The Weight of Worlds

by Greg Cox

  Not a red herring after all, then.

  He closed his eyes and placed the fingers of both hands gently against the sides of the crown. A tingling sensation, not unlike static electricity, greeted his touch. An intangible current flowed from the crown into his nervous system and vice versa. He cautiously opened his own mind and reached out as he would to another living being. . . .

  “My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.”

  The ancient mantra focused and settled him, easing what was to come. His consciousness spread from his brain to his fingertips to the crown to . . .

  Ialatl.

  A vast ocean of alien minds stretched before him, both breathtaking and terrifying in its churning immensity. He was poised at the shore of the ocean, the essences of billions of sentient beings lapping against him, creating a psychic undertow that was almost impossible to resist. His uprooted mind quailed at drawing any nearer the ocean, for fear of being swallowed up by its unfathomable depths forever. What training and/or natural gifts must the God-Kings of Ialat possess to be able to set their thoughts a-sail upon that turbulent ocean without going under?

  He dared not emulate their feat. He could not risk spreading his consciousness that thin. Safer instead to concentrate on one specific mind with a particular affinity to the crown.

  Focus.

  Wading cautiously into the cerebral ocean, he sifted through its myriad currents in search of the right Ialatl. It seemed an almost hopeless task until he detected a distinct psychic imprint of the crown’s illustrious owner. He seized that connection and did not let go.

  “My mind to your mind. . . .”

  The ocean swirled around him, rendering him briefly dizzy and disoriented, and he suddenly found himself seeing through a stranger’s eyes. His ribs throbbed in agony as he floated helplessly inside the arena. Kirk was there as well, hovering nearby. He knew the cunning human was responsible for his woe.

  He felt an overpowering urge to strike down the infidel and defend the timeless sanctity of the Truth. He was the God-King. It was his sacred duty and destiny to deliver both universes from lies and confusion, bringing all into harmony so that they might be reborn in the new Creation to come. To do otherwise was illogical.

  A flood of utter certainty washed over Spock. There was no doubt, no unsettling dilemmas. For perhaps the first time in life, he felt no division within him, no perpetual conflict between his Vulcan and human heritages. His course was certain, his place in the universe preordained. The Truth brought clarity and peace of mind, as well as a better understanding of the need for the Crusade. Questions, diversity, alternatives, and error could not be tolerated. There could be only one Truth, eternal, immutable. . . .

  No, Spock thought. That is not the Vulcan way. That is not the Federation. That is not Starfleet.

  Caught in the meld, it was difficult to distinguish between his thoughts and Jaenab’s. He fought back against the seductive appeal of the Truth’s soothing certainty, calling upon not just cold, impersonal logic but also his individual life and experiences, both aboard the Enterprise and across the galaxy. Clinging to his own identity and purpose, he reached back to the memories and discoveries that shaped him:

  • • •

  Vulcan, many years ago. Only six solar cycles old, Spock observes his mother and father as they share a breakfast on a patio outside their home on the family estate. It is early in the morning, the scorching yellow sun not yet high in the sky. He struggles to find the logic behind his parents’ union, and, by extension, his own existence.

  They are so very different. His mother: warm and tender and human. His father: reserved and stoic and Vulcan. They appear to have nothing in common. Even as he watches, his mother laughs and teases her husband, who sighs and shakes his head at her baffling emotionality. Even their blood was intrinsically at odds. Green and copper-based for him; disturbingly red and iron-based for her. Spock’s own conception defies probability.

  They are clearly opposites. Vulcan and human. Logic and emotion. Even male and female. By all logic, they should not be able to coexist, let alone thrive together side-by-side. They should be like matter and antimatter, unable to come together without explosively destructive results. Any other conclusion was illogical.

  And yet . . . their verifiable differences only seemed to strengthen the bond between them, which suggested that the intersection of opposites, neither yielding to the other, could sometimes result in unexpected combinations and possibilities, as demonstrated by the indisputable fact of a boy named Spock. . . .

  • • •

  No, the Truth argued. That was not possible. Difference led only to dissent and turmoil and extinction. When disparate views clashed, only one could prevail or else there was chaos. One could believe in only one Truth—or nothing at all.

  Not so, Spock countered. One must simply be content with the knowledge that one could not know everything—and be open to the possibility that creation itself was far too large to be encompassed by a single “Truth.”

  Granted, this could be both challenging and arduous, as he knew better than most. He had spent his entire life grappling with the conflicts posed by his mixed heritage. In truth, he sometimes contemplated resolving the conflict by surrendering to the ancient discipline of Kolinahr. Fully embracing the Vulcan way, to the exclusion of all others, might well be the only way that he would ever find peace.

  But, he considered, another fundamental Vulcan principle, which had guided him all his days, encouraged him to keep exploring other possibilities. It was the same principle that helped hold the Federation together and sent starships into space to seek out new life and new civilizations, not to conquer or convert, but to learn and share. It was a conviction—a belief—that the new and different was not to be feared, but seen as opportunities for growth and progress, as well as evidence of creation’s endless wonder and complexity:

  Infinite diversity in infinite combinations.

  Spock felt the Truth retreat. . . .

  • • •

  In the arena, Jaenab’s eyes opened in revelation. A look of wonder came over his face, replacing the stony conviction that had hardened it before. Tendrils drifted benignly around his silver visage.

  “By the ancestors,” he whispered. “Could it be that I was mistaken? Did I misread the Truth?”

  He looked over at Kirk, who was puzzled by the God-King’s sudden change of heart. He sensed somehow that this was not his doing, or at least not entirely. Something else had broken down Jaenab’s divine self-assurance.

  But what?

  Jaenab peered at Kirk, as though seeing him for the first time. “You are not a God-Slayer. You are . . . Jim.”

  A familiar cadence sparked a flash of recognition. Hope flared inside Kirk. Could it be . . . ?

  “Spock?”

  Jaenab nodded. “He is with me. In my soul. In my crown. His mind to my mind. His thoughts to my thoughts—”

  A mind-meld, Kirk realized. An overwhelming wave of relief washed over him. He didn’t know how, but Spock was obviously still alive. We didn’t lose him after all.

  “He is slipping away from me now,” Jaenab murmured. He placed a hand to his head. “Our hearts and minds are parting, and yet . . .” He looked about him in bewilderment. “Perhaps the Crusade is not . . . logical?”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you,” Kirk said. “You just needed to listen.”

  The Crusaders surrounding the cage had heard enough. “The God-King is delirious! We must see to him at once . . . and destroy the infidel!”

  “No!” Jaenab commanded. “No harm shall come to him!”

  “But, Divinity, you are not well! You know not what you are saying!”

  Wincing, Jaenab uncurled himself from his fetal position. His voice rang out with surprising strength.

  “I am still the God-King and my word is Truth! I declare this trial over and our visitor innocent of all charges.” He grasped Kirk’s hand. “Now open this cage and
see to our injuries!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  The throne room bore few scars from the heated battle for the crown only a few hours earlier. Spock had obviously been careful with his phaser blasts, targeting only Crusaders and not the chamber’s majestic décor. The towering pillars and colossal bas-reliefs appeared undamaged, looking much as they had when Kirk had last visited the premises.

  But the circumstances are hugely improved, he noted.

  The God-King sat once more upon his throne, which rested securely on its dais. His crown abided on his brow, which was furrowed in concentration. His face bore a pensive, less imperious expression. His beard of spiny tentacles was at rest. Cloak and scepter attested to his authority. His black eyes held a distant gaze.

  Kirk, Spock, and Vlisora looked on as Jaenab shared his thoughts with all Ialatl. Prompt medical attention had alleviated their various injuries, as well as the God-King’s cracked ribs. The palace guard stood at attention, taking no action against the former fugitives. It was a welcome change.

  “It is done,” Jaenab declared. His gaze returned to the throne room, finding Kirk and the others. He lifted the crown from his head. “The Crusade has been recalled. All rebel prisoners are to be pardoned. The High Priestess has been restored to her former glory and privileges.” He looked thoughtfully at Vlisora, perhaps wondering if their more intimate relationship could be restored as well. “Furthermore, I have informed the people that I will be withdrawing from public life to seek a period of contemplation for a time, the better to ponder certain matters.” He turned his gaze toward Kirk and Spock. “I have been given much to think about.”

  “The opportunity to think deeply without distractions is a gift to be envied,” Spock said. “May your meditations be fruitful.”

  “If the ancestors grant me wisdom and an open mind,” Jaenab said. “In the interim, I have decreed that the High Priestess is to rule in my name.”

  “Divinity?” Vlisora was taken aback. “You cannot be serious. Only hours ago I was denounced as a traitor to the realm. Surely there must be another better suited to the task.”

  “I can think of no one better,” Jaenab replied. “You have proven to be the conscience of the throne, and to be willing to cast aside everything, even your own safety and reputation, for the sake of Ialat.”

  He stepped down from his throne, wincing slightly, and crossed the floor to them. Bandages were wrapped tightly around his injured torso. He placed his cloak upon her shoulders and handed her the scepter. She accepted them with obvious trepidation.

  “But how can you truly know that I am up to the challenge? The responsibility is great. . . .”

  “You’ll do fine,” Kirk predicted. “Like the man said, you’ve already proved that you’ll go to any lengths for your people.”

  She regarded him with surprise. “You can say that, even after I used and betrayed you?”

  “All’s well that ends well,” he said with a shrug, inclined to let bygones be bygones. “Sometimes a leader needs to make hard choices. Believe me, I know.”

  He figured he had some explaining to do to Starfleet where the Prime Directive was concerned, but the fact that Ephrata had been liberated, and a full-scale invasion from the Crusade had been averted, would surely weigh in his favor, no pun intended. Besides, Vlisora had been the true mastermind behind recent events, which made her ascension more of an internal matter than a case of Starfleet interference. He and Spock had merely been roped into a resistance movement that had already been under way before they’d even set foot on Ialat.

  At least that was his story, and he was going to stick to it.

  “It will not be easy.” She fumbled awkwardly with the scepter, rolling it over and over in her shaking hands. “A social convulsion such as the Crusade cannot be rolled back overnight. And the God-King was not alone in his views—or militant devotion to the Truth.” She cast an apologetic look at her husband for speaking so bluntly. “Many Ialatl will not readily comprehend this change in direction. It may be hard for them to accept.”

  Kirk was concerned. What if the Crusaders did not accept Vlisora or the end of their holy war? “Is there any chance of a coup? Or an uprising?”

  “That is unlikely to occur,” Jaenab said confidently. “The people will accept my pronouncements, even if they do not fully understand at first.”

  “He is right,” she agreed. “Our age-old reverence for the institution of the God-King works to our favor in this respect. His decrees will not be challenged, although they will surely be controversial. It will take time and patience to convince our fellow Ialatl of the wisdom of our present course . . . and steer them toward a more generous and inclusive interpretation of the Truth. One that looks to the future, as opposed to preparing for the End.”

  Kirk felt optimistic about their prospects. “Progress takes time, but it usually gets its way. The history of my own planet proves that.”

  “For now, I am simply happy to be on the same path as my husband again.” She took Jaenab’s hand, eliciting a surprised reaction from the humbled God-King, but he did not let go. She gave him a hopeful look. “Even roads that diverge sharply can sometimes find their way back to each other, is that not so?”

  He smiled back at her. “So the ancestors said.”

  Kirk wished them luck. It was none of his business, but it was nice to think that the couple might be able to overcome the betrayals and divisiveness that had come between them. He was a big fan of happy endings.

  Spock, naturally, had less sentimental matters on his mind.

  “And what of the portal?” he asked.

  A rueful look came over her face. “I fear I must close the portal for now. My people need time to adjust to the reality of another, very different universe . . . and to recover from the excesses of the Crusade.”

  “And how long do you think that might take?” Kirk asked.

  “Who can say?” she replied. “Years. Decades. Maybe even centuries. Enlightenment cannot be achieved in the wink of an eye, especially after all that has come before. But someday, perhaps, when we are ready, Ialat can make contact with your universe again—and we can truly share our truths with each other.” She allowed herself a wistful smile. “Before the end of creation, I hope.”

  Kirk nodded. “I understand.”

  To be honest, he could live with the portal being shut down for the immediate future, despite the tempting prospect of exploring a whole new universe. The safety of the quadrant took priority.

  “I can assure you that the Federation will always be ready to establish peaceful diplomatic relations with Ialat,” he said, “no matter how far in the future that might be.”

  “On behalf of my people, I look forward to that day,” the God-King replied. “When the time is right for both our realms.”

  “In the meantime,” Kirk pointed out, “there is one small matter to attend to. Can I ask that, before you shut down the portal, you send us home first?”

  Vlisora laughed. The royal cloak fit her well.

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Your chair, Captain.”

  Uhura surrendered the captain’s seat to Kirk as he strode back onto the bridge, accompanied by Spock, who assumed his customary place at the science station. All seemed well at first glance. The Enterprise remained in orbit around Ephrata IV, which spun serenely on the viewscreen.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate your holding down the fort for me.”

  He’d already been briefed, at least in broad strokes, on what had transpired during his involuntary sojourn on Ialat. From the sound of things, Uhura had done an exceptional job under extremely challenging conditions. Kirk resolved to put in for a commendation for her, as well as for Spock, Sulu, and Yaseen. And that was just to begin with; he suspected that he would find other crew members worthy of special recognition after he thoroughly reviewed the logs.

  “Any time, sir.” Uhura resumed her post at communications, relievin
g Lieutenant Palmer. “And how is Mister Scott, Captain? How is he faring in sickbay?”

  “About as unhappily as you’d expect,” Kirk said. Doctor McCoy had insisted on checking out both the captain and Spock after their return from the other universe. Kirk had taken advantage of the detour to look in on the injured chief engineer, who struck him as well on the way to recovery. “He’s chomping at the bit to get back to his engines, much to the doctor’s annoyance.”

  “At least he’ll have a chance to catch up on his technical manuals,” Chekov said.

  “If McCoy doesn’t knock him out with a tranquilizer first,” Kirk quipped. “Just to keep him quiet.”

  “The good doctor’s bedside manner is often lacking in patience,” Spock commented. “A regrettable failing in a physician.”

  “I’ll be sure to let him know you said that,” Kirk said.

  “Thank you, Captain. That would be most obliging of you.”

  Kirk settled into his chair. It felt good to be back where he belonged. He noted that Sulu was back at the helm as well, looking quite at home. “What about you, Mister Sulu? Have you had enough of Ephrata IV?”

  “Actually, Captain, I was hoping there might be time for a little shore leave before we leave orbit.” He winked at Ensign Yaseen, who was standing nearby for no particular reason. “I hear there are some beautiful picnic spots down on the planet.”

  Kirk picked up on a definite vibe between the helmsman and the security officer. When did that happen?

  Good for Sulu, he thought. And Yaseen, too.

  “I imagine the Institute is going to require some assistance rebuilding,” Kirk said. “There should be time to squeeze in some shore leave, too. From what I hear, you deserve it. Both of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Sulu grinned at Yaseen, who responded with a positively devilish smile that seemed to promise a shore leave to remember. Sulu beamed as though he had just won the Neptunian Lottery. “Very much, sir.”