by Brad
Spock joined Science Officer Cheyney. “The key,” he said, “is that base four mathematical structure you mentioned. It is typical of Marathan computer language unlike your own binary code. May I?” Richard Cheyney, his lean face drawn even tighter by tension, nodded and made room for Spock. The young Vulcan’s thin fingers flew over the console, calling up a dizzying array of symbols and numbers.
“Sir,” said the communications officer, “the fighters are in close containment configuration around the ship. We’re completely surrounded. I’m putting the enemy vessels on screen.”
Spock barely glanced around. His one look told him what he already sensed: The thirty-one Marathan fighters were in tight, angry orbits around the Enterprise, a whirling cloud of gnats around the great starship. Alone, each would be negligible. Even a fully armed fighter could do only minimal damage to the Federation ship, perhaps breaching the hull in one or two places, perhaps killing a few dozen of its crew. But concentrated, directed fire from thirty-one laser cannons could easily disable the Enterprise’s unshielded engines, and more than ninety neutron torpedoes, evenly scattered, would instantly kill every life form aboard the ship, leaving everything else intact. Spock concentrated on the computer display. He caught two lines of mathematical symbols, erased them, and replaced them with a quick formula of his own devising.
“Ah,” he said. “Try to raise the shields now.”
“Shields coming up,” reported the weapons officer, relief in his voice. “Power is rising slowly. Ten percent. Fifteen. Twenty-three. Thirty … Thirty-three percent strength and holding.”
“Shield power is steady,” confirmed Chief Engineer Powell. “It’s still only one feed, though, so we can’t bring shields to full. I could try diverting more power to the shields from life support, but that’s going to require routing around the sabotaged systems. I can’t get shields to fifty percent for another ten minutes, unless we have a miracle.”
“Thirty percent is barely enough to protect us from the laser fire,” said April. “But the torpedoes would get through. Spock, see if you can give us weapons control.”
“I am working on it.”
“Six minutes,” said Pike. “Sir, the enemy ships have detected our shields. They’re moving into a tighter pattern.”
“Hold her steady as she goes,” April commanded.
“Aye, sir,” said Lieutenant Bann. “Steady as she goes.”
“How are you doing?” asked Cheyney anxiously.
“It is difficult,” Spock responded. “The computer language in nine different subroutines has been reset to the base four system, but in addition, the programs have been encoded. I suspect there is an encryption key, a code word, that I do not know. Perhaps if I routed the patterns through the universal translator array, I could grasp the key word required to free the system.”
Spock adjusted the controls, and a rolling yellow column of Marathan words, rendered in the elegant curves of Vulcan script, began to scroll upward on one screen so fast that to human eyes they were hardly more than a blur. The science officer reached to touch a control, but Spock grasped his wrist, preventing the change. “It is not necessary to slow the display,” he explained. “I can read very rapidly.”
“Five minutes,” said Pike.
Spock tried several Marathan phrases and expressions, but none of them unlocked the sealed programs. The column of words continued to flash by on the screen.
“Three minutes,” warned Pike.
“Send a Security team to Ambassador Sarek’s quarters,” ordered Captain April. “They may attempt to cut through our shields and board us.” He pounded the armrest of his command seat. “If I only knew who sabotaged the computer—”
“Minak,” Spock said absently. “You gave him access to the Engineering and Computing sections of the ship.”
“But how could he have overridden our computer security systems?” Cheyney asked.
“It is difficult but possible to do so,” responded Spock, his fingers rapidly trying another combination. “An isolinear control device would have imitated the computer’s normal signal that it was functioning correctly. The dangerous moments would have been connecting and disconnecting the isolinear device. The rest would have been relatively easy. We are fortunate that Minak lacked the time to adapt his altered program into binary language.”
“Fortunate!” April’s exclamation dripped with sarcasm.
“Yes, because their base four configuration has made them simple to isolate. Now if only—”
“One minute left,” Pike said.
“Sir,” the communications officer said urgently, “Commander Minak is hailing us.”
“Captain April,” said Spock almost at the same instant. “I have the code. It is Volash, the name of their jester deity.”
“Shall I put him on screen, sir?” asked the communications officer.
April held up his hand. “Just a moment. Spock?”
“I have made the necessary changes,” Spock said. “I am restarting all systems … now!”
“Shields going to full power!” Lieutenant Belas exclaimed.
“Sir,” reported Chief Engineer Powell, “I have damping control. Warp speed available on your command.”
“Weapons systems on-line,” Belas said.
“Powell, can you reverse the polarity of the tractor beam and channel it dead ahead?”
“Clear out a tunnel among the flies so we can shoot through? Aye, sir!”
“Do it!”
Powell instantly responded. The lights dimmed momentarily. The viewscreen showed the enemy fighters suddenly thrust out of the way ahead of the ship, pushed aside by an invisible, expanding globe of energy. “Give them one warning shot, all laser cannons, dead ahead,” ordered April. “Then I want warp four!”
Scarlet beams of energy flashed through the empty space ahead of the Enterprise. Then the starfield itself blurred as the great ship leaped from impulse power to faster than light speed. After a second of silence, someone cheered, and then the bridge broke into an excited gabble of congratulations. Already the rebels were light-seconds behind, with no hope of catching up.
April grinned at Spock. “Thank you, young man. You saved our bacon.”
Spock lifted an eyebrow. “Animal protein was not involved,” he pointed out logically.
Throwing his head back, the captain laughed. “Well, you helped us escape from a bad position then. Son, if you want my recommendation to Starfleet Academy, you’ve got it.”
Spock did not reply. The turbolift doors had opened, and Sarek, clad in his long silvery-gray Vulcan robe, had stepped out. The look he gave his son was grave, tinged with a hint of warning.
Enthusiasm, as Sarek had said, was an emotion and an unseemly one.
Spock wondered if any trace of enthusiasm had shown on his face at the captain’s warm words.
Chapter 5
Spock stood in the arched doorway, watching his father. The two of them were back on Vulcan, in the family home. More than two weeks had passed since their escape from the Marathan fighters. In that time, the Federation had come close to sending armed ships against the rebel faction. Only Sarek’s considerable powers of persuasion had averted a military reaction.
Now, on his first full day home, Sarek was conferring with the various Marathan parties by subspace communication one at a time, with infinite patience. Spock watched him silently, realizing how hard Sarek’s task was. Beyond his father, through one of the many windows, Spock could see the arid, strangely compelling landscape of foothills and rolling plains, with an orange sky overhead. The hot, thin air was a relief after weeks of breathing alien atmosphere, and all in all, being home should have been a welcome experience. And yet …
Sarek sat before a subspace viewscreen that filled most of one wall. “I repeat,” Spock’s father was saying in his soft, even voice, “I cannot understand your people’s actions. Starfleet command is most displeased at Minak’s attempt on the Enterprise. Only the grave importance of Mara
th as a strategic outpost has prevented the Federation from canceling all exchanges with your people. It required a good deal of insistence on my part to prevent armed retaliation against the rebel fighter fleet.”
“I am sorry,” said one of the several Marathans on screen. The group of them huddled close together, with one or the other occasionally whispering in the spokesman’s ear. All strove to keep their faces blank, betraying no thought, no emotion—a useless endeavor when facing a Vulcan. Far away as he was, Spock recognized signs of tension, repressed anger, deep dissatisfaction. “We of Marath have no control over rebel forces. Surely you understand that.”
“I do,” Sarek acknowledged. “But, Mr. Ambassador, surely you understand that without the cooperation of the Marathans on the planet Shakir, we cannot possibly add the final codicils to the treaty.”
“Perhaps you should return,” the Marathan suggested.
“No,” Sarek said. “An accord imposed from without is no accord at all. It is vital to your people, to your entire star system, to reach agreement. The Shakir delegates have given me no explanation. Ambassador Mar is nowhere to be found, and the others are at odds. They cannot even agree on how to proceed with the treaty.” Sarek leaned closer, tenting his fingers. “Sir, I sense some flaw in the treaty—at least from the point of view of the Shakir delegation. What is the significance of Amendment 111?”
“No significance that we need discuss,” the ambassador returned quickly. “It merely has to do with certain areas of Marath that the exiles consider an ancient homeland. Of course, our own people live there now. To evict them is impossible. Even if we did so, few of the Shakir colonists would return.”
“If we might reconsider the amendment—”
“Even Minak agreed to drop the amendment from consideration,” snapped the ambassador. “That should be enough for you.”
After a moment of silence, Sarek said, “Let us agree to convene by subspace conference link in three standard days. Perhaps with all parties participating we may be able to resolve this deadlock.”
The screen went blank. Sarek leaned back in his chair, and Spock saw how drawn and weary his face looked. Quietly, without speaking to his father, the young Vulcan slipped away.
The day was a fine one, with a warm breeze from the south and the promise of dew later in the evening. Spock found his mother outside, carefully tending her garden. The green expanse was an oasis in the rocky foothills, an exotic one. Amanda Grayson had been a teacher, but she could well have been a botanist. She had a fine sense of what plants would grow or would not, of how to encourage a vine here, to root an alien shrub there. Her garden represented Vulcan, but more than that, she had planted all sorts of off-world flora. Crimson stalks of Atlantean fire-rod waved in the breeze, close to the intricate blue network of Andorian puzzle-leaf. Pillow-shaped beds of the low-growing Draebidium froctus nestled against the crystalline stems of Rigelian lens trees, squat, gnarled miniature trees with crystalline lenses studding their bark. The lenses concentrated sunlight, vastly speeding the trees’ photosynthesis and allowing them to spread rapidly— except that Amanda was trimming them back as Spock watched.
“Hello, Spock,” she said without looking up.
“Hello, Mother,” Spock returned. “How did you know I was watching you?”
“I’ve known your step for something like seventeen years,” Amanda returned, smiling at him. “It would be strange if I didn’t recognize it by now.” She finished clipping the lens trees and dropped her shears into a basket. “What do you think?”
Spock said gravely, “The plants appear to respond well to your nurturing. They are healthy and free of parasites.”
Amanda laughed. She had tied a scarf around her short hair, and now she unbound it. Spock noted that she was just beginning to show traces of gray.
“Mother,” he said, “why did you laugh at me?”
She looked at him with affection. “Oh, Spock, I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just that you can be so very Vulcan at times.”
“But I am Vulcan.”
“Only partly,” she reminded him. “Let’s sit in the shade and enjoy the garden.”
A sheltered bench, its roof overgrown with luxuriant goldenweb vines, gave them a cool place to sit. “I want to talk to you,” Spock said slowly, “about something that happened on the way home from the Marathan system.”
“What you did aboard the Enterprise was reported here before you arrived,” Amanda told him. “I was in town the day after it happened, and every human I ran into was buzzing with the news that you had saved a Federation ship. They think of you as a hero.”
“That is the trouble.”
Amanda waited. When Spock did not continue, she said, “Spock, you did a good thing. You used your knowledge to prevent violence. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Perhaps not in itself.” Spock took a deep breath. The air in the garden was pleasant, sweet with the flowers that bobbed in the breeze, pungently spicy from some of the alien pollens, an odor like cloves, cinnamon, ginger, and yet unlike them all. “Mother, when the crew thanked me for what I had done, I—I felt gratification.”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
Spock looked away. Beneath the orange-tinted sky, the hills of Vulcan rolled on to the horizon. “I am a Vulcan,” he said simply. “Father has taught me that I must control all emotions rigidly. But of them all, I find the emotions of happiness and pleasure the hardest.”
“Because they feel good,” Amanda said.
Spock glanced at her face. She had an understanding, kind expression. “Yes,” he said simply. “Mother, how does a human cope with such feelings?”
“We give in to them at times,” Amanda said. “Spock, do you believe that Vulcans feel no emotions at all?”
Spock considered. “I know that to harbor emotions is destructive to the logical facilities. Therefore, Vulcans have eliminated emotions from their psychology.”
“No,” Amanda said. “You’re wrong.”
Surprised, Spock stared at her. “But Vulcans don’t feel—”
“Oh, yes, they do,” Amanda said. “Spock, you must realize that your father has been very strict with you because you are half human. That is why he has been so insistent that you learn to control your emotions. Did you think you were the only Vulcan who experienced them? You weren’t. Don’t you remember when you were a child? Some of the other children occasionally mocked you, didn’t they?”
“Yes. Because I was different.”
“But don’t you see? They were giving in to their emotions by doing so. It’s just that most Vulcan parents are a little indulgent when their children are very young. They don’t begin to teach them the ways of controlling emotion until they’re a little older. But Sarek began your training as soon as you could speak and understand. Do you remember falling when you were four years old? We were in the Tascan Mountains, and you slipped down a steep hillside.”
Spock shook his head. “I cannot remember.”
“You were bruised and scratched when I got to you, but you didn’t cry. I asked if you were hurt.” Amanda laughed softly. “You replied by giving me a short lecture on the physiological benefits of pain, how it helps an organism to survive by identifying potential threats.”
“I still do not remember.”
Amanda touched his cheek. “That’s all right. The point is that any normal Vulcan child would have cried from pain and fright. At four, you were already too disciplined for that. Spock, have you ever read of the Stoics?”
“A philosophical discipline of ancient Earth?”
“That’s Stoicism,” corrected Amanda. “The Stoics were the ones who practiced the discipline. They believed that all excessive emotions were bad—too much sorrow, too much joy. They, too, believed in controlling the emotions. But their key was control—they could no more eliminate emotion than you can, Or than your father can.”
Spock sighed. “Still, it is disturbing that I felt such sensations when the Enterprise c
rew spoke well of me. They are very different from each other, you know, not like us. I mean—“Spock groped for words, uncharacteristically at a loss. “I mean, all adult Vulcans are alike: serene, humorless, in fundamental agreement. The humans on the Enterprise had different backgrounds, different beliefs, different attitudes. They were even competitive. Yet they worked so well together, and each accepted the other.”
“Like the IDIC,” suggested Amanda gently. “Infinite diversity in infinite combination.”
“That applies to the harmony of the universe,” Spock said of the Vulcan philosophical principle.
“It can apply to people, too.” Amanda rose. “I’m going inside. Think about what we have said, Spock. Talk to me any time about it.”
She left him under the shade of the goldenweb. He sat there until the afternoon shadows were long and sharp before, finally, his mind still unclear on certain points, he went inside.
The next morning Sarek dropped the bombshell on him.
Sarek asked Spock to come into his office after breakfast. Sovik, Sarek’s assistant and cousin, tactfully left father and son alone. “Well, Spock,” Sarek said, “so you were the center of attention on the Enterprise. I can understand how difficult that must have been for you.”
“Captain April thought the rebels might actually try to kidnap you, Father,” Spock said. “I thought there was some urgency in assisting the crew.”
“I see.” Sarek settled into his chair. “My son, I realize what a strain that must have been. And I could tell that, despite all of your years of discipline, you experienced emotions of pleasure at the crew’s reaction to your accomplishment. That was unfortunate.”
Spock lowered his gaze. “I did try to control it, Father.”
“Of course you did. Well, you are half human after all. A slip like that is not of the gravest importance, although it is regrettable. Still, you must realize that the Enterprise, with its undisciplined human crew, is one thing. The Vulcan Science Academy is another.”
“I understand.”
