Star Trek - Log 1 Read online

  Young Spock sat there in the settling dust, alone and insulted and hurt, obviously trying to keep control of himself. Alas, he failed in this, too. Scrambling to his feet, he dashed into the nearby garden enclosure and slammed the gate heavily behind him.

  He didn't even have the satisfaction of a terran child, of hearing a loud slam behind him. The garden was designed as a place of peace and contemplation. The cushioned gate hinges automatically absorbed the shock of closing and snapped shut with a quiet click.

  Spock remained standing quietly across the way, watching the direction his departing younger self had taken in disappearing among the thick vegetation. That green domesticated jungle had been his favorite place of hiding and solace as a boy.

  This had been only one of many similar difficult moments in his childhood. It was not as painful to watch as it had been to live, but it was hard nonetheless.

  "My apologies, visitor," came an unexpected voice—a deceptively quiet, unhurried, immensely powerful voice that he'd recognize anywhere. A voice that could impress whole worlds—or little boys. A second was sufficient time for him to compose himself. Then he turned, carefully keeping his expression open and receptive.

  VIII

  Sarek of Vulcan stood opposite him, looking very much like the familiar picture Spock had seen earlier on the small triple screen in the command conference room. The only immediately obvious difference was that this living version had far less grey in his hair and eyebrows, far fewer age lines in his forehead and around the eyes.

  A tall, broad-shouldered Vulcan he was, perhaps no athlete but in fine physical trim. He had sharply planed, strong features and deep-set eyes. Altogether an attractive man. An older, tauter, more severe version of Spock.

  Spock calculated rapidly. His father should now be seventy-three standard years old, in the prime of Vulcan life. He wore the sandy-hued, neutral clothing Spock remembered so well. No loud shirts or bold prints for him! It was brightened only by a single spot of color, the adhesive badge of his office.

  "I regret you were witness to that unfortunate display of emotion on the part of my son."

  If there was any lingering hesitation in Spock's mind as to the identity of this man, that brief, so-typical phrase instantly dispelled it. This was Sarek, all right. Spock raised his hand in salute.

  "In the family, all is silence. Especially the indiscretions of children. No more will be said of it. Live long and prosper, Sarek of Vulcan." The ambassador hesitated for a second before returning the salute.

  "Peace and long life." Then he spoke uncertainly while studying Spock with understandable puzzlement. "You are of my family?"

  "A distant relative. My name is—" He paused. It wouldn't do to give an easily recognizable false name, here. "—Selek. A humble cousin, descendant of T'pal and Sessek. I . . . am journeying to the family shrine in Dycoon to honor our ancestors." There, that was a plausible reason for traveling the way he was. "Family is family, and I thought to give greeting to you on my passing."

  Sarek nodded approvingly. "A pilgrimage, then?"

  "Even so."

  "You have a long way to go. Will you interrupt your journey to remain with us awhile, cousin?"

  "I have already come quite a distance, and in good time," Spock murmured. "I have a little time to spare. I would be honored." He dipped his eyes, uncomfortably aware of Sarek's unwavering, intense stare. There was nothing he could do but try to ignore it.

  "Is something wrong, cousin?" Spock asked. Sarek seemed to return from a region of far thoughts, formless musings.

  "No, no. It was only that I seem to . . . know you. To have met you before."

  The best defense, Spock reflected, was a fast retreat through forward enemy positions.

  "I, too," he countered, "have been struck by the physical resemblance between us. A common ancestor among our forefathers, no doubt."

  "No doubt," agreed Sarek quietly. Then, as though suddenly remembering that to continue such a line of inquiry with a strange relative would have been impolite, "Well, come then. Allow me to welcome you to my home."

  He turned and opened the beautifully carved gate behind them. Familiar, so familiar, was the interior of the house! Spock tried not to let his eyes stray overmuch. Everything was as he remembered it, everything fit so comfortably in his mind.

  Except that most everything was just slightly smaller.

  Sarek indicated a well-stuffed lounge of a type no longer made—there seemed to be few craftsmen left anymore—and then a nearby mechanical servitor. Spock eyed the quaint antique and tried not to feel superior. There were so many things he could tell his father, if only . . .

  No. Impossible. Forget it.

  "A place to rest and comfort yourself, cousin. Refreshments at hand, if you thirst. Excuse me. I shall return shortly. I have . . . an errand to perform. Meanwhile, my house is yours." He walked out of the room. Spock had a fair idea of the nature of his father's "errand."

  Young Spock had buried himself against a shaggy wall of fur. He might have been crying, though it would have been difficult for an observer to tell. There was no sound.

  The wall of fur filled out to north and south, completing the form of the youngster's pet sehlat, Ee-chiya. The sehlat looked rather like a cross between a lion and a giant panda, with a pair of downward projecting, ten-centimeter long fangs. It was fluffy, but not cute.

  A temperamental sehlat would have been a poor choice of pet for a young human. But for the logical, never cruel or brutal Vulcan child, he was ideal—loving, intelligent and protective, as well as fiercely loyal.

  This particular sehlat had a brown coat faded in spots to patches of pale beige. One of the worn, yellowed fangs was broken off at the tip, and there were other indications of the creature's advanced age.

  Young Spock heard his father enter the garden, but he didn't look up from the massive flank.

  "Spock . . ."

  The boy slowly detached himself from the warm haven of Ee-chiya's furry side. He knew his father wouldn't repeat himself. He got slowly to his feet and shuffled over, presenting himself to his father in the traditional attitude of youthful respect—back straight, chin out, hands clasped firmly behind his back.

  Sarek stood, looking down at his son for a moment, and then shook his head slightly, sadly. His voice was soft, but the words were not.

  "Spock, being Vulcan means following disciplines and philosophies that are difficult and demanding of both mind and body. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Your schoolwork has been disgraceful. You constantly display your emotions in public. You've even been seen fighting in the street, and your attitude in such conflicts is reported to have been somewhat less than experimentally martial." A hint of defiance crept into the youth's voice.

  "Personal combat for a worthy cause is not dishonorable."

  Inwardly, the reply pleased Sarek. However, the situation was serious. It could no longer be put off. This was not the time or place for him to express appreciation for such a sentiment.

  "Brawling like a common deckhand off an alien freighter is not." Young Spock lowered his head.

  "Yes, Father."

  Sarek took a deep breath, paused, then continued more firmly.

  "The time draws near when you will be forced to decide whether you'll follow Vulcan or human philosophies. Vulcan offers much. No war, no crime, with logic and reasoned guidance operating in place of raw emotion and unbridled passion. Once on the path you choose, you cannot turn back.

  "Yes, Father."

  Sarek lifted his gaze briefly, in a tiny display of disgust. That constant, meek "yes, Father" was beginning to annoy him. Perhaps he'd been, not too easy, but firm with the boy in the wrong ways.

  Spock finished his drink and looked around the comfortable room. Still no sign of Sarek returning. He noticed old touches of Amanda's Earthwoman's influence—a cascade of brilliant blue flowers pouring over a flowerbox built into a wall. A dizzyingly colorful afghan tossed c
asually across a chair-back.

  And the books—especially the books, on the shelves. Real books, to handle and read, not to be flashed and turned on by a dial on an electronic reader-viewer. He smiled inwardly. For those, at least, his childhood associates had envied him.

  Impractical they might seem to many adult Vulcans, but they brought back a thrill of pride and memories to him. There was something about having the words there, in your hand. Any page, any chapter, at your personal beck and call—instead of having to plead for them through an electronic middleman.

  He rose and walked to the large, open door that faced into part of the lush garden. Distantly, he could hear faint sounds of conversation between his father and his younger self, engaged in some deep discussion.

  There had been many such discussions.

  A soft, shocking voice made him whirl.

  "I hope you were not disturbed by my son's behavior, cousin Selek."

  Amanda stood there, even more beautiful than her picture, more lovely than any memory. Intelligent, gentle, and gracious. For the first time, he could admire her as a woman in the prime of her life, instead of as a boy seeing his mother.

  And more than any other quality, he remembered, far more than beauty or wisdom—her constant understanding. Understanding for the ordeal of his childhood.

  "No, my lady Amanda." He didn't even think the word "mother." This was one meeting he'd prepared for well and one mistake he was determined not to make. "Any child has much to learn. My young cousin has a more difficult road to travel than most others."

  Now it was Amanda's turn to study him closely.

  "You seem to understand him better than my husband."

  Careful now! Sarek you could err with and cover up, but one slip with this woman and there would be trouble. She would not fool so easily.

  "It is difficult for a father to bear less than perfection in his son. Spock will find a way, I suspect—his way." His mother looked anxious. He'd succeeded in diverting attention back to her son—from her son.

  "I do hope so. I respect Vulcan and all its traditions, or I would not have married Sarek, but it's such a demanding life. It's hard enough on a young boy, without the added—complications my son must endure." The conversation was getting to be too painful for Spock.

  "The boy appears to be of a certain age. He goes through the Kahs-wan ordeal soon, does he not?"

  Amanda nodded. "Next month."

  Visions of catastrophe, of a helix of mad time lines meeting in a common crazed center and dissolving into chaos, sprang into Spock's mind.

  "Next . . . month?" He couldn't keep all the confusion and puzzlement out of his voice. "But tomorrow, tomorrow is the twentieth day of Tasmeen?" His mother looked up at him, disturbed a little by his controlled intensity.

  "Yes, it is." That was reassuring, at least! The universe had not gone completely insane—though something was very, very wrong. "Is something the matter, cousin Selek?" Spock struggled to regain his composure.

  "I've been traveling for quite awhile. I seem to have lost track of time."

  ". . . And that is all I have to say on the subject, for now," Sarek concluded. "Soon you will undergo your test of manhood, in the Kahs-wan. To survive for ten days without food, water, or weapons on Vulcan's Forge—as our human associates have so quaintly renamed the Sas-a-shar desert.

  "It will demand more of you than anything else ever has. To fail once is not unusual, nor is it a disgrace—for others." Young Spock lowered his eyes again, studied the ground. But his father wasn't through.

  "If you fail, there will be those who will nevertheless call you coward all your life." These last words rang like steel being hammered out on a Vulcanian forge of another type. That stentorian tone had been employed more than once for the glory of all Vulcan, in interstellar diplomacy. The tone was not softened for delivery from father to son.

  "I do not expect you to fail."

  Young Spock considered and looked up. "What if I do, father?"

  Sarek could not admit to himself that there was anything so alien as emotion swirling through his mind.

  "There is no need to ask that question. You will not disappoint me. You will not disappoint—yourself. Not if your heart and spirit are Vulcan."

  He turned abruptly and walked back toward the house, leaving the youngster standing alone amid the silently watching blooms, the eloquent ferns. A few pebbles were lightly kicked by a small foot, a little earth disturbed.

  Then he turned to the sehlat. The big mammal had dozed somnolently through the entire discussion, oblivious to the verbalizations of father and son. Now it stirred as his young master sat down beside him.

  "Ee-chiya, what if I'm not a true Vulcan, like they say? What if Sepek and the others are right?"

  The sehlat was not that intelligent. It did not understand. But it was sensitive to emotions. It snuffled and nudged nearer the boy, edging close in rough affection. Young Spock put his arms around as much of the massive neck as he could and hugged hard.

  Spock maintained his own cover with near perfection throughout the rest of the day. He always managed to produce a plausible answer to any question Sarek or Amanda might pose, to turn awkward lines of inquiry neatly into other channels. It was a performance worthy of a diplomat's son.

  He'd passed a pleasant, no, an ecstatic day, reliving the company of a younger mother and father, able to enjoy them as equals, to respond to them on entirely different yet equally gratifying levels.

  He committed his one potentially serious error well after the sun had vanished below the horizon.

  Sleep-time approached. As the guest, it was his place to mention such.

  "I have had a long, full day, cousin Sarek, and your hospitality has been spoiling. I find myself more than ready for sleep." Sarek and Amanda both rose.

  "Rest well, cousin," said Sarek. "We shall talk more tomorrow. I have enjoyed our evening immensely."

  "It is the highlight of my journey, cousin Sarek," replied Spock, adding with an unseen smile, "perhaps I may remind you of it again some day."

  Sarek looked at him oddly for a moment, then nodded politely. Amanda gestured, and Spock started to follow her towards the bedrooms. He almost turned in the direction of his own—young Spock's—room.

  Fortunately, it was dark in the hallway and Amanda hadn't noticed the motion. He was barely able to recover before she glanced back at him.

  She seemed willing to talk further at the door to the guest room, but he made further excuses of exhaustion. Too much close contact in the sometimes revealing dimness of evening might lead to unwanted questions.

  He then attended to matters of Vulcan hygiene, enjoying once more the use of the interesting, old-fashioned washroom facilities. Then he returned to the guest room and turned on the single overhead light.

  There was a lock on the door, but for a relative, a guest in another's house, to have bolted it would have been inexcusably bad manners. So, of course, would be the unannounced entrance of any member of the household. Still, he would have felt better with it bolted. He'd have to chance leaving it open. The single shuttered window he didn't worry about.

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed he brought out his carry-bag. The little tricorder that came from it was far too modern and compact. The sleepwear he now wore was thirty years old, a simple garment of pale yellow worn like a loose toga.

  One last time he considered locking the door, but discarded the idea. Instead he turned on the bed and put his back to it, shielding the potentially embarrassing tricorder with his body. And while recording, he kept his voice low. A passerby in the hall would have to strain to hear him and press an ear to the door to make any sense of what he said.

  "Personal log, stardate 5373.9, subjective time.

  "The time line seems to have changed once more, yet I cannot discover on thinking back anything I have done that might have affected it. My memory is quite clear regarding the actual day my cousin saved my life. That day is tomorrow." Then, as much to re
fresh his own memory as to provide information for future listeners:

  "The Kahs-wan is an ancient rite of Vulcan's warrior days. When Vulcans turned to logic as the ruling element of their lives, they reasoned that it was necessary to maintain the old tests of strength and courage. Otherwise devotion to pure reason might make them grow weak and incapable of defending themselves from barbarians who might be less advanced mentally and socially.

  "This, in itself, was of course a logical decision."

  The house was very quiet. There was no pedestrian traffic on the surrounding pathways this late at night.

  A door opened quietly in the rear of the house, and a very small, very young figure crept out. Young Spock was dressed in a desert soft-suit and boots. He closed the door carefully behind him and surveyed the area cautiously before moving any further out.

  He took a couple of steps into the garden. There was a rustling sound from the shrubbery on his left and he froze.

  A large, familiar shape lumbered into view—Ee-chiya, snuffling in the early morning air like an old man with a sinus condition. The boy shook his head, then held out a hand, palm up. The sehlat halted at the hand signal, but continued to puff and grunt. He certainly showed no sign of returning to sleep.

  "No, Ee-chiya," he whispered. "This is my own test. I have to do it alone. Stay!" He moved away from the sehlat, heading for the garden gate.

  Ee-chiya looked after him, considered this in his slow, patient mind, then turned and loped off after his young master.

  Meanwhile, Spock had clicked off the compact tricorder and had carefully repacked it with other items deep in his carry-bag. His head dropped halfway to the headrest on the bed before he seemed to convulse. His head and upper torso came instantly erect. Realization hit him subtly—like a small nova.

  Of course, he yelled to himself, I should have remembered! It wasn't the actual Kahs-wan ordeal his "cousin" had intervened in to save him!

  Reaching for the carry-bag he made haste to unpack his clothes. It took only minutes to lay out the desert suit and boots, moving with as much speed as quiet would permit.