She left him kneeling there, on soil where the ancient dead were not buried. He watched her quick march back to the capital and thought…nothing. The emptiness inside his head had nothing to do with the discipline: it was exhaustion. He was tired: tired of Kirk and McCoy, tired of Prime, tired of Harani, tired of this ridiculous place. And there was no way out. Sumar had barred all travel between cities and getting hold of a working spacecraft was imposs—improbable. Most had been stripped of their technology and the metal melted down for the crude houses clinging like parasites to the walls of the new High Council. Still kneeling, he pressed his forehead down against the dirt. Sutarek's alcoholic concoction was shooting through his veins and it had completely switched his mind off. It was…good. There was nothing except preternatural warmth in his body and the blackness of his shadow on the ground. Blackness. Blackness. Blackness...
The new Vulcan colony had been established within six years, and it was magnificent. Spock and his father, and even Prime – as the younger Vulcan privately preferred to call him – had visited it, at the opening of the new Academy of Science. A handful of senior Starfleet representatives had joined them, self-congratulatory at having 'dealt with' the Vulcan problem. Had Spock been inclined to speculate, he would have imagined hearing their motto: The Vulcan's feel nothing. They will rebuild and feel nothing. I will feel nothing.
Of course, they simply did not understand. Like the dark heat of the Pon Farr, there were many things deep in Vulcan blood that were simply not to be discussed, especially with the hysterical human race. The Vulcan mind could dwell on a multitude of subjects at the same time and maintain perfect clarity, but the back of Spock's mind rang with the suppressed fury of ten thousand Vulcans forced to build a new home in the wastes of the first planet Starfleet could furnish them. Rage. Grief. His mind was positively howling.
He could still remember that day the Enterprise, when the refugees stood as silent as space, nursing wounds and poring over whatever reading material was available from the ship's library. Solace came in the straight lines of military precision. Any human would have looked on and thought of automatons. Any Vulcan would have seen the slight trembling of the muscles, the widened eyes, felt the hot stabs of heartache. I grieve with thee. The same sentiment was pouring out of every mind capable of expressing it, a message to the others without breaking the code of Vulcan discipline.
Such grief had not dimmed, even these six years later.
"Well," said Admiral Pike, as he prepared himself to board the shuttlecraft, "It seems everything is back to normal now." He beamed widely at Spock, who simply looked back at him, his hands clasped behind his back, and replied, "As you say, Admiral."
Pike's smile faded a moment, before he inclined his head gently and boarded the shuttlecraft. As the craft took off, Prime approached Spock and said, "There is anger among us, but there is also…" he searched for the correct word, "hope."
"The colony is a commendable achievement, especially for so poor an environment. You and your teams are to be congratulated," Spock said, idly tracking something indeterminate in the distance. It was…difficult to look upon the elderly Spock, for doing so foreboded mortality – a logical progression, naturally, but disagreeable to face so soon. "I have heard that one particular young man is worthy of attention."
"Ah, that would be Sumar - a brilliant mind, a remarkable engineer. He's responsible for most of the main buildings and spacecraft we have. Now that the bulk of those works are completed, he is contemplating a career in high office." Prime paused for a moment and considered this, "I would wish him well, but I cannot lie."
Spock turned to face Prime, "Specify."
Prime sighed quietly. "Sumar's grasp of the discipline is largely selfish. His logic is entirely personal. If it stands him in good stead to withdraw his emotions, then that is what he will do. Remember, Spock, those rare few who choose to reject the disciplines.
Of course, it was almost unheard of. Almost. Such individuals were barely detectable among their peers, at least to a human or any off-worlder, but a Vulcan would know them straight away. "There is evidence to suggest that a lack of the more rigorous controls do not in any way impair the individual in day to day life on Vul -among Vulcan's." Spock stepped over his mistake, and Prime gracefully ignored it. Even six years later, there were still these certain minute slip ups. "Although, from what you say, the logical conclusion would be that you are experiencing an emotional reaction against this Sumar, perhaps originating from your own distaste at his choices."
Prime arched one eyebrow, slowly. He inclined his head, "Perhaps."
Soon after they parted, Spock made towards his father's house, in the heart of the new capital. It was a modest structure, and even though beauty lay in its minutiae, it was still compelling against the sweeping arcs of Sumar's new city. The inside was sparsely furnished, for his father had little need for ample space and furnishing, now that he had no wife to fill the house with guests. Spock took in the small, intricately carved stone of the house as he walked through the tiny garden – a specification of Sarek's, though he did not tend it himself. They did not speak of it, aloud, but this was Amanda's garden; a tribute to her little patch of flowers that once bloomed on Vulcan.
It was foolish of him to have come to the house. Sarek would not be home; he was engaged in duty with the High Council. He let himself inside anyway, and took a seat in the minimalistic living room. This time, Spock considered his wish to simply be in the new home of his father, and to reflect upon the future of the city. It was good. Almost without prompting, he began to sink into a light meditation: Vulcan, his mother, his father, the colony…they flashed like lightning through his crystal clear mind. Make sense of it? Unlikely.
His communicator beeped. He flicked it open.
"Spock, you're still in T'Hula, aren't you?" said the Captain.
"T'Hual, sir, and yes. I intend to leave within the hour."
"Forget it. There's been an incident at the High Council. One of the elders has died and we received a message from your father saying that he suspects…well, Spock, he says he suspects murder. Gomand find out exactly what's happened, then report back to me and we'll see where we go from there. Understood?"
"Affirmative, Captain."
Spock closed the communicator slowly and stood still for a moment. The wilful cessation of life… by a Vulcan? It was one of the great taboos; murder was practically unheard of among Vulcans. However, he would not speculate. He took a last look at his father's house, not quite knowing why he had been drawn to it, before heading towards the great hulking stone building of the High Council, the colossus that cast its shadows over the city.
As he woke, he wiped his eyes. He was curled up in the sand, just outside the city gates where Uhura had left him. What day is it? Is it the same night? Is there anyone left I can ask? 'Sumar,' Spock thinks, as the alcohol fires up the old wrath; 'Sumar, if I could get close to you now, I would kill you where you stand. I would make you suffer as we have suffered. Agony, shame, guilt. All those years ago I let you walk free, and look what you have done to me. Look at me in the dirt; you did this to me. I wished you long life and prosperity. I vow, Sumar, all of this will end by my hand.'
Desperately thin, and ragged, the Vulcan pulled himself along the streets of the city, walking into walls and knocking things over as he went. 'Undignified'…he thought; 'I cannot stop…I do not wish to stop…' Somehow, he avoided the sparse patrol of guards enforcing the curfew – they were mostly corrupt, degenerates: He never could have believed such of his kind... Finally, he crashed into the bones of the old Academy.
Harani sat on the wall, outside, waiting. She stood as Spock approached. He looked at her expressionless face and almost – before catching the thought – laughed. He thought about telling her…something…but he couldn't remember what. He said nothing. She cast her eye over his body. So thin. He was destroying himself from the inside. They were all going mad, in their own ways of course. A choking anger held her throat as she looked at him, as she considered the man who had done this to him, that Spock himself had allowed it to happen. She said nothing. She had learned that a look could be more things to a Vulcan than she had ever realised, and it was enough.
"We must do something," she whispered. "And soon."
