Authors: A. C. Crispin
Uhura looked thoughtful. “He’s pretty hard on him, but maybe that’s the way Vulcans develop that stoic nature.”
“Not according to what I’ve read. Most Vulcan families are extremely disciplined, but also very close-knit. Spock is more impersonal with Zar than with anybody else.”
“I noticed something that may account for it. Have you ever looked at Zar’
s
eyes?” Uhura leaned forward a little, lowering her voice.
“No—other men’s eyes don’t do anything for me, I’m afraid.” Sulu grinned.
“They’re gray. I never heard of a Vulcan with eyes that light before. I asked him once what exactly was his relationship to Spock.”
“What did he say?”
“He got that remote look, and said that Vulcan family connections are extremely complex, and that he couldn’t translate the exact term for it.”
“He’s probably right about that.” Sulu looked thoughtful. “They must be fairly closely related, though, for such a marked resemblance. If I didn’t know Spock has no brothers, I’d wonder.”
“There’s something funny about the whole thing, light eyes and all. I’ll bet that Zar is part Human, and that Spock is hard on him because of it.”
“If you’re right, then that’s an illogical attitude for our First Officer to have, considering that ...”
[84]
The helmsman broke off abruptly and turned back to his console, as the bridge doors opened and the Captain entered. “Report, Mr. Sulu?”
“All systems normal, sir. Proceeding on course, warp factor four.”
Zar was aware of the speculation that surrounded his relationship to the Vulcan, of course. It was impossible for him
not
to know. His innate telepathic ability, nourished by the ancient mind-linking techniques, grew until he could communicate freely with the First Officer. Freely, that is, to the extent that he could draw upon the logical, fact-containing areas of that brilliant mind. His knowledge of the Vulcan language increased geometrically with each teaching session. He could tap the first level, refreshing in its chill precision, its relentless clarity, as beautiful and uncluttered as pure mathematics. The first level, nearly devoid of personality, of everything that the younger man craved with a longing that went unacknowledged, almost unsensed. The first level—and guarding it, like a barrier, the mind-shield.
Somehow that intangible wall became his enemy. It hovered at the back-of each contact, reminding the younger man that he knew almost nothing about the remote stranger who was so different in flesh than he’d been in dreams. The mind-shield stood between them, barring any closeness, any sharing, and his hate for it, irrational as he knew it to be, grew with each session.
Spock sensed the growing tension in the younger man’s mind, but ignored it—almost to his undoing. They were linked, fingers to temples, solid blocks of knowledge-impressions flowing from one mind to the other, when he felt Zar’
s
communication fade, realized the younger man had dropped his shield. Hastily Spock pulled back, clamping his own barrier tighter, refusing the implied offer to meld, rejecting any deeper contact. Before he could break away, he felt it come, a solid wave of confused emotion that battered at his shield. Zar’
s
communication, a barrage
[85]
as incoherent and nonverbal as it was raw and powerful, shook the Vulcan, hurt him on a level that was emotional as well as mental. For a moment they were
one,
and there was pain, only pain.
Spock shook his head violently, fighting the pressure of Zar’s fingers even as they slackened. He stumbled back a pace, and stood swaying a little, to face the other. Their quick breathing was the only sound in the room.
The younger man’s face was ashen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I was only trying to—” he gestured helplessly.
The Vulcan could feel the memory of the pain rasping his throat as he spoke. “On Vulcan, what you attempted just now is regarded as a heinous crime. Forcing a meld is an unforgivable invasion of the spirit.”
Zar nodded impassively, but Spock could feel his remorse—hear it in his voice. “I know that, now. I acted on impulse ... it was wrong. I’m sorry.”
The pain was fading, leaving behind only a physical shadow—a headache. Spock could feel the pressure behind his eyes, pounding, and his voice was harsher than he’d intended. “See that you remember. If you do not, I can’t continue training you.”
The gray eyes narrowed. “I suppose you
could
call it training, as if I were an animal. But I think it’s closer to the programming you do to the computers.” His expression changed, and he half-extended his hand. “I can’t
touch
you.
Why?”
Anger welled, born of the pain, and the Vulcan remembered all the times he’d been asked that question, different words, but holding the same meaning.
Why,
he asked them all, Leila, Amanda, McCoy, and now this gray-eyed quasi-reflection ...
why do you ask of me the thing I cannot give? I am what I am.
...
Even so, something within him wanted to answer that anguished query, but the ingrained reserve of
[86]
years held. Quickly, before that something forced a response, he turned on his heel and left the room.
The same night, after a brisk workout on self-defense techniques with Kirk, Zar asked the Captain hesitantly if he might speak with him—privately.
He felt comfortable in Kirk’s quarters immediately, though this was the first time he’d visited them. Somehow he’d never felt at ease in Spock’s cabin—a reflection of the way he felt toward both men, Zar decided, studying the paintings with admiration.
Kirk pointed to a chair. “Sit down. Would you like some Saurian brandy?”
Zar eyed the bottle the Captain produced warily. “Is that ethanol?”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
“No thank you, then. My roommates gave me some once, and it made me throw up.”
The Captain cocked an amused eyebrow, and put the liquor away. “It’s been known to do that, all right.” He sobered. “What did you want to see me about?”
Zar didn’t reply. His face was closed, and only the tightness of the jaw muscles betrayed him. Kirk had an uncanny feeling of
déjà vu.
The Captain sat back, waiting with an outward show of patience. Finally the younger man looked up. “You and Mr. Spock have served together for some years now.”
“Yes, we have.”
“You know him better than anyone else. He trusts you, and you trust him. If you feel that you’re betraying that trust by talking to me, I want you to tell me.”
“That’s fair enough. Go on.”
With an abrupt gesture, Zar straightened, one clenched fist grinding into his other palm. His voice was harsh, demanding. “Why doesn’t my father like me?”
Kirk sighed, realizing he should have expected something like this. Zar continued in a rush of words,
[87]
“I’ve studied—McCoy says I learn faster than anyone he’s ever known. I’ve done everything I can to learn how to be Vulcan. I’ve followed the dietary restrictions. No meat. My mother told me how kind and loving he was. How gentle. When I was small, I used to dream about him, how he came from the stars, and I used to imagine that he’d come and take me with him someday. She used to say that if my father could see me he’d be proud of me. ...”
The Captain sighed again, then sat back, eyes level. “I’m going to tell you the truth, because I think it’s your right to know,” he said slowly. “When he went back in time through the atavachron, something strange happened to Spock. He changed—whether the change was caused by the device, I can’t say. Since it didn’t happen when we went back using the Guardian, it probably was. While he was with ... your mother, Spock became like the Vulcans of that time period—5,000 years ago. He ... reverted ... became an emotional being. One with strong feelings. He did things he’d never done before, even to eating meat.”
“And while he was this way ... he ... took my mother.” It was a statement. Zar took a deep breath, shook his head. “Then it wasn’t love he felt for her, only ...” he swallowed, then swallowed again, and his voice was thick. “Poor Zarabeth. All her life, she remembered a dream, something that was never real. She never realized that she was ... used.”
Kirk put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, shook it a little. “We don’t know that’s true. The only person who knows is Spock, and I doubt he’ll ever discuss it. It could be that your mother found something in him that they made real between them. That’s really none of your concern. I told you what I know, so you’d understand that Zarabeth told you the truth—her truth. What was true for her, doesn’t necessarily hold true for you, now.”
The gray eyes held only bitterness. “He meant it, when he said it was because of duty that he searched
[88]
for me. He doesn’t want me—never did. I was stupid not to realize it.”
“He risked his life—and more, he allowed McCoy and me to risk our lives—to find you.”
“Not because he
wanted
to, though. So many things are clear, now, that I didn’t understand before. I’m an embarrassment to him—a ... barbarian that happens to look like him. Every time he sees me he’s reminded of an incident he’d rather forget. No wonder he won’t discuss his family on Vulcan with me. Vulcan customs are old, and strict. Offspring like me are called ‘krenath.’ It means ‘shamed ones.’ You Humans also have a word. Bastard.”
While Kirk was still searching his mind for something—anything—to say, Zar nodded gravely and left.
Doctor McCoy halted outside the quad that Zar shared with two other men, and keyed the door panel. It opened, and he stepped in to see Juan Cordova and David Steinberg, Zar’
s
roommates, playing poker in the sitting room the three shared. Cordova looked up. “Hi, Doc.” He nodded at the bedroom. “He’s in there.”
“Thanks, Juan,” the Doctor hesitated. “You seen much of him lately?”
Steinberg shook his head. “Not for the last couple of days. He’s been keeping to himself.”
Cordova looked worried. “I even broke down and asked him if he wanted to join us in a hand, and he turned me down. First time
that’s
happened.”
In spite of his concern, McCoy’s mouth twitched. “He plays a pretty mean game of poker, doesn’t he? Taught him everything I know—till it got too damn expensive.”
Steinberg was disgusted. “You mean
you’re
the one we should blame? That’s the last time I play poker with a Vulcan!”
“Yeah,” Cordova agreed. “I’m taking him with me next time I get leave—we’ll clean up every casino from the Center to the Klingon Empire!”
The Medical Officer chuckled, then sobered. He gestured at the closed door. “Do you know of any reason—have you done anything that might—”
Steinberg was shaking his head. “You mean have we corrupted him lately, the answer is no. When I came right out and asked him if he was all right, he
[90]
just looked at me and said, ‘Of course. Do I appear any different?’ And he said it—you know how ... Vulcan.”
McCoy grimly keyed the door panel. “I know indeed.” he muttered.
“Who is it?” Zar’s voice, but the door stayed closed.
“McCoy.”
The panel slid open. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know you were there. Please come in. ...” The younger man sat before an easel, a brush and palette in his hand.
“Haven’t seen much of you for the last couple of days, Zar. What’s up?”
Zar dabbed carefully at the canvas, not meeting the Doctor’s measuring stare. “Up? The
Enterprise
maintains a constant gravity of one Earth gee. Why should—”
“Not another one!” McCoy interrupted with a groan. When the artist didn’t raise his eyes from the canvas, he amended, “I meant, what kind of things have been going on with you lately?”
One shoulder twitched in what the Medical Officer assumed was a shrug. Baffled, McCoy walked around to get a better look at the painting.
It showed a blood-colored sun setting over a jagged upthrust of rock and ice. The background was muted, and the glow of the sun on the ice-glazed boulders was a scene McCoy remembered vividly. The defiant angle of the glacier stabbed the roundness of the sun like a dagger.
“Cold as hell, in spite of the sun,” the Doctor commented. “I remember how strange that icy glow looked. You’ve really caught it here.”
Some of the remoteness left the artist’s expression at the compliment. Zar dabbed carefully at one corner again, turning so McCoy couldn’t see his face, but his voice betrayed him. “It’s beautiful. So cruel, but beautiful. I miss it ... sometimes.” He straightened, laid down the brush. “This is Jan’s favorite.”
[91]
“You’ve done others?”
“Yes, I like to paint almost everything I’ve seen. I’ve done three others since I came on board, and some sketches.”
“I’d like to see them.”
Zar dragged several canvases and a fat sketchbook out of the cabinet built into the bulkhead. “I’m afraid they aren’t the same as they were in my head,” he apologized. “Nothing comes out the way I envision it.”
McCoy set the first painting on the other side of the easel, and examined it., A portrait of Jan Sajii—the distinctive features were unmistakable, despite the flaws in perspective. The artist had caught the characteristic tilt of the head, the humor in the eyes. He could see Sajii’s influence in the style. “That’s the first one I did,” the younger man offered. The Medical Officer nodded.