by Brad
Chapter 6
The Vulcan Science Academy, Spock thought, was probably the most rationally designed institution on the entire planet. An intricate complex of gleaming silver and white domes and spires, it had the same logical elegance as a sophisticated exercise in three-dimensional geometry. Symmetry and function, mathematical exactness, and strict logic dictated the curves and sweep of its buildings. Interior rooms all received natural light that saved energy and provided plenty of illumination for their severe, simple functions. Logic dictated the relationship of room to room, building to building. On the outside, walkways and passages never followed twisting, baffling, accidental courses but led naturally, logically, from one place to the next. At the academy, a Vulcan always knew exactly where he stood. Then, too, the academy blended easily and [56] harmoniously with the tame parkland around it. The carpetlike lawns did not consist of grass, but of a blue-green Vulcan plant that had the same effect. Although they never required mowing, the lawns were even and uniform, perfect squares, rectangles, circles, and trapezoids. The Vulcan trees—some of them actually giant herbs by biological classification—presented flawlessly spherical crowns to the sky. On Earth, such perfection would have come from loving attention and from hours of careful trimming. Here, the trees had been bred for centuries to present a pleasing aspect. Shears never touched them.
Spock walked past a symmetrical group of five trees. Ahead of him, the pathway skirted a circular fountain, a luxury on a naturally arid planet. The water jets took various geometrical forms, cones, parabolas, and hyperbolas. The gentle splashing was almost musical and produced a curiously soothing sensation. By every right, Spock thought, I should accept all this as natural and pleasing. And yet—
And yet.
With a sigh, Spock turned left at the fountain and went into one of the single-story dormitories. Although they were all identical in shape and size, none were named or marked. Similarly, the suites of rooms inside were not numbered. A Vulcan, after all, would note more subtle cues in the slightly varying shades of color, the different orientation of the hallways, that served as well as or better than letters and numbers inelegantly applied to the door.
One such unmarked door sensed and recognized [58] Spock and opened soundlessly. He stepped into the cool, dark common room of the suite he shared with Sirok, a distant cousin of his. Sirok was nowhere to be seen. Since the door to his private room was closed, Spock deduced that his older cousin was in his own quarters, probably studying or meditating. It was just as well.
Spock went to his private cubicle. It was severe, plain, undecorated: a simple bed, with no insulating covering (with perfect temperature control, coverlets and blankets were illogical), a desk with its sleek triangular computer pad, and—the one touch of individuality—an elegant, curved Vulcan harp. He touched the strings, producing not music, but rather a soft, cool vibration of sound, a glitter of tones that was at once attractive and a little—though it was an emotional word—sad.
Spock reclined on the bed and thought about the past few days. Knowing that Sarek had not approved of his reaction to the emergency on the Enterprise, Spock had come to the Science Academy fully determined to please his father. He had begun his studies at the academy determined to do everything in accordance with his father’s wishes. And yet ...
And yet his first meeting with his cousin showed him that would not be easy.
“So,” his kinsman Sirok had said with the distance and gravity of a twenty-year-old talking to someone two years younger than himself, “I know all about your parentage, Spock. I must tell you that the masters here are most skeptical about your abilities.”
Spock had tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. [59] “Indeed?” His voice expressed no distress, only a polite interest. “I do not understand the logic.”
“Isn’t it plain?” asked Sirok. “Your mother is a human, a member of a notoriously emotional species. The academy demands complete control of one’s emotions at all times. Your biological inheritance makes your accomplishing that control problematic. Therefore, since you will have the burden of working extra hard to maintain emotional balance as well as of studying the most rigorous science courses in the galaxy, your teachers are expecting you to fail.”
“Ah.” After a moment of thought, Spock added, “But permit me to say that I detect a flaw in the reasoning. Although humans feel emotions, even as Vulcans do, it is surely possible that my Vulcan side will allow me to control those feelings without undue stress.”
“We regard that as doubtful,” Sirok said.
We. Not they, but we. Sirok considered himself a true Vulcan and Spock, well, something less. That was when Spock first realized that he was alone. True, at the academy several thousand students and instructors surrounded him. Yet of all of them, Spock alone was different, an outsider, an object of curiosity. He wasn’t sure that the sensation disturbed him, exactly—surely that was too close to a human emotion—but at least he was keenly aware of his difference.
Though, Spock reflected as he lay on his bed, that was no surprise. He had always been something of an outsider, almost an outcast. He had always coped. For a youngster who did not fit in, there was compensations. [60] He could read, study, take his mind off his solitary state. And now at the Vulcan Science Academy, he had the opportunity of sharing the thoughts of the greatest scientists, even those who had died centuries before and who had left their thoughts behind in written or electronic form. With that kind of company, Spock could hardly call himself lonely.
And yet ...
That same morning he had participated in a group discussion of recent advances in artificial intelligence technology. Eleven young Vulcans and two elderly ones had gravely, logically, exchanged ideas and observations on submicroscopic circuitry; bicameral, tricameral, and tetracameral logic drivers; and other concerns. The discussion was smooth, rationally perfect, serene. Still, whenever Spock made a comment, he was always aware of a tiny pause before anyone else agreed or took his thought and offered an advancement on it. Perhaps the others did not hold him up to scorn or ridicule, but they evaluated him. Without being rude about their doubts, they took a few moments to examine his statements for illogical assumptions, flaws in reasoning, faulty judgment, human emotion.
Perhaps that was really what bothered him the most. At the Vulcan Science Academy, Spock was always under close watch. Everyone—including Sirok—constantly expected him to stumble. They were all waiting, not with glee, but with a kind of patient anticipation. They all seemed so certain of the outcome. He was half human. He would fail.
[61] Rising from his bed, Spock prepared for his afternoon meditation. Instead of considering some scientific proposition or some philosophical question, he reflected on his recent experiences. He chose to concentrate on a comparison of the teamwork aboard the Enterprise—a predominantly human affair—with the cooperation he observed at the academy. And he had to admit that in doing so, he discovered a certain disturbing lack of logic.
The next day, after attending a long and intense demonstration of logical programming for robotic subsystems, Spock and Sirok walked out of the cybernetics and robotics building together. “I have an observation,” Spock said.
“Really?” Sirok’s voice never sounded interested, just cool and a little distant.
“It is this: Today and yesterday I strove very hard to add knowledge to our discussions. I believe that I did so.”
“I would agree,” said Sirok. “Your observations were accurate and to the point.”
Spock took a deep breath. The dry air smelled faintly of water from a distant leaping fountain. “Yet the instructors appear hesitant to acknowledge my contributions. They behave as if what I say lacks validity.”
“Of course.” Sirok sounded as if it were the most natural behavior in the world.
“Can you explain this?” Spock asked.
Sirok gave him an appraising glance. “I have told you before that everyone here knows of your history and [62] parentage. It i
s a human failing to arrive at conclusions before thoroughly examining the evidence.”
“However,” Spock reminded him, “in no case has anyone shown that my conclusions are insufficiently supported.”
“No. But there is always the possibility that they will be. Therefore, what you say must be regarded as having less reliability than what I might say or what any other student might say. Of course, your participation in class must be suspect, Spock. A human weakness might show up at any time.”
They reached the fountain. “Let us sit here for a few moments,” Spock said. They shared a bench facing the astrophysics building’s spires and domes. Behind them the water made a rushing, hissing sound as it sprayed in dozens of fan-shaped eruptions. Spock studied the austere buildings as he gathered his thoughts. At last he said, “Sirok, I do not know if you have heard of the passage that my father and I took in returning to Vulcan from Marath.”
“I have not.”
“We traveled aboard a Starfleet vessel, the Enterprise. Do you know of it?”
“Not specifically. I know the general design concepts of Starfleet vessels, of course. Many of their design refinements have come from advances in Vulcan science.”
The hot sunlight was almost a physical pressure, heavy on Spock’s right cheek and shoulder. A group of three students and one master strolled past, their voices hushed as they discussed a problem in ethics, their [63] shadows dark moving pools beneath their feet. When the four had gone by, Spock said, “Is not the concept of Vulcan science a strange one?”
“How do you mean?”
Spock looked at his cousin. The two were much alike in the Vulcan way: dark hair, pointed ears, sharply slanting eyebrows. Perhaps Sirok was somewhat paler, thinner, taller, and more purely Vulcan. After a moment, Spock said slowly, “I cannot see that there is a Vulcan science and a human science—or any other kind. There is only science.”
“That is an illogical statement,” Sirok said at once.
“No,” Spock insisted. “All science, whether it is Vulcan, human, even Klingon, aims at knowledge and truth. The methods used to gain those goals really do not matter as much as the results do.”
“But human science often is stumbling, trial and error, a tedious pursuit,” Sirok said. “Vulcan science is thoroughly logical and rational. Because of our methods of thought, our experiments never produce unexpected or unusable results. We are far too disciplined ever to be surprised. Vulcan science is a process of logical unfolding, not of mere discovery.” He pronounced discovery as though it were a mildly vulgar word.
“I must disagree. Let me give you an example that may show you what I mean. Aboard the Enterprise,” Spock said slowly, “I saw a crew of several hundred individuals applying science. They were not a uniform body. Humans are more varied than Vulcans in temperament. And they did not try to conceal their emotions. They [64] joked, they became tense, they even were afraid at times. And yet they accomplished their goals. Even more, as they did so, I sensed something there that I do not sense here.”
“What is that?”
“Acceptance,” Spock said.
Sirok got to his feet. “There. You see exactly your human failing.”
Spock squinted up at him. “I am sorry, but I do not.”
With a gesture of impatience, Sirok replied, “To desire to be among humans is not logical for a Vulcan. As you yourself just said, humans are slaves to their emotions.”
“I do not believe I said that.”
“What were your words? ‘They did not try to conceal their emotions. They joked, they became tense, they even were afraid at times.’ Surroundings like that do not encourage serenity of thought and logical actions. Even worse, such responses are contagious, Spock. If you lived among humans, how long would it be before your heredity made you truly one of them? You have a good mind, my cousin. It would be a shame to make it prey to every disturbing emotion that might come your way.”
Spock stood. “My father works with humans and with many other species. Yet I do not believe he has caught the disease of emotion.”
“Your father is a Vulcan,” Sirok reminded him.
And so the matter rested for another day. Spock kept thinking of arguments he might use to persuade his cousin of his point, and yet he did not use them. For, he thought, what if he is partly correct? What if the [65] acceptance I experienced aboard the Enterprise has affected me emotionally? He was not sure that the sensation of belonging, of being accepted for that he was, actually was an emotion. Still, as Sarek had warned him, pleasurable feelings were the most treacherous ones. And certainly he felt the effects of the skepticism that he saw on the faces of his fellow students and—a little better concealed—on those of the Masters.
After the evening meal on the following night, Spock again raised the point with Sirok. They sat in their common room, and their discussion was far too calm to have been called an argument. Spock’s words were soft, and Sirok’s responses were no louder. Their points were made by logical progression. Still, despite their cordiality, Sirok again was sure that Spock was wrong. “You were raised on Vulcan,” he pointed out. “Your father is Vulcan. Therefore, by both education and by heredity, you should be most at home among Vulcans. To think that human associations would be superior is to give in to your weak human heritage—”
A chime interrupted him, three soft chords of music. From Spock’s room came a computerized voice: “A message from Sarek for his son, Spock.”
Spock rose and hurried into his room. “Spock here,” he said to the triangular computer base. “Proceed with your message.”
A holographic display, a virtual communication screen, shimmered into existence above his desk. Sarek’s face, curiously tense, stared out at Spock. “I have called to tell you to come home at once,” Sarek said.
Surprised, Spock glanced at Sirok, who raised one eyebrow in silent inquiry. To his father, Spock said, “Why must I return home, Father?”
“Your mother is recovering,” Sarek said.
“What happened?” Spock could not keep an edge of urgency from creeping into his voice, and he spoke more loudly than he had intended.
A flicker of distaste showed in Sarek’s eyes. “Spock, do not give in to emotions. I called to tell you that Amanda has been attacked. For your own safety and for that of the family, you must return home at once.”
Chapter 7
“Where is Mother?”
Sarek had been deep in conversation with his apprentice T’Lak. At the unexpected interruption, he looked up at his son. “Spock, you have burst in with unseemly haste, and your voice is almost strident.”
Spock clenched his hands, fighting for control. T’Lak, a tall young Vulcan woman, glanced down. Although she was a first cousin of Spock’s, Vulcans believed that close family exchanges should always be private. Taking a deep breath, Spock murmured, “I apologize, Father. Your communication caused me grave concern. When the pilot of my air car landed on our transportation pad, guards met us. Their presence heightened my concern, and I was carried away.”
“The guards are a precaution,” Sarek said. “Apparently our family is the victim of some kind of vendetta, [68] a crusade for revenge. It is most illogical, but we must deal with the problem. As to Amanda, she is in her room. You may visit her if you like, but do not upset her. Remember, she is human.”
“I am not likely to forget that,” Spock said.
He hurried to Amanda’s door. The door chimed and announced him, and he heard his mother’s voice say, “Come in, Spock.”
She lay in bed, covered with an illogical sheet and blanket. Spock’s attention focused on the puffy white bandage enclosing his mother’s upper left arm. “You were hurt,” he said.
“A scratch,” Amanda replied. “Come and sit beside me.”
Spock took the chair by the bed. His mother’s rooms were decorated in Earth fashion, with two-dimensional paintings of landscapes alive with improbable amounts of green, streaked with an exaggeration of water. Her bed,
desk, and chairs were all antiques, graceful but not completely suited to function in the logical manner of Vulcan furnishings. “Are you in pain?” Spock asked, feeling awkward and out of place.
“Not anymore. The dressing is an accelerant. I think the wound has closed already, but now the bandage will remove any scar. I’ll be fine in three days.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for caring.”
“It is natural,” responded Spock. “I am your son.”
“Yes, you are.” After a moment, Amanda said, “I suppose you want to know what happened. And I’m sure that Sarek didn’t tell you.”
[69] “No, he did not. But if you do not wish to speak of it—if the memory is painful—”
“No, I don’t mind.” Amanda sighed. “It was strange, Spock. Yesterday morning I received a call from town. A man who called himself Wurnall introduced himself as an Arkadian merchant and told me that he had heard I collected exotic plants. He claimed to have a full selection of Ceti IV desert succulents, and he displayed some for me. I bought twenty-five, and he agreed that he would deliver them to me this afternoon. I suppose I should have been suspicious.”
“Why is that?”
Amanda shrugged, then made a face. “Ouch. It still gives me a twinge when I move suddenly. Why should I have suspected something was wrong? Well, to begin with, Wurnall didn’t really look human. He wore the traditional turban and veil of a Cetan desert nomad, but he was very short and strongly built for a Cetan. And his accent was not quite right—he spoke Vulcan, and so the Universal Translator didn’t take over.”
Spock nodded. “And the attack?”
“It was a stupid thing. Wurnall arrived late this afternoon, with the plants in two flat cartons. He volunteered to help me carry them into the garden, and I led the way. Just as I was setting my carton down, I heard him drop his, and from the corner of my eye, I saw that he had drawn a weapon, a short, curved dagger. I’m afraid I screamed. Spock, are you all right?”
