* * *
“So where do you think the mobile went, Mr. Spock?” Kirk asked.
On the viewscreen, the green and blue orb of Tyrtaeus II was visible from standard orbit. Kirk had just finished his last debriefing with Starfleet about the alien mobile. He thought of how disappointed Admiral Lopez had looked when he heard of the mobile’s final flight; Commodore Karenina had shaken her head and murmured, “What a loss—how much we could have learned!” Even if Starfleet and the Federation Council had gone along with his recommendation for a prohibition against contact with the alien mobile, they might eventually have been seeking for some way to explore it and establish contact. The aliens had been right to take the action they did.
Spock had not answered his question. Kirk glanced aft. The Vulcan was sitting at his computer station, staring intently at his display screen.
“Spock?” Kirk said.
Spock looked up. “Yes, Captain. You asked where the inhabitants of the mobile were going. I believe that the mobile will seek out some obscure system, where in time a new sun-core station may be opened up as a source of energy. It will then take up an orbit in the midst of some outer system debris, and continue with its inner life.”
Uhura turned in her chair toward Spock. “How sad,” she said. “I agree with Doctor McCoy—it’s a tragedy to have such a civilization contemplating its own navel, so to speak.”
Spock looked pensive. “I believe this case differs from the Talosian model, Lieutenant. The doctor is using that model to judge the people of the mobile, but that, I think, is a mistake. As I understand it, this culture knows exactly what it wants—to remake the world—”
“I’ve got it!” Kirk said suddenly, remembering the poem that had eluded him, and recited:
“Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits—and then Remould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!”
“They have the energies of suns to shape their way of life,” Spock continued. “But, as we learned, out of necessity—in order to preserve what they have made for themselves—they must be a culture that is shy of contact with others. Despite their isolation, they did not seem about to fall into decadence and decay and risk destroying themselves, as have the Talosians. But they can be destroyed—by others impinging on the inward world they have created. Fortunately, that has been prevented.”
“What do you think, Mister Spock?” Sulu asked as he turned in his seat. “Is their way of life better than ours?”
“We will never know their achievement,” Spock replied, “so it is difficult to judge. But on final balance, I am inclined to reject their way.”
“Perhaps you’re simply prejudiced in favor of what you think of as the real universe,” Kirk said.
“Yes, because I am joined to it, because it is real, endless, and a challenge that will never be met equally, only in part.”
Kirk folded his arms. “And that doesn’t disappoint you?”
“No, Captain, it does not. The journey will never end, in all the lifetimes of all the intelligent life in the universe. Even the people of the mobile may one day turn outward again, with all the resources gained from their inner sabbatical. Consider: the strength of suns has only two great uses—to re-shape solar systems and power the survival of intelligent life, and to shape an inner life of creative venturings. In that sense, mind and the universe are one.”
“To seek and not to yield,” Kirk said, knowing that he was not quite recalling still another poem. “To follow knowledge like a sinking star … good work if you can get it, if you have the right job.”
Spock lifted a brow. “Yes, if one can create for oneself such a destiny. It is possible that we may have encountered the species that may one day seek to remake the cosmos.”
“What do you mean?” Kirk asked.
“They may endeavor to destroy the cosmos as we know it, and recast the character of physical law.”
“As the poet longed for?” Kirk asked.
“As they long for.”
“Is that possible?”
“In a finite universe, perhaps. In an infinite one, never. But if ours is a finite universe, then the far future may see the struggle of various surviving intelligences for what to make of our universe.”
“The rest of us may have something to say about that make-over,” Sulu said.
Spock shrugged. “Us? There may be no ‘us’ after billions of years of development. We may be, what is left of us, allied with the universe-shapers.”
“Mr. Spock,” Uhura said, “I think you regret the mobile’s leaving very much.”
“It is indeed a loss,” Spock said. “I strongly intended to present them with a few questions, assuming they would have allowed me to pose them.”
The four officers on the bridge fell silent. Most of the Enterprise personnel, except for a skeleton crew, had beamed down to the surface of Tyrtaeus II. Aristocles Marcelli and Myra Coles had granted permission for a wilderness shore leave for the crew, well away from their world’s settled areas. The open regions of the main continent had much scenic beauty to offer, and the pleasant Tyrtaean climate almost guaranteed an enjoyable outing. Myra had admitted, with a rueful smile, that the Enterprise crew might prefer such a shore leave to one in populated regions, since Tyrtaean cities and towns offered so few amusements. But it was also politically advisable for the personnel of the Enterprise to keep their distance, and allow any Tyrtaeans who wanted more contact to seek them out.
“Perhaps you can show me one of your favorite trails when I beam down,” Kirk had said to the image of Myra on the viewscreen in his quarters.
“I don’t know if I can get out of Callinus,” she had replied. “A lot of administrative work piled up while I was gone, and if I don’t catch up on it now—I’m sorry.” She had looked slightly regretful, but maybe he had imagined that. Maybe she was only trying to let him down easily, using her work as an excuse not to spend more time with him. There was also her position to consider. Too much obvious friendliness toward a starship captain might not be advisable.
“We were very fortunate that you were sent here on your mission,” Myra had continued. “Otherwise, we could never have been sure that we were safe from the inhabitants of the mobile. Even Aristocles has admitted that much. We would have seen it enter the sun, and then leave, and we would always have been wondering—why it was there, how it could have survived the fires of a sun, what its intentions toward us were.”
“Has that realization eased some of the anti-Federation feeling?” Kirk asked.
“I think it will, James. I don’t know if it will aid me during the next election, but at least now I have a chance to win.” She looked down, and he noticed then that she had a garment in one hand, a needle and thread in the other. “And now we Tyrtaeans must turn inward again, and go on with our lives until, perhaps, the Federation has need of whatever we have made of ourselves.” Myra sighed. “Back to work! Farewell, James.” She had looked regretful again before her image vanished; he had stared at the empty screen while brooding on his own regrets.
“Captain,” Uhura said at last, “Request permission to—”
Kirk stood up. “Of course, Lieutenant. Permission granted for shore leave. You, too, Mister Sulu.” He paused, knowing what he wanted to do. “I think I’ll join you. Yeoman Barrows and Doctor McCoy mentioned earlier that some of the crew were going to picnic near Callinus before setting off on their hike through the foothills—maybe I’ll see how they’re getting on.”
He followed the other two officers toward the turbolift, then looked back. “Spock? Ensign Tekakwitha should be here to relieve you in two hours. There’s no reason for you to stay aboard after that.”
“I am content to remain here, Captain.”
Kirk cleared his throat and was about to speak, then turned to enter the lift.
* * *
Alone on the bridge, Spock finished storing his records, then shut
down his computer and sat still. He contemplated again the encounter with the mobile, and how it had not turned out to be the meeting with a high alien culture that he longed for. There was such a culture in the galaxy somewhere, he suspected, one that was older than all the others.
What was it doing behind the scenery of stars, where newer cultures were striving for survival and knowledge? Sampling, observing, nurturing? Perhaps it was preventing great tragedies. He would probably never find it, or even any evidence that it existed. It might be best in the end to fail at this quest, he realized, setting aside his disappointment—intellectual on his Vulcan side, more emotional from his human inheritance.
The turbolift door opened and Cathe Tekakwitha came onto the bridge, followed by Wellesley Warren. Spock rose to his feet.
“Commander Spock,” Ensign Tekakwitha said, “the captain gave permission for Wellesley to come aboard. He wanted to see more of the ship’s operations, so I volunteered to be his guide while I’m on duty.”
“In return, I promised Cathe I’d take her backpacking in the Euniss Mountains during her shore leave,” the young man said.
“I thought we’d begin at the library-computer station first,” Tekakwitha murmured.
“Of course, Ensign.” Spock stepped aside to allow them access; then he moved to the lower level of the bridge, halting near the captain’s chair.
He looked at the planet that waited below, and he listened to the ship that would soon take him and his shipmates elsewhere. And suddenly he realized what the function of the passages in the alien mobile had been. They had not been made for physical beings to use. Those passages were wave guides for mental energies, a help in shaping virtual realities, which were then stored in panels and walls like the one he had entered.
Magnificent, he thought. They were brave and clever, the people of the alien mobile, to make inner worlds in their own image, where inevitably they would confront their deepest selves.
And perhaps he was still standing there, alive inside the perfect recreation of this, his previous existence?
He dismissed the thought. If the illusion was perfect, if it could be perfect, then there would be no difference. The two realities, as Earth’s great philosophers Descartes and Leibnitz would have eagerly pointed out, would be one and the same. If there was even one small difference between seeming indiscernibles, the illusion collapsed. By its very nature, the infinite character of the cosmos would be forever incomplete, impossible to enumerate.
And he was content to have it so, he told himself, as an insistent beep sounded.
“Tekakwitha here,” he heard the ensign say behind him. “Mr. Spock, it’s the captain—for you.”
Spock pressed a panel at the navigator’s station. “Spock here.”
“Spock,” Kirk’s voice said, “Myra Coles and I are inviting you to a picnic. It’s a beautiful day here. Can we count on you?”
“If I may decline, Captain. An afternoon of meditation would do more to restore me than shore leave.”
There was a moment of silence. “He’s not coming, James?” Myra Coles asked. “But why not?”
After a moment, he heard the captain say to her, “It’s his way.” Another moment of silence passed. “Have a good rest, Spock.”
“Thank you, Captain. Spock out.”
He started for the turbolift, then glanced back. Ensign Tekakwitha and Wellesley Warren were at the library-computer station, sitting much closer to each other than strictly necessary.
“Ensign,” he said, “the bridge is in your hands. I will be in my quarters if you need me.”
“Aye, sir.”
* * *
In his quarters, Spock sought sleep, meditating as he drifted on how closely sleep resembled death, and how much he disliked even the idea of nonbeing. It was, for him, the greatest evil, especially when imposed by deliberate violence, cancelling all thought, knowing, and appreciation.
Earlier today he had said, “The Tyrtaeans have their dream, and so do the Tyrtaean rebels. The Federation has its dreams and ideals. The people of the mobile have their dream. …”
“What are you getting at?” Kirk had asked.
“Just this, Captain. All these dreams have one thing in common, with different means for achieving them, of course. And that is that unwished-for realities keep breaking into their dreams—”
“Yes,” Kirk had said, “but each has responded to and dealt with its intruder, and perhaps been changed by the encounter.” The captain had been silent for a few moments, but then had asked, “Spock, on balance, what do you think of the Tyrtaeans? There seems to be much satisfaction in their stoic ways.”
“Yes,” Spock had replied. “Stoicism, as a philosophy, harbors the illusion that self-control and worldly influence may be treated as one and the same. It is in some ways an admirably practical way, but it fails in the extremes.”
“As do most things,” Kirk had said.
Spock had nodded. There was more to say, of course, much more. …
He thought for a while of what that would have to be, and how he would phrase it. Then he remembered the second piece of poetry, lines from Tennyson’s Ulysses, that the captain had somewhat mangled:
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought…
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
And when he was finally asleep, Spock dreamed that he was awake and at his post.
About the Authors
Pamela Sargent and George Zebrowski have been watching Star Trek ever since the 1960s, when they were students at the State University of New York at Binghamton.
Pamela Sargent sold her first published story during her senior year in college, and has been a writer ever since. She has won a Nebula Award, a Locus Award, and been a finalist for the Hugo Award; her work has been translated into eleven languages. Her novels include The Sudden Star, The Golden Space, and The Alien Upstairs. Her epic novel Venus of Dreams was listed as one of the one hundred best science fiction novels by Library Journal. Earthseed, her first novel for young adults, was chosen as a 1983 Best Book by the American Library Association. Her other acclaimed science fiction novels include The Shore of Women and Venus of Shadows; the Washington Post Book World has called her “one of the genre’s best writers.”
Sargent is also the author of Ruler of the Sky, a historical novel about Genghis Khan. Gary Jennings, bestselling author of the historical novel Aztec, said about Ruler of the Sky: “This formidably researched and exquisitely written novel is surely destined to be known hereafter as the definitive history of the life and times and conquests of Genghis, mightiest of Khans.” Elizabeth Marshall Thomas, author of Reindeer Moon and The Hidden Life of Dogs, commented: “The book is fascinating from cover to cover and does admirable justice to a man who might very well be called history’s single most important and compelling character.”
Sargent has edited Women of Wonder, The Classic Years and Women of Wonder, The Contemporary Years, two anthologies of science fiction by women. With artist Ron Miller, she collaborated on the forthcoming Firebrands: The Heroines of Science Fiction. Two new novels, American Khan and Child of Venus, are works in progress under contract to HarperCollins.
George Zebrowski’s twenty-six books include novels, short fiction collections, anthologies, and a forthcoming book of essays. His short stories have been nominated for the Nebula Award and the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. Noted science fiction writer Greg Bear calls him “one of those rare speculators who bases his dreams on science as well as inspiration,” and the late Terry Carr, one of the most influential science fiction editors of recent years, described him as “an authority in the SF field.”
Zebrowski has published more than seventy-five works of short fiction and nearly a hundred articles and essays, including reviews for The Washington Post Book World and articles on science for Omni magazine. One of his best-known novels is Macro-life, selected by Library Journal as one of the one hundred
best novels of science fiction; Arthur C. Clarke described Macrolife as “a worthy successor to Olaf Stapledon’s Star Maker. It’s been years since I was so impressed. One of the few books I intend to read again.” He is also the author of The Omega Point Trilogy, and his novel Stranger Suns was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year for 1991.
Zebrowski’s recent novel, written in collaboration with scientist/author Charles Pellegrino, is The Killing Star, which the New York Times Book Review called “a novel of such conceptual ferocity and scientific plausibility that it amounts to a reinvention of that old Wellsian staple: Invading Monsters From Outer Space.” Booklist commented: “Pellegrino and Zebrowski are working territory not too far removed from Arthur C. Clarke’s, and anywhere Clarke is popular, this book should be, too.”
Zebrowski’s The Sunspacers Trilogy was published in 1996 by White Wolf/Borealis Books. He is editing an original anthology series, Synergy, for White Wolf, and working on two novels, Brute Orbits and Cave of Stars, for HarperCollins.
Pamela Sargent and George Zebrowski are also the authors of A Fury Scorned, a Star Trek: The Next Generation novel. They live in upstate New York.
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