

  “Welcome home,” Leonard said.

  Twenty-Nine

  2312

  McCoy waited in the large, stylish atrium of the Federation Embassy. Sitting on a plush sofa near the top of the wide staircase that led down to the front doors, he realized that he had tired of traveling. These days, he preferred simply to stay at home when not busy with his various research projects. Maybe he’d logged too many light-years when he’d served aboard the Enterprise, or maybe he just loved the American South.

  Whatever the reason, he hadn’t particularly enjoyed traipsing halfway across the galaxy to Tzenketh, especially considering the aggressive stances that the Tzenkethi h
ad begun taking with respect to various nonaligned worlds—and in some instances, close to Federation space. But after everything he’d been through with Spock—the weeks of intensive melding, the extreme sharing of their thoughts and memories and feelings—McCoy knew that he had to do this. His wife had agreed.

  McCoy had waited for nearly an hour when he heard the front doors open, followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. At first, he didn’t recognize the woman. She had longer hair than he’d expected, her sinuous locks reaching down to her shoulders, the color neither blonde nor red, but silver. But as she reached the top of the steps, McCoy distinguished her stature, her almost regal bearing, and her lovely features. He must have seen her sometime during the years in some comnet holo, representing the Federation somewhere in the galaxy, but the memories he retained of her were not his own.

  As he stood up and approached her across the marble floor, she gazed over at him. She would assume that he hadn’t managed to find his way here without proper authorization, but in an effort to ensure that he would not seem completely crazy, he had worn his Starfleet uniform. It seemed that retaining his active status paid dividends beyond the use of Starfleet Medical’s research facilities.

  “Excuse me,” McCoy said.

  The woman stopped and allowed him to walk up to her. She wore a lovely navy blue dress that perfectly balanced the silver of her hair. “Yes?” she said. “May I help you?”

  “Ma’am, my name is Leonard McCoy,” he said. “Doctor Leonard McCoy,” he added, hoping that his title might also lend him credibility. “Are you Ambassador Alexandra Tremontaine?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said. “What can I do for you, Doctor McCoy?” She seemed serious and confident, but somehow also very open and pleasant. McCoy liked her at once.

  “Ambassador, I’m friends with Spock,” he said. On the voyage here, he’d rehearsed so many different speeches, but now, all of them went out of his head. “He and I served together for many years in Starfleet—”