Eleven

The cockpit of a shuttlecraft in flight was hardly conducive to meditation. Electronic chirps and the constant background thrum of the impulse engine intruded on Saavik’s awareness—as did the presence of Captain Kirk, who was seated less than a meter away at the helm of Copernicus. Still, she attempted to tune out her surroundings as she sought to achieve a greater degree of communion with Spock, despite the unknown gulf between them. Strapped into the copilot’s seat, her hands resting stiffly in her lap, she began with some basic breathing exercises and mental routines to prepare her mind. Varba II loomed before her, its obstructive atmosphere clearly visible through the viewport, but Saavik chose to ignore the approaching planet, looking inward instead.

Spock, she thought. Where are you, Spock?

Achieving a proper meditative state was difficult, despite—or possibly because of—the desperate need to locate the missing landing party as expediently as possible. An unwelcome degree of trepidation troubled her thoughts; by nurturing her present connection to Spock, she ran the risk of sharing his final moments, experiencing his death. That intimidating prospect filled her with an inescapable sense of dread that was unworthy of her Vulcan heritage and training, but it existed nonetheless. Denying it would be both illogical and counterproductive.

Accept the fear, she told herself. Acknowledge it, recognize it for what it is, and move past it. Do not fight it. Just let it be.

Her search proceeded. The dread was still there, lingering at the back of her mind like an unattractive view or overcast sky, but she would not let it control her or dissuade her from her course. Fear was just an emotion, and emotions could always be overcome by discipline and logic.

Although sometimes that was more difficult than usual.

In truth, the possibility of sharing Spock’s demise was not the only thing she found daunting. To deepen her link to Spock, she would have to lower her own stringent mental barriers and tap into her powerful, occasionally unruly emotions where Spock was concerned, as well as call upon her memories of the Genesis Planet and all they had shared there. She could not wall off her feelings and keep them securely contained. There could be no privacy, no secrets, no safe place to hide.

I will be exposed . . . to myself.

Any Vulcan would consider such a vulnerable state disturbing, but Saavik knew she had more reason than most to be wary of her own suppressed emotions. Like Spock, she was only half-Vulcan, having spent her early years leading a near-feral existence on the failed Romulan colony known as Hellguard, deprived of the advanced mental training that Vulcan children received from infancy. She had come late to the teachings of Surak, and, though she would never admit it, the Vulcan way did not always come easily to her.

Or at least not as readily as it came to others.

It was a peculiar thing, she reflected, and not for the first time. Humans and other non-Vulcan races tended to believe that all Vulcans were equally devoid of emotion, ignoring the wide range of temperaments and personalities found in virtually every other humanoid species known to the Federation. This was an erroneous assumption. In reality, even Vulcan personalities ranged along a spectrum, with some better able to control their primal instincts than others. Only the revered masters of Kolinahr could be said to have completely conquered their emotions; every other Vulcan achieved their own level of emotional control, to varying degrees.

Granted, by human standards, all Vulcans no doubt seemed universally cool and detached. To Kirk and the rest of the Enterprise crew, she surely appeared properly Vulcan. But in fact Saavik knew herself to be slightly more emotive than the average Vulcan, which was but one reason that she had chosen to follow Spock into Starfleet, where her occasional lapses might go less noticed than they would on Vulcan. Like Spock, she was more comfortable out in the galaxy, among other peoples, than she was among her own kind.

Like Spock . . .

Saavik realized that she was stalling, thinking about what needed to be done rather than doing it. Her personal issues and struggles did not matter now, not when the landing party was in mortal danger. Pushing past her apprehensions, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached deep inside herself, beyond her reservations and barriers, for the ineffable bond that stretched between her and Spock.

My mind to yours, she thought. Your mind to mine.

She felt only weakness at first. Weakness of the body, pushed beyond endurance. As before, Spock’s physical anguish washed over her like a wave of sickness. Her head swam, so that the cockpit seemed to spin around her, its inertial dampers and artificial gravity malfunctioning. Her mouth felt as dry and parched as Vulcan’s Forge, as though she had not quenched her thirst in far too long. Her stomach cried out for sustenance. Her limbs felt heavy as neutronium, weighing her down so that she could barely move. A dull ache throbbed in her right shoulder. She felt cold and wet and exhausted, pushed nearly to her limits. Her heartbeat slowed. She couldn’t go on much longer.

No! This is not my pain! Let me go!

Her first instinct was to withdraw from the contact, spare herself this suffering. Self-preservation warred with duty as she fought the urge to break off their communion. Ironically, it was the very severity of Spock’s symptoms that gave her the strength to keep going. It was all too obvious that Spock needed her help, and grievously so. She could not abandon him.

She would not abandon him.

She kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, willing herself to go ever deeper, past the superficial traumas of the flesh to the elusive mind and spirit beyond. Spock’s suffering was hers as well, but there was far more to their bond than mere physical empathy, if she dared to open up her heart and soul to a perilous degree. She raised her right hand, holding up two joined fingers before her, as though to touch his fingers as she had on the Genesis Planet, when she had first asked him to trust her and had initiated their joining. It was a gesture—a touch—whose profound significance only another Vulcan could truly appreciate.

My heart to your heart. Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched.

The last barriers crumbled. A tidal wave of raw emotions threatened to swamp her: fear, worry, respect, admiration, affection, and more. Potent memories, laden with feeling, crashed against her consciousness, surging up from the depths:

Spock, rescuing her from Hellguard when she was just a child. Taking her into his family’s home, introducing her to a new way of life, giving her hope and a future . . .

Spock, welcoming her to Starfleet Academy after sponsoring her application, mentoring her and encouraging her progress, taking obvious pride in her accomplishments . . .

Spock, sealed away in a flag-draped torpedo tube at his funeral, as Mister Scott played an oddly affecting Terran air on his bagpipes. A solitary tear betraying her sorrow as Spock’s remains were expelled into the void . . .

Spock, reborn upon the Genesis Planet, growing at an accelerated rate from infant to maturity, lacking his memories and intellect but still undeniably Spock, returned to her against all odds, as she guided him through the pitiless throes of pon farr, forging a link that could never truly be broken, save by death . . .

The memories were all but overwhelming, but Saavik did not retreat from them. Instead she let their shared history and the strength of her feelings amplify her connection to Spock, so that it almost seemed like she could reach out and touch him. Her eyes snapped open and she gazed on the forbidding planet ahead. Spock was there, waiting for her, drawing her to him.

“I feel you, Spock,” she murmured. “I am coming for you.”

But would they reach him in time?