2311
Amanda walked through the house, headed for the communications panel in the niche at the rear of the great room. Though still early in the day, she intended to contact Spock. She normally wouldn’t attempt to reach him so early in the day, but her new plans would see her departing Vulcan later this morning, and she wanted to speak with him before she left.
As she reached the recess that housed the comm equipment, Amanda felt a pang of sorrow, as she still did from time to time when it came to her son. Most days, she tried to tell herself that her sadness stemmed from seeing less of him now, when he resided on Vulcan, than she had when he’d traveled the galaxy. She’d been making that claim, out loud and in her own head, for years now, ever since her son had returned to his home planet. Spock had always disputed her claim, missing the point that even she knew that her protestations held no water. But after Spock had completed his Kolinahr, their relationship had changed—for her, in a deeply painful way. In that regard, her assertion rang true: she saw less of her son now than previously, because without feelings, he had less to show her.
On her worst days, Amanda accepted that the Spock she had known for the first six decades of his life no longer existed. On her best, she clung to the notion that, Kolinahr training or no, the son she had raised into a man still lived within the emotionless shell he had cultivated. Regardless, she had striven, particularly in the last five or six years, to put aside her feelings—a distinctly Vulcan tactic—and improve her relationship with Spock. She had been successful, for the most part, and in the months when she and Sarek spent time at home on Vulcan, Spock had begun to visit them more often.
As Amanda sat down before the monitor, she worried about her son. For almost a decade and a half, since his return from the Akrelt Refuge, he had lived a mostly solitary life. He avowed that his research satisfied him, and she knew he believed that, but she wanted something more for him. Illogical, she knew, but true anyway.
She keyed in the sequence to reach Spock at his apartment. The screen blinked to life, displaying the logo of the Vulcan comnet. She waited while an indicator light confirmed the attempted connection. After just a moment, the screen flashed again, and this time, the image of her son appeared.
“Good morning, Mother,” he said. Behind him, she could see on his small table a half-eaten plate of what looked liked gespar. Clearly she’d interrupted his morning meal.
“Good morning, Spock,” Amanda said. “I’m sorry to be contacting you so early, but I didn’t want to disturb you at the academy. Do you have time to talk?”
“I will be leaving for my office shortly,” Spock said, “but I have time to speak with you now.”
“Good,” Amanda said, “because I wanted to share the good news with you before I left Vulcan.”
“Is everything all right?” Spock asked. He spoke, as always, in a monotone and with an unchanging expression. Often, when Amanda found herself feeling down about her son’s unemotional life, it had been Spock’s wholly dispassionate manner that had provoked such a reaction. Now, she simply ignored it, focusing instead on her own excitement.
“Yes, everything’s fine,” she said. “Better than that, actually. I learned late last night that the Primrose Gallery in Paris has agreed to exhibit my latest artwork.”
“That is a noteworthy accomplishment,” Spock said, betraying no sign that he actually thought so, other than via the content of his words. “When will this take place?”
“The show will open in a little over two weeks,” she said, “which means that I barely have enough time to pack up all of my work, transport it to Earth, and arrange its display. That’s why I’m leaving in a few hours.”
“Will Father be with you?” Spock asked.
“No,” Amanda said, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. “He’s committed to hosting a delegation from Catulla here on Vulcan for two of the first three weeks that my exhibition will be running.”
“Will he be joining you for the final week?” Spock asked.
“No, because he’s got another commitment then,” Amanda told him. “And that’s the second reason I wanted to talk with you before I left. The day after I return from Earth is my birthday, and I’ve convinced your father that we should celebrate it with a party. After the Catullans leave and before I arrive home, he’ll be preparing for it.”
“A birthday party,” Spock said. His impassive manner made it sound either as though he’d never before heard of such a concept, or as though he wanted nothing to do with it.
“Yes, a birthday party, and I want you to be there,” Amanda told him. “I know it’s not a Vulcan tradition, but since I’m going to be one hundred, I wanted to do it anyway. Honestly, Spock, with all the time you spent in Starfleet and among humans, you must be at least familiar with birthday parties.”
“I am, Mother,” Spock said, “although it has been some time now since I have participated in one.”
“You don’t really have to participate,” Amanda said, “other than to show up at the house and wish me a happy birthday.”
Spock paused for only an instant, in which time Amanda assumed that he weighed all of the factors relevant to his attendance at her party. Vulcans did not typically celebrate birthdays, and especially not with parties. There would be many people there, some of them nonhuman and emotional, necessitating unwanted interactions for Spock. The event would fundamentally be a waste of his time, which he could instead be devoting to his research. He would balance all of that, and probably more, against just one fact: his mother wanted him to attend.
Even on Vulcan, Amanda thought, that calculus should add up in only one way. In the next second, Spock confirmed that it did.
“I will be there, Mother,” he said.
“Thank you, Spock,” she said. “That will be the best present I could possibly receive.” An awkward silence followed, as often happened between them. As usual, Amanda forced her way through it. “Well, that’s all. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Mother,” Spock said, and he seemed to search for the right words. “I hope that your exhibition is a success.” With the effort it required of Spock to decide what to say, and with the detachment evident in his tone and on his face, his wish actually hurt her more than it heartened her.
At least he chose to make the effort, Amanda told herself. “Thank you, Spock,” she said. She reached for the controls and ended their connection. The ensign of the Vulcan comnet appeared again, and then the screen went blank.
Amanda sat at the comm equipment for a few moments, staring at the empty monitor. In her mind, though, she saw neither the display nor the image of her son on it. Instead, she saw Spock at the age of five, coming home from school and trying so desperately to hide the pain he felt at having his classmates deem him not truly Vulcan. She had cried for him back then, understanding the depth of his wounds. He no longer experienced those hard, hard emotions, and that of course pleased Amanda. But it also saddened her, because she knew that her son would also never again experience the reverse: love and joy and all those sentiments that brightened life.
Let it go, she thought, as she had so many times before. Spock is who he is, and you can’t do anything about it.
As Amanda rose from the comm equipment and started for her studio at the side of the house, where she would begin preparing her artwork for shipment, she also knew that, in one way, none of what she thought about Spock mattered. For however he chose to live his life, he was still her son. Even if he couldn’t love her, she still loved him.
At the table in his apartment, Spock carefully wrapped the box in the decorative paper that he’d ordered shipped from Earth. Though he no longer subscribed to the human tradition of celebrating birthdays, his mother did. He knew that she would be disappointed if he did not attend her party—something that he had already agreed to do—and he knew further that a gift from him would make her happy. Consequently, it seemed only logical that he should arrive at her gala with a present in hand.
As he listened to the Vulcan comnet report current events on his wall-mounted display—a shuttle accident, a historic archeological find on the slopes of Mount Tar’Hana, the upcoming summit with the Tzenkethi—Spock also calculated just how to fold the colorful paper around the box. Several weeks ago, at the opening of his mother’s art exhibition in Paris, he had contacted the proprietor of the Primrose Gallery to ask if any special materials had been created for Amanda’s show. When Spock had learned that a commemorative program had been printed, he’d requested that one be sent to him. It had arrived last week, and he’d taken it to a local artisan and had it framed as a keepsake for his mother.
Spock finished wrapping the box, then prepared to leave for his parents’ home. When he had spoken with his father yesterday, Spock had agreed to arrive several hours before the celebration so that he could assist with any final tasks that needed to be done. He had thought to wear casual clothes, but Sarek had informed him that Amanda wished her party to be an elegant affair, and so she hoped that guests would dress accordingly. He therefore gathered his ceremonial robes and tucked them into a carryall, along with his gift.
As Spock reached to deactivate the comm display, a red indicator light began flashing, signaling a break in the broadcast. His hand hovered by the controls as he waited to learn the content of the bulletin. On the monitor, a map of space appeared, depicting the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, with Federation and Romulan territories labeled and highlighted.
“From around an area of space that Starfleet identifies as the Foxtrot Sector,” said a commentator, “reports are telling of a catastrophic event.” The Foxtrot Sector, Spock knew, bordered the Romulan Neutral Zone and contained thirteen manned Starfleet outposts. A moment later, an inset appeared on-screen, illustrating those facts. “Indications are that the entire sector has been decimated by some form of massive explosion. Initial estimates of the dead stand at four thousand.”
Spock found the news unfortunate, not only for the terrible loss of life, but also because of the devastating impact such an incident could have on galactic politics. Tensions had been running extremely high for some time now among the Federation, the Romulans, and the Klingons, and no matter what had caused the destruction of the Foxtrot Sector, it could readily serve as a flashpoint for the commencement of hostilities.
“Although neither the Federation nor Starfleet has yet issued a statement,” the commentator continued, “the Klingon Empire has claimed the cause of the destruction to be a Romulan ship that crossed the Neutral Zone into Federation space, where it attacked a Starfleet outpost. Klingon Chancellor Azetbur has branded the attack an act of terrorism and cowardice. There has been no response thus far from the Romulans.” The commentator paused, then concluded, “More details will be provided as they become available.”
Spock deactivated the display with a touch. He considered contacting his parents about what had happened, but decided against it. If his mother had not yet learned of the events in the Foxtrot Sector, then he did not want to inform her. Such news could easily cast a pall over her enjoyment of her party, or even cause her to cancel it.
Picking up the carryall, Spock left his apartment and walked the two and a half kilometers to the Vulcan Science Academy campus there in T’Paal. He made his way to the academy transporter, from which he beamed to the primary VSA facility on the outskirts of Shi’Kahr. Once outside, he found an airpod to take him on the short journey to his parent’s house.
When he arrived, he approached the front gate and pressed the signal pad in the wall beside it. He waited for several seconds, but the gate remained closed. He peered through it into the courtyard and saw the front door of the house open, but he saw neither his father nor his mother. It also surprised him that he did not see any birthday decorations. He could only surmise that his parents had gone out this morning, perhaps to perform some last-minute errand needed for the party.
Returning to the controls beside the gate, Spock touched the pad that activated the retina scan. A beam of light flashed into his eye, verifying his identity. When it ceased, the two sections of the gate divided and opened inward. Spock followed the slate path that snaked through the courtyard to the front door.
When he stepped inside, he immediately sensed something wrong. In the great room, where Sarek and Amanda had always held all of their gatherings, Spock saw not a single preparation that would indicate that a large number of guests were expected later today. More than that, though, the house seemed…empty.
But not just empty, Spock thought. Empty in an unnatural way. He perceived…something…
“Father?” he called. “Mother?” He heard no response.
Peering around, Spock made his way across the great room, past the fountain at its center, and over to the communications panel in the recess at its rear. If his parents had needed to leave for some reason, he thought that perhaps they had left him a message. When he activated the comm display, though, he saw nothing.
Spock walked from the great room into the main living area of the house. He gazed into the sitting room to his left and saw nothing out of the ordinary, but also no sign of his parents. The hall that led to his mother’s studio led away to his right, and Spock traversed it. He reached the doorway that opened into the geodesic addition to the house and looked inside. Several of the sculptures on which his mother had recently worked no longer stood where he’d last seen them, no doubt packaged up and shipped to Earth for her exhibition. He did not see Sarek or Amanda.
As he headed back down the hall, though, Spock heard a sound from behind him, a soft noise that he could not identify. He returned to the studio and listened for a moment. The sound did not come again, and he paced deeper into the room.
That was when he saw his father.
Hidden behind a work table at the center of the studio, Sarek sat on the floor, slumped against the wall. “Father,” Spock said, taking a step toward him.
Sarek lifted his eyes then, and Spock saw an expression on his face he had never before seen there. His father’s eyes looked hollow and didn’t seem to focus. Spock could only describe his appearance as one of terrible sadness.
“Father,” Spock said again, going over and crouching down beside him. “Are you all right?”
Sarek peered up at him, and finally he appeared to see Spock. “No, my son,” he said. “I am not all right.”
“Are you injured?” Spock asked. He reached for his father’s legs, feeling for any obvious break.
“No, I am not physically hurt,” Sarek said, taking hold of Spock’s shoulder with one hand. “You have not heard the news?”
The news? Spock thought, and the bulletin he’d heard on the comnet recurred to him. “Are you speaking of the apparent terrorist attack in the Foxtrot Sector? It is a regrettable loss of life.”
“No,” Sarek said. “Your mother…”
“Where is my mother?” Spock asked. He knew that Amanda had been scheduled to return from Earth yesterday.
“Your mother…was killed this morning,” Sarek said. A tear trailed down his cheek. “A shuttle accident.”
The revelation startled Spock. Though he had detected something wrong when he’d first entered the house, he had never anticipated anything like this. He felt—
Nothing.
His Kolinahr training held.