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  “Do not take that which you have just witnessed to heart. It is a common and natural thing not to be feared. In marriage conflict is…”

  “Constant?” the youngster ventured hesitantly.

  “Natural. You will learn that emotions run deep within our species, though it is far less in evidence than it is in humans. Long ago, such emotions nearly destroyed us. That is why we decided to follow the teachings of Surak. The result is the calm, controlled, and contented civilization you see around you. Had we not changed, perhaps we could have accomplished more. But general content would not have been among those accomplishments. Now, you must choose.”

  Insofar as he was able—or allowed—Spock looked alarmed. “Between you and Mother?”

  Sarek almost smiled. “Never, my son. Though the universe suddenly collapse in upon itself and all living things be faced with extinction, I promise you that is one choice you will never be required to make. But you may choose for yourself the ethic of logic. This offers a serenity humans seldom experience. It is not the absence of feelings, but control of them. So that they do not control you.”

  The boy started to protest. “They called you a traitor. You suggest I should be completely Vulcan—and yet you married a human. Why?”

  It was not a question Sarek had anticipated, and it took him a moment to properly formulate a reply.

  “As Ambassador to Earth my duty is to observe and understand human behavior. This led to a deeper involvement on my part than either I or anyone else on the council expected. Given the depth of that involvement and the personal attraction I developed to…” He hesitated, gathered himself. “Marrying your mother was only logical. It was a decision that, to my own surprise, I was capable of making for myself.

  “What you are fully capable of is choosing your own destiny. Despite what you may think, you are old enough to do so. The question you are faced with is which path you will take. That is something only you can decide.” Reaching out, Sarek put an arm around his son’s small shoulders. It was an entirely physical gesture. Logical, in fact.

  “No one can make that decision for you, Spock. Not your mother, not I, not your peers. Not all of Vulcan or all of Earth. Only you.”

  As he sat silent and contemplative by the side of his father, Spock did not reply, the two of them gazing together down the corridor. Thoughts, however, he could not suppress.

  But…I’m eleven…

  The Corvette was old, red, and well preserved. It was not cherry. Time and loss had required the replacement of missing or nonfunctional parts with more modern components. But thanks to loving modifications, it looked right, felt right, drove right.

  The hands that picked the dripping wet sponge out of a nearby bucket and slopped soap and water against the gleaming fiberglass did not belong to the owner of the classic car. For one thing, they were too small. For another, their actions and the motivation behind them were indifferent to the work at hand.

  The Iowa sun was hot, and he was glad of the cool water as he worked. He would far rather have been out playing. But in Frank’s household, his word was law. Unfair law, unreasonable law, but at Jim Kirk’s age there was little he could do except suffer under it. His stepfather, Frank, was not a particularly benign dictator.

  More evidence of this arrived in the form of the loud disputation that was currently emanating from the nearby farmhouse. The irritated voice of his stepfather soared to a peak of exasperation.

  “Big man, huh? Go, then! Have a nice life out there! Run away! You know I could give a damn!”

  As Jim looked on, the front door slammed open and his brother emerged. Not walking. Stomping. As the younger boy looked on, George shouldered his backpack and headed right past him, down the driveway and out onto the empty country road. Dumping the sponge back in the bucket, Jim followed.

  “George, where are you going?”

  “Going away. Anywhere but here. Far as I can get.” His brother spoke without looking down. “I can’t take it anymore. Frank, I mean.”

  Jim had to struggle to keep pace with his brother’s longer stride. “But…leaving for where?”

  His sibling seemed not to hear. “Gives me orders like he knows who the hell I am! That’s not even his car you’re washing. That was Dad’s car. And you know why you’re washing it?” He finally looked around to meet his anxious brother’s gaze. “Because he’s gonna sell it! Without even telling Mom!”

  “You can’t leave.” Jim was growing increasingly frantic. The thought of him being left behind was bad enough. The thought of being left with his mother and stepfather…“We can talk to Mom about it.”

  His brother whirled on him. “You can’t talk to Mom about Frank! I can’t take another five minutes!” It was then that he saw the apprehension in his younger brother’s eyes. “Look,” he continued reassuringly, “you’ll be okay. You always are. Frank—he pretty much ignores you. You’re not like me, Jim. Always doing everything right, good grades, teachers’ pet, doing everything you’re told.”

  From the house a distant and angry voice reached them. “When you’re done with the wash I want a nice coat of wax. You hear me, Jimbo?”

  The younger boy looked pleadingly at his brother. “George, don’t go, please!” He held out a floating disk. “You can have my flo-yo!”

  A hand slapped it away. “Sorry, Jim.” Looking back, George squinted against the sunlight. “This isn’t about toys. It’s Frank. Mom has no idea what he’s like when she’s not here. D’you hear him talking like he’s our dad?” He shook his head. “You can’t be a Kirk in this house.”

  Spinning back around, he lengthened his stride. Behind him his younger brother slowed, stopped—lost. Then George whirled and hurried back. A quick, hard, guilty hug. Jim clung to him, until at last George pulled away and resumed his march toward the utterly flat horizon. Nowhere to go, lacking any options, Jim watched until the older boy was almost out of sight. Then he turned and ran back toward the only home he had ever known.

  He took it out on the Corvette, shoving the sodden sponge against the paint as if he could scrub away the recent memory of his brother’s departure along with the dust and grime. Front hood, front doors, windshield—he was leaning across to wipe away the suds from the latter when a glint of metal caught his attention.

  The keys were in the ignition.

  It was possible that Frank heard the metallic whirr of the Corvette’s specially customized replacement engine as it started up. It was possible that the sound caused him to rise from where he had been sitting engrossed in the real-time transmission of the big game from Cairo. But he did not emerge in time to see the costly vehicle blast out onto the road and fishtail as it roared away from the isolated residence. Even if he had stumbled out of the house early enough to watch the big red road machine vanish into the distance, he still might not have seen the driver.

  After all, that individual was awfully short.

  As determined as he was panicky, Jim Kirk clutched the wheel in a death grip as he steered the Corvette down the empty, ruler-straight road. The longer he drove, the faster he went, and the faster he went, the easier it became, until it felt almost…natural. Reaching down, he activated the radio and let the channels spin until the add-on insert settled on a stream of heavy music the likes of which Uncle Frank rarely allowed to fill the house. A verbal command cranked the volume up, way up. As exhilaration replaced fear, he nearly lost control of the machine. A moment away from Not Being, he floored the ancient accelerator. A huge grin spread across his face as the car’s updated engine responded. What do you know? he thought delightedly to himself.

  Going fast was…fun.

  Fun, but confining. He knew that the roof slid back—somehow. There were mechanical fasteners of some kind. With one small hand still manipulating the steering wheel, he reached up and undid first one roof latch, then the other. The roof retracted, all right. The wind ripped it right off its rear mounts and sent the aerodynamic sheet of fiberglass flying like an out-of-control
kite. Wide-eyed, the car’s young driver managed to look back in time to see it smash into the road far behind him. For a moment he was despondent.

  But there was wind in his hair now, the bright sun illuminating the car’s interior, and speed—the overwhelming sensation of speed.

  It was the same speed that drew the attention of the highway patrol officer standing by the side of the road as the Corvette thundered past. He did not need to check the readout on his hoverbike to know that everything about the antique vehicle’s passing was wrong. Climbing aboard his bike, he shot off in pursuit, the wheel-less bike accelerating over the old road a couple of meters above the pavement.

  Even at the velocity the Corvette was traveling, it didn’t take long for the modern police bike to overtake it. Face shield in place, the officer peered down into the car’s interior. What he espied in the driver’s seat caused him to put aside the angry reaction he had prepared. Amplified by his mask speaker, his command rang out clear and firm.

  “Son, you pull over that car—now.”

  Jim turned the car’s speakers all the way up as he replied innocently, “What? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

  Backpack slung over one shoulder, an irate George Kirk was moping down the same road, hoping to hitch a ride. His outstretched thumb dropped in concert with his jaw as first the Corvette and then the police bike roared past. His composure returned rapidly, augmented by a considerable dollop of disbelief.

  “No—way…”

  Half in terror, half in control, and with no notion of which way to go or what to do next except that he knew it was not going to be back home, the Corvette’s diminutive driver wrenched the wheel around and shot straight back in the direction of his pursuer. Gaining altitude to avoid the oncoming car, the highway patrol rider managed the sharp turn and resumed the chase. As the officer was doing so, Jim sent the Corvette careening down a side road. Perpendicular to the country highway and all dirt, it was churned into clouds of grit and grime beneath the wheels of the fleeing ’Vette.

  Kirk saw the gate but couldn’t avoid it. The car shattered the old wooden barrier into splinters. No warning electronics sounded, further indicating the age of the fence line he had just crossed. Where was he? Too preoccupied with trying to keep control of the car on the dirt track, he had no time for supplementary contemplation. He did not even see the fading sign that loomed in front of him and quickly disappeared in his wake.

  DANGER—QUARRY AHEAD IOWA MINING CO.

  Anxious now, the pursuing officer had his bike’s siren and lights on. Neither had any effect on the wildly careening Corvette.

  Having been mined for construction stone for hundreds of years, the quarry was over a hundred meters deep. Its sheer sides dropped straight down into the pool of turgid rainwater that had accumulated at the bottom. No vehicle and no driver could survive such a plunge. An easy way and a convenient place for a distraught child to put an end to anger, confusion, uncertainty, and despair. All Kirk had to do was keep going and gravity would do the rest. Keep going and…

  At the last possible instant he jammed his right foot down on the brake. But the ’Vette didn’t stop. At the speed it was traveling it only skidded and slewed—not slowing enough. Unbelted and unfamiliar with the internal handles, the driver reflexively pushed himself up, out, and over the side of the open-topped vehicle. As he landed hard in the dirt, the car continued to slow, slow—and slip sideways over the edge.

  The pursuing patrol officer was stepping off his bike even before the classic vehicle exploded against the floor of the quarry.

  One hand hovering in the vicinity of his sidearm, mask still in place, he approached cautiously as the car’s elated, adrenaline-pumped driver spat out dirt and struggled to his knees.

  “What’s your name, son?” the cop asked curtly.

  The boy straightened until he was standing. He was bruised, aching, scratched, dirty, swaying slightly, and alive. Very much alive. More alive than he had ever been in his young, heretofore limited life. He did not speak but rather spat his response.

  “My name’s Kirk. James Tiberius Kirk! What’s yours?”

  With its soaring ceiling and stark, sere walls unadorned by paintings or color, even the antechamber of the Vulcan Science Academy was impressive. It was also daunting to those who dared seek formal admittance, as the retching noises coming from a nearby hygiene chamber indicated. Waiting outside the doorway, Amanda Grayson listened with concern as she waited for her son to emerge from the restroom.

  “Spock, come here—let me see you.”

  “No.”

  “Spock…”

  She put on her most sympathetic maternal smile.

  “Honey, it’s perfectly understandable that you’re nervous. I would be, too. There’s no need to be so anxious. You’ll do fine.”

  Mouth set, posture perfect, dark hair recently trimmed, her son gave no indication that he had just spent several minutes violently upchucking his most recent meal. He appeared completely in control of both his mind and his body, even in the face of recent audible evidence to the contrary.

  “I am hardly ‘anxious,’ Mother. And ‘fine’ is unacceptable.”

  Her smile widened. “Of course. Please pardon my presumption. The Science Academy is only the most prestigious institute of higher learning on Vulcan. Why on Earth—or on Vulcan, for that matter—would you be anxious?”

  No responding smile, as expected. No understanding chuckle, as expected. The lack of both did not trouble her. She was more than used to their absence: she was comfortable with them.

  “Your provocations,” he declared equably, “are quite juvenile.”

  She pursed her lips in a faultless imitation of a Vulcan mother. “Yet my maternal instinct quite accurate.” She continued to fidget with his attire. “Your collar is crooked—here…”

  Reaching up, he grabbed her wrists and firmly moved them away, much as small boys are wont to do when embarrassed by a mother’s attention. But unlike the child he no longer was, he did not let go of them. His eyes locked onto hers.

  “May I ask you a personal query?”

  She smiled. “Anything.”

  “Should I choose to complete the Vulcan discipline of Kolinahr, and purge myself of all emotion—I trust you will not feel it reflects judgment upon you.”

  Gently disengaging her wrists from his hands, she gazed back at him. One palm reached up to lightly touch his face and slowly caress the smooth skin.

  “As always, Spock, whoever you choose to be, whatever course you decide to take through life, your journey will always be accompanied by a proud mother.”

  They eyed each other for a long while. Not for the last time as mother and son, but for the last time as mother and child. Then a commanding musical tone echoed through the antechamber and he stepped back. It was time to go. Forward, always forward. But knowing now for a certainty that there would never be any difficulty in looking back.

  “You have surpassed the expectations of your instructors, Spock.”

  From his position atop the impressive dais, the chairman of the Vulcan High Council gazed down at the applicant standing patiently before them. The soaring atrium was reflective of all that was admirable and noble about Vulcan and its people, a chamber where reasoned aesthetics melded seamlessly with logical design. Several members of the Council were present, Sarek among them. Outwardly the applicant’s father exhibited no special interest in the singular young man standing before the dais, nor did he betray any emotion.

  That did not mean he felt nothing.

  The chairman continued. “You have excelled in every field you have studied, including physical achievement. I believe that it will be some time before a number of the standards you have set in the course of your matriculation will be equaled. I can do no more than say that your final record is flawless.” The speaker paused. “With one exception: I see you have applied to Starfleet as well as to the Academy.”

  Several of the other councillors leaned forward slightly. Spo
ck did not miss the movement, nor was it intended that he should. Another time, an earlier time, it might have disconcerted him. Not anymore. He had always had confidence in his individual talents. That was now equaled by the confidence he had in himself. He responded without hesitation.

  “It was logical to cultivate multiple options.”

  “Logical but unnecessary,” the science minister countered a little too quickly. “You are hereby accepted into the Vulcan Science Academy with full academic and associated privileges. A distinction all the more significant given that you will be its first half-human member.” The minister was watching the applicant closely. “Does this surprise you?”

  Spock did not hesitate. “Your question presumes an emotional investment in the outcome I do not have.”

  Satisfied, the minister sat back and nodded approvingly to Sarek. The formality signified by the brief interview was all but over. Almost.

  “It is truly remarkable, Spock,” ventured another of the councillors, “that you have achieved so much despite your disadvantage. Welcome to the Academy.”

  Almost, Spock thought. There it is. Almost.

  “If you would clarify, Minister, the nature of the ‘disadvantage’ to which you are referring?”

  Not a hint of emotion was present in the minister’s voice as he replied. “Your human mother, of course.”

  The conflict that boiled forth within the applicant did not manifest itself visibly. Only the glance he threw in his father’s direction hinted that anything other than rote acceptance was present within the young man’s mind. Ever the consummate diplomat, Sarek said nothing. His eyes widened slightly: suggestion or command, it did not matter. As the councillors were preparing to rise and disperse, Spock made the first spontaneous decision of his life. He did not feel entirely comfortable with it, but it felt…right.

  Even if it was not entirely logical.

  “Council, Ministers—I must decline.”

  Preparations to return to other daily duties were instantly forgotten. Confused looks gave way to cold stares. His colleagues on the Council left it to the science minister to respond. Where previously his tone had been complimentary and welcoming, now it was flat with disbelief. But, of course, not with anger.