Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (12 page)

Spock was as distracted as Jim had ever seen him.

The Vulcan straightened and faced Kirk.

“Captain”—for a moment, Spock seemed as dazed as the hostages—“perhaps I have. Permission to leave the bridge.”

“Granted,” Kirk said. “But what—”

The Vulcan turned and was gone.

McCoy watched him in wonder. “What the devil is wrong with him?”

ON THE FORWARD
observation deck, Spock stood next to the antique ship’s wheel and looked out at the stars. The deck was deserted, silent, dimly lit; it offered Spock the privacy he required to untangle and examine the chaotic jumble of memories.

The image on the viewscreen had been most unclear.
I am mistaken,
Spock told himself.
It has been too many years...
and after death and the ritual of
fal tor pan,
my memory of the past is faulty, unreliable.

He ran his hand absently over the surface of the wooden wheel. After its years at sea and the subsequent passage of five centuries, its surface was scarred and pitted beneath layers of protective sealant.

Yet Spock seemed to have no difficulty now in remembering. That part ofhis past had been so deeply
impressed upon his mind and spirit that even death could not blot it out. The images swept over him like a tide and would not cease, images that had lain undisturbed and forgotten up to the moment Spock saw the terrorist leader’s face.

The leader’s face wavered, changed; in its stead Spock saw a much younger face, one much like his own.

I will find Sha Ka Ree,
the young one said. An indistinct, half-formed picture: the young one turning away to go forever. Spock closed his eyes, astonished at the depth of sorrow he still felt at the memory.

But more than thirty years had intervened; how could he possibly recognize that face, that voice, after the passage of so much time?

Another part of him had no doubt.

Spock stiffened instinctively at the sound of the lounge doors parting behind him; he let go of the ship’s wheel and clasped his hands firmly behind his back. He was beginning to learn, after Ms prolonged experience of sharing consciousness with Leonard McCoy, how to relax among humans, how to mentally achieve what McCoy referred to as “not taking himself so seriously.” Spock was even beginning to understand their humor. But he did not want his friends to see him in pain.

Footsteps neared, then stopped behind him. He did not have to turn around to know that it was Jim Kirk and Leonard McCoy.

“Spock,” Jim asked quietly. “What is it? Do you know this Vulcan?”

Yes,
Spock almost replied, until doubt assailed him
again. “I cannot be sure. The transmission was most unclear.”

“But he
does
seem familiar?” Jim persisted.

Spock gave a small sigh of surrender. He suspected that before the Nimbus mission was over, he would have to reveal his past in far more detail than he wished.

But for now, he revealed only what was necessary to satisfy Kirk. “He reminds me of someone I. . . knew in my youth.”

“Why, Spock,” McCoy teased, “I didn’t know you had one,”

“I do not often think of the past,” Spock replied simply. He knew the doctor well enough to understand his sarcasm; it was a defense against intense unpleasant emotion. McCoy had evidently sensed Spock’s distress and was uncomfortable. As a result, he used humor in an attempt to draw attention away from it. Perhaps an effective weapon; perhaps Spock would test it in the future.

The captain would not be distracted. “Spock, exactly
who
is it he reminds you of?”

Someone who was once closer to me than either of you,
Spock might have said.
Someone whom, for the past thirty years, I have been constrained to think of as dead. Among my family, among my people, I am forbidden even to speak his name.

Instead, he told them, “There was a young student, exceptionally gifted, possessing great intelligence. It was assumed that one day he would take his place among the great scholars of Vulcan. But he was”—Spock searched for the appropriate term, did not find
it, and substituted one that could not quite convey all that he meant—“a revolutionary.”

“I don’t understand,” Jim said. “How could a Vulcan become a revolutionary?”

Spock hesitated. His memory was crystallizing as he spoke. These were things of which he was forbidden to speak to outsiders—even to uninitiated Vulcans.

Cautiously, he said, “The knowledge and experience he sought were forbidden by Vulcan belief.” He half turned to face Kirk.

The captain was frowning. “Forbidden? I thought the Vulcans were a tolerant race.” He clearly was not going to stop until he had a satisfactory explanation.

Spock returned his attention to the stars and did his best to answer without telling an outright lie—or giving the details of the truth. “He rejected his logical upbringing and embraced the animal passions of our ancestors.”

“Why?”

“He believed that the key to self-knowledge was emotion, not logic.” Spock knew without looking that the doctor smiled.

“Imagine that,” McCoy said. “A passionate Vulcan. I might actually learn to like the guy.”

Spock continued without reacting. “When he began to encourage others to follow him, he was banished from Vulcan, never to return.” He stopped and hoped that Jim would deem the explanation sufficient. . . and would not ask a question Spock could not answer.

“Fascinating,” Jim said. No one spoke for a moment. And then Jim’s voice again, determined to have an answer, yet faintly apologetic for the invasion of
privacy: “This Vulcan, Spock . . . how well did you know him?”

It was the question Spock had feared. He was saved by the intercom whistle, followed by Uhura’s shipwide page. “Captain to the bridge.”

Kirk went over to the bulkhead and pressed the button. “On my way.” He and McCoy headed for the exit, but Spock, still contemplating the stars and the void, vaguely heard him pause expectantly at the threshold.

“Spock … ?”

Spock forced himself to travel the thirty years back to the present. “Coming, Captain.”

But he carried the memory of the young Vulcan with him.

J’Onn found Sybok sitting alone in the outer room of the saloon, which was dark save for the bluish glow from the aged communication terminal. The Vulcan had been so lost in thought that he had not heard his second-in-command enter.

J’Onn took a moment to study his leader’s face. It was strong and lined, and radiated determination. Yet J’Onn fancied he saw a trace of sorrow there, a sorrow that Sybok kept carefully hidden while in the presence of others.

J’Onn had come here out of gratitude, to thank Sybok again . . . and also, in all honesty, because he had from time to time seen sadness in the Vulcan’s eyes; this troubled J’Onn greatly. It did not seem fair that the one who had helped them all should himself suffer. J’Onn moved forward until he stood beside the Vulcan.

Sybok turned his head quickly to look up at him, but he did not seem at all startled. It was almost as if he had expected someone to approach. Now the sadness was gone from his expression.

Perhaps,
J’Onn thought,
I simply imagined it.

“Hello, J’Onn,” Sybok said quietly. He did not smile; J’Onn noticed the fact because he smiled so easily and often.

“I came because I wished to tell you how grateful we all feel for the freedom you have given us.” J’Onn paused, searching for the courage to say what he truly meant. “You have helped all of us deal with our private sorrows—me, the other soldiers, even the diplomats. I have spoken with them all. Yet you speak to no one about yourself. . . about your own sorrow.”

Sybok sat silently, focused on some vision perceived by his eyes alone. J’Onn waited until, at last, the Vulcan answered without looking at him.

“I have been given the grace to bear my own sorrow. I understand death and loss very well. . . well enough to be of some use to those who need me.”

“I want to help you, as you have helped me and the others.”

Sybok smiled unhappily. “You cannot do that. But you will help us to procure a starship. That is more than enough.”

J’Onn crouched beside his chair and hesitantly placed a hand on his leader’s forearm. It was like touching carved stone.

“Share your pain with me,” J’Onn said.

The present fell away.

A face emerged from the darkness. J’Onn recognized
the eyes instantly: arresting, magical, framed by dark hair, but the features were as decidedly feminine as Sybok’s were masculine,

A woman. T’Rea, Sybok’s mother. A child clutching her and sobbing.

I swear to you by the Masters, I will take you away, to Sha Ka Ree
. . . .

As quickly as the image appeared, it melted into darkness. Then another vision materialized: Sybok as a youth, standing before a massive stone door.

J’Onn’s self-awareness faded; he merged into the memory, seeing through Sybok’s eyes. . . .

It was the night when Sybok committed the crime for which he was banished from Vulcan forever. He stood in the dark cavernous depths of Gol with the Watcher, Storel, guarding the black stone entry way to the Hall of Ancient Thought.

Inside, in the eternal gloom of the great Hall, his mother’s spirit waited.

For Vulcan’s past two peaceful millennia, the post of Watcher had been an unnecessary bow to tradition. The secret wisdom of the ancients was, in these more placid times, safe. But there was a time in Vulcan history when such knowledge was recognized for the dangerous treasure it was, and there were those who were willing to risk everything—banishment, even death—in order to gain access to the great Hall.

As Sybok was willing that night. He was young, scarcely an adult by Vulcan legal standards, and yet at this moment he felt very, very old and bitter unto death.

He was here on the occasion of the first anniversary of his mother’s death and the entombment of her undying spirit in the Hall of Ancient Thought. In the same manner as all the High Masters before her, T’Rea’s
katra
—her unique essence, containing all knowledge she had gleaned from this life—had been placed in a specially prepared receptacle where it would remain for all eternity, so that other adepts could consult her and gain from her wisdom.

Sybok opened his mind, and J’Onn understood all in the Vulcan’s life that had passed thus far: T’Rea’s disgrace, the maniacal devotion she and her son felt toward each other, the promise the boy had made his mother, to take her to the Source, to Sha Ka Ree—a legend known to the Romulans as Vorta Vor.

With a sense of wonder, J’Onn caught his first glimpse of Vulcan mysticism. He marveled at the concept of High Master, of the possibility of enshrining a Master’s knowledge for all eternity.

Of all High Masters, T’Rea had been the least honored. The separation of her katra from her dying flesh had been done hastily, in secret, without the ceremony that normally accompanied the passing of a Master. Her heresy had cost her the revered position and—so Sybok believed—hastened her death.

After his mother’s collapse, he had been kept from her, and so had not been allowed to keep his promise to her. Nor was he, like most family members, allowed into the Hall during the transference.

Only time, and the fact of Sybok’s parentage, which was revealed to him after his mother’s death, softened the kolinahru so that they permitted him to honor his
mother on the anniversary of her passage into the Hall. It was a hallowed tradition observed by all adepts, as a sign of respect and honor for the deceased High Master who had trained them.

Even then, Sybok was not allowed to serve as Watcher alone.

He stood in the dim belly of the mountain with Storel and waited until the hour was late, until all of the kolinahru had retired to their separate cells. There was no need to gather courage; Sybok had more than enough anger left in him to fuel his actions.

What he was about to do would require him to leave Vulcan forever. He felt no regret about that. There was nothing to hold him here now that T’Rea was dead. He would sacrifice himself and meld his consciousness to hers, and begin their quest.

Before dying, T’Rea had confessed to him that the Ancients had revealed to her the actual location of Sha Ka Ree—but that secret had gone with her into death. Sybok desired nothing more than to learn the secret location, and take his mother there.

True, melding one’s mind with a disembodied katra was considered dangerous, reserved only for the gravest emergencies, as it could lead to madness.

But Sybok was willing to risk it. After all, his mental control was superior to that of the average adept; he doubted he would go mad.

And if he did, at least T’Rea would be with him.

Sybok eyed the Vulcan next to him. Storel was frail-looking, with hair as snow white as his robe, but in physical strength, he was almost a match for the youth.

Sybok wished the contest could be a purely physical one, but circumstances required that he pit himself against a more formidable opponent: Storel’s mind. The Watcher was a highly skilled adept in the mind rules, second only to the High Master.

There was no other way. Storel possessed knowledge Sybok sorely needed: the precise location of his mother’s vrekatra, the orb that housed her intangible remains. The Hall of Ancients was a vast, dark maze of passages filled with thousands of such orbs. If Sybok was to make an escape, he would need time, time that could not be wasted wandering in the Hall, searching for T’Rea’s vrekatra.

They had stood together for hours without speaking; now Sybok broke the silence.

“Storel,” he said.

The older Vulcan faced him. Sybok waited to speak until he focused his hypnotic gaze intently on Storel’s gentle, numinous eyes.

Share your pain with me,
Sybok said, without speaking aloud.

No.
Storel pulled away as if instinctively sensing the danger of Sybok’s gaze. The aged Watcher began to send out a mental cry to the adepts for help.

Sybok reached out and clutched Storel’s head in his hands. He entered Storel’s mind, forcing his way through the old Vulcan’s mental shields, blotting out all cries for assistance.