As McCoy assumed his most exasperated "give me strength" look, Duchamps signaled from the bridge.
"Captain, I have located Ambassador Sarek."
Spock's hand tightened ever so slightly on his glass. Logic and change, indeed. "Patch the ambassador's call through to my cabin, please."
"You don't want me here. No, don't argue. Just give your father my greetings," McCoy said, with an odd, sympathetic little smile, and slipped out, tactful and acerbic to the last.
Spock had beamed down alone in what was sunset at Shikahr, at a point he had chosen for its view of what had once been his home.
From the low hilltop on which he stood, he could admire the brilliance of the red light that struck the Forge, hammering out individuals, a civilization, millennia of history with the ruthlessness of an artist. A shavokh veered, rising on a wingtip before it mounted a thermal to soar out toward the Forge. Spock followed its flight for a moment. Beyond the Forge was the Womb of Fire, where he had been reborn as a Starfleet officer in the reek of sulfur and fear. The evening air was fragrant, enticing with the desert's lure.
The Veil slid down over his eyes as he stared into the splendid light, peering through it to focus upon the subtle curved walls and courtyards, set among his mother's gardens, of his family home. The air and sight of home were . . . highly satisfactory. McCoy might call that hyperbolic language if he chose.
House and gardens both were still meticulously maintained. Neglect was, of course, illogical, as was regret. It did seem, however, that while Spock's mother lived, the gardens had possessed a studied disorder in the raking of the gravel and pebbles of the paths, the arrangement of just one blossoming shrub, placed with slight, satisfying asymmetry to the others, even the casual untidiness of one fallen spray of leaves upon a hollowed rock, that they now lacked.
Although Spock had known the door codes since he had been old enough to venture out-of-doors alone, he signaled his arrival. Sarek greeted him formally at the door, ushering him ceremoniously inside.
Always sealed against Vulcan's heat, dust, and dryness, the house now felt instead hermetically closed off from the rest of the world. Sounds echoed in the austerely furnished rooms. These days, Spock thought, Sarek traveled as light as Spock himself.
"May I offer thee water after thy journey?" Sarek asked formally.
"I am honored by thy welcome," Spock replied, just as formally. "I give thanks."
He bowed deeply, son to father, guest to host, as he accepted the water that Sarek brought from a bubbling courtyard well in cups even older than the house, each carved from agate that gleamed in the sunset.
Father and son saluted each other and drank. Sarek gestured Spock to a chair. At least, Spock thought, it was not the one reserved for honored guests.
They sat admiring the sunset until it faded. Subtle light radiated from the walls of the house, glittered in the gardens.
"I have received a report from the Science Academy on its most recent patient," Sarek began after a long, almost meditative interval. "I am struck by the symmetry of your and Sered's interactions."
"Dr. McCoy would say, 'What goes around, comes around,' or perhaps, The wheel has come full circle.' "
For a tense moment, he was certain that his father would reject the metaphor.
"Yes," Sarek said. "Events do possess a symmetry that is aesthetically appealing as well as logical." He paused. " Although that is a redundancy."
"Captain Rabin and I proved to be the agents, finally, of Sered's return to Vulcan, just as we helped to exile him."
"Sered chose his own exile," Sarek corrected. "At some point, surely, before the madness took him, he had awareness, volition enough to have sought counseling. Instead . . ."
This measured, logical conversation was perfectly proper—between acquaintances, not family. "T'Pau knew him for what he was," Spock said, and to his chagrin—another emotion—heard criticism in his voice.
Sarek drew himself up in the way that had proved so daunting to Spock as a boy. "Thee has no right to judge where thee chose not to belong," he said in Old High Vulcan. "Thee made thy choice."
But Spock was no longer a boy to accept a reproof he did not deserve. "My father, we both know why I chose Starfleet. It is illogical to argue the past."
Sarek bowed his head ever so slightly but said nothing, knowing as Spock knew that their last quarrel had set eighteen years of silence between them. Without Amanda's conciliatory influence, any quarrel they had now might prove irrevocable. Drawing a deep breath, Spock began again, this time more cautiously, "Yet, my father, it is of my former choice that I wish to speak."
His choice of the word "former" brought Sarek's head up with more haste than was seemly, a strange light glistening in his eyes. "Walk with me, my son," Sarek said. And rose somewhat quickly.
Spock followed his father out into Amanda's gardens. Her memory was very vivid here, too, almost as if some human essence akin to a katra remained in what she had loved and tended for so many years.
"My father," Spock began, "I have formed a working hypothesis regarding a solution to a long-standing problem. It is logical for me to conclude that I have arrived at this solution because of the very choice that I made as a boy to go out among the stars and serve with beings of many races." Trying to ignore Sarek's ever so slight tensing, he continued, "I have been doing so, however, in a way that I suspect that Dr. McCoy would term 'making it up as I went along.' "
The faint tension relaxed. "As always, the doctor speaks in metaphors."
"As always, the doctor speaks emotionally," Spock agreed. "But, as we both have found, logic almost always underlies his words. I . . . have thought to change my life's course somewhat. Because you are the most experienced xenodiplomat on Vulcan and perhaps in the entire Federation, logic demands that I consult you. As does . . ." He hunted for a word that was not too emotionally charged, settled on "loyalty."
"Speak, my son."
Was Sarek finding breathing difficult? Spock glanced quickly at him but perceived no indications of cardiac distress. Best to say quickly and concisely what there could be no turning back from.
"I require advice on how best to apply to the Vulcan Science Academy for advanced study in diplomacy and alien cultures."
"You would resign your commission?" Sarek's voice rang out over the Forge.
The words, illogically, hurt. Service, Spock reminded himself, is service, no matter the variation. And it is only logical to serve in the most efficient possible way.
"The position of ambassador," Sarek continued, voice sternly controlled, "is a civilian position, and an important one. It must not be abused."
"Sir, I would not abuse the position I seek—one that you have always fulfilled with such honor—by attempting to hold both it and my current rank. As soon as Starfleet confirms my choice of replacement, I shall resign."
There. It was done.
Sarek stood watching him, his eyes hooded.
Spock hesitated. "Your recommendation would be of the utmost assistance."
"If I refuse, no doubt you will apply on your own."
"No doubt. Nevertheless, I would value your approval. Because I . . . consider it worth the having." Spock felt his chest tighten, as though, illogically, he were a human in need of tri-ox. "I always have."
Sarek's hand, outstretched to straighten a branch laden with fragrant white flowers, faltered. He started to reach out to Spock instead, but then let his hand drop and glanced quickly away.
"I ask pardon for my loss of control," Sarek murmured.
"I see no need to ask pardon, sir."
Dammit, Spock, McCoy's voice yelped in his mind, sometimes there's such a thing as too much logic!
So be it. Spock closed a hand on his father's shoulder,letting the touch say what he could not.
And now he will brush me away. Refuse me. Again.
Yet Sarek did not rebuke him. They stood motionless, father and son, and then Sarek said, very softly, "I give thanks."
Spock released him, and, moved by unspoken agreement, they began to walk again.
"My father," Spock said, "you and I have both studied human culture. Over the past few years, I have become . . . reacquainted, I should say, with human writings that are as old as Surak's epigrams. For example: 'To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted . . .' "
" 'A time to love,' " Sarek's deep voice blended with the night wind, " 'and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace . . .' " He paused. "I am acquainted with the text."
Of course. Doubtless, if Spock searched, if he could bear to search his mother's effects, he would find the large, battered volume that she had brought with her from Earth and from which she sometimes had read aloud when Spock was young or when she, like her husband, required a period of meditation and reflection. And he had always thought her life had been so serene.
"Your explanation is highly unorthodox, my son. Nevertheless, your logic is most . . . eloquent. If I may be permitted another quotation, I shall quote your mother, who derived great satisfaction from telling all we met, 'We are very proud of Spock.' "
"You honor me, sir."
"There is no honor in expressing the truth."
"On the contrary, my father, there is no honor higher."
Father and son stood together as the wind wreathed them and died away. Chimes rang, then subsided, leaving a stillness too precious to shatter.
At length, Sarek sighed and spoke. "With your mother gone, the house seems to possess echoes that are not harmonious. Accordingly, I often dine in the common room of the Science Academy. Would you care to accompany me? It would be an ideal beginning."
He is lonely, Spock thought with a shock of realization. My father is lonely. "An excellent idea, my father."
Together, they walked toward the Science Academy; starlight glittered on their upturned faces. Their accord, at least for the moment, possessed all the harmony of music resolving into a tonic chord, Spock thought, aesthetically as well as logically pleasing, although, as Sarek said, the two concepts were one.
A veteran of Starfleet, an accomplished scientist, Spock could enter the Vulcan Science Academy as a peer now, rather than on the sufferance that would have been granted Sarek's half-blood child. He had come home by choice, and by choice would go back out into the stars again.
He glanced toward the stars that marked the boundaries of the Romulan Empire, seeing not merely their light but the faces of memory, as well as the faces he had yet to meet.
I am coming, he told them silently.
They would wait for him.
Ambassador Spock's Story Will Continue in
Star Trek®
VULCAN'S HEART
by
Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz
Coming Fail 1998 from Pocket Books
Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Me:
To Boldly Go Where No Book Has Gone Before
JOSEPHA SHERMAN
The first book I remember reading on my own was First to Ride, a story about a Stone Age boy and his horse. Nothing fantastic there; in fact, the establishing of that age-old bond between human and equine is a theme that runs through the lives of a good many fantasy and science fiction writers!
The second book was something else again. Though I have forgotten the exact title and author, it was a science fiction adventure, possibly called The Angry Red Planet, involving a group of Earthlings making First Contact with Martians who had evolved from a plant origin. (Intelligent plants? Perhaps the author of that book was remembering John Campbell's "Who Goes There?") It was this reader's first introduction to that good old "senzawunda" we all crave from science fiction, that hint of the exotic, of—yes—strange new worlds and new civilizations. And from then on, I was hooked.
Fast-forward to the 1960s. Not much in the way of science fiction had been on television, with only a few exceptions. I opened the TV Guide edition featuring new shows—and came face-to-face with the color photo and listing for STAR TREK. One look at Mr. Spock, exotic features, pointed ears, and all, and the "senzawunda" kicked in. This was going to be one good show!
So, of course, it proved.
Life being the unpredictable thing it is, I went on to get a degree in archaeology (learning from hands-on experience that buckets of earth are heavy and that ancient cesspools retain their aroma for several millennia—ah, the romance of archaeology), then became a fantasy writer and folklorist.
I remained a fan of STAR TREK in all its varied incarnations, and attended science fiction convention panels such as the one on which Dorothy (D. C.) Fontana, story editor for The Original Series, revealed, deadpan, that the "T" in "James T. Kirk" stood for "Tiberius." (A wonderful moment, that: several hundred people as one echoing in disbelief, "Tiberius?") I even wrote my one and only filksong about STAR TREK—about tribbles, to be precise. (A definition of "filk" for the Fannishly Challenged: it was originally a typo for "folk" that caught on in fannish society and came to mean original words, usually related to science fiction or fantasy, set to older melodies.)
But never did I guess that I would ever have a part in the STAR TREK phenomenon. In fact, I first came into closer than fan contact with STAR TREK through one of my folklore books, Once Upon a Galaxy (published by August House), which deals with the ancient folklore behind the modern icons. An entire section features STAR TREK! The original Enterprise on its five-year mission "to seek out new worlds and new civilizations" has its cousin in the ancient Greek Argo, and quick-witted, clever James T. Kirk is certainly cousin to the Argo's captain, Jason.
But then came John Ordover, editor of STAR TREK for Pocket Books, who asked, "Want to write a STAR TREK novel?"
Good question. I told him I'd get back to him, but then was too busy finishing fantasy novels or folklore books for a time. Meanwhile, John had asked the same question of Susan Shwartz.
And suddenly inspiration hit me. I called up Susan and asked, "Want to do a STAR TREK novel together?"
Not long after, we were both guest speakers at Mount Holyoke College, in South Hadley, Massachusetts—in January. Susan tells the rest of this story in her section, so I'll only add that out of that speaking engagement, a novel was born!
Here's to you, Susan, my fellow collaborator! Here's to you, John, STAR TREK Editor Extraordinaire! It's been a fun voyage. And here's to the Enterprises, one and all! May their STAR TREKs never end!
Thirty Years After First Contact—
Join Starfleet and See the Worlds
SUSAN SHWARTZ
The year I turned sixteen, my father gave me the sun, the moon, and the stars—at least the stars of Federation, Klingon, and Romulan space. (The Organians might have something to say about Dad's land grab, but so far, they've kept discreetly silent.)
"Susan," Dad shouted. "I want you to come in here and watch this show with me." I was quite happily ensconced with a James Bond novel I'd swiped from my mother, but Dad had cheered when I started reading Heinlein, Norton, and Asimov, protecting me from "she's so smart, why does she have to read That Stuff?" So, if he said something was good—apart from the ongoing battle about "practical" shoes I couldn't possibly let him win—I knew he wouldn't let me down.
He didn't. Neither did the STAR TREK episode I started with: "Charlie X." "What is this?" I asked, fascinated.
"It's called Star Trek." Dad told me. "It's like the stuff I used to read in Planet Stories. " Now, what's odd is that I had remembered hearing the program's name and thinking it sounded interesting before I had to run off to marching band practice. Dad had remembered, though. He always did. As I said, he wouldn't let me down.
Over the three years of Classic Trek's run, marching band, homework, and other hassles often prevented me from watching the episodes as they came out. And in the intervening years of college and graduate school, as often as not, the revolting species Pretentious Aggressive News Watcher
s usually swarmed into the TV room at Trek-time, claiming a majority at the last moment and preempting my dormitory's lone TV. Nevertheless, I managed to catch up, then to stay current. I was a Trekker, and a Trekker I've remained.
Certain episodes come to mind as favorites: "The City on the Edge of Forever"; "The Trouble with Tribbles"; "Shore Leave"; "Amok Time"; "Journey to Babel"; "The Conscience of the King." Over the next thirty years, as Susan-asgraduate-student became a lapsed academic and Susan-asfan began, slowly and painstakingly, to transform herself into a professional writer, I was to establish First Contacts with writers, artists, and what I can only call Closet Trekkers. (I think you had really better let me explain that . . . please!)
I've had the chance to meet Harlan Ellison and to be on panels with him. David Gerrold, the father of all tribbles, is a colleague. I once stayed up till 4:00 A.M. listening to the late, great Theodore Sturgeon, author of "Shore Leave." Twice, I got to meet the late Mark Lenard at conferences where I, too, was a guest, and, as I write these lines, I have just returned from his memorial service, where, with the courtesy and generosity Mr. Lenard's characters always showed (well, maybe not the Klingon, but the Romulan commander and Sarek, definitely), his family welcomed relatives, friends, and those of us from the STAR TREK community who were able to come—or to mail in via the Internet—to pay their last respects.
Just last week, at Thanksgiving dinner on New York's Upper West Side, a distinguished guest (distinguished at that moment by a toddler crawling on each shoulder) told me his father had been in "some STAR TREK episode or other as a Shakespearean actor with a troupe." "Good grief!" I said. "Your father's Anton Karidian."
I think it was very polite of me not to say "Your dad's Kodos the Executioner!"—don't you?
Over the past thirty years—twenty years of it as a friend of Trek writers like Ann Crispin or an almost-wedding-guest of Diane Duane and Peter Morwood at Boskone (hey, it's not my fault I got waylaid by a Latvian intellectual, and I did manage to get to the reception)—I've found STAR TREK in the most unlikely places. Here, in no particular order:
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