A Son of Surak
By
Pat Foley
Chapter 1
On a late spring day on Vulcan, Spock looked up from his homework as an aircar winked through the security screens surrounding the old Fortress. But the sound was not of a Vulcan craft, puzzling him. He laid his stylus against his lips meditatively. It was past time for his mother to be home from her classes at the Science Academy. His father had come home hours before, and was working in his study.
Spock crossed out through terrace doors on his workroom to look down, but from his present vantage point, high on the rooftop parapets and from this angle, he could see only the top of the flyer. Nothing of its details. Well, perhaps his mother had had trouble with her flyer and someone had given her a ride home. He recognized none of the personages exiting from the flyer. They were being escorted by the guard to the wing that contained his father's office. So probably nothing to do with her.
Spock refreshed his eyes with the view from the parapets before returning to his studies. Far across the plains, the city of Shikahr rose with its many towers, one of them the Science Academy he would soon attend, twinkling lights just beginning to show in the late afternoon. Beyond that, winked the navigation beam from his Grandmother T'Pau's palace. Behind and around him rose the foothills the Fortress had been built against, designed to defend the mountain passes. The hills surrounding the Fortress led up from the valuable city and fertile plains of Shikahr to the Llangon mountain range. Far beyond the city and to the west, he could see, gleaming like a falling star, the trail of some shuttle taking off from the Sirakvui spaceport. Everything in his world was in its place, and he went back to his work with a contented sigh.
But when his timesense reminded him it was the hour for the evening meal, he reflected that one person was not in her proper place, for he hadn't heard his mother's flyer come through the forcescreens. He supposed he could have been so deep in study that he missed it, but he doubted that. Regardless, he knew he had better present himself at the evening meal.
Not yet thirteen standard years of age and lean as a whippet, his parents had recently imposed on him a most unwelcome medical examination. He was no taller than his mother, inches from the adult height predicted by the healers, and his parents had renewed concerns about the sufficiency of his diet. The healers had been dismissive, claiming the growth plates on his long bones were still completely open, and that the line of Surak always matured late in their teens. They estimated the growth spurt leading to his full height would not come for two to four years hence. His parents might have been reassured by the exam, but Spock had not been. The prospect of it had upset him before their investigation began, and meditate as he would, the unpleasant repercussions lingered, robbing him of the appetite that had been the cause of his parents' concern. But regardless of the medical exoneration, and his still fussy lack of appetite, Spock didn't care to incite further parental investigations by being late to a meal when he was home. Saving his work, he walked down the long staircase, oblivious of tapestries laden with lematya symbols and walls covered with pre-Reform weapons and works of art that surrounded him. Having lived among this barbaric splendor all his life, it all seemed quite ordinary to him. But upon reaching the kitchen, he found what wasn't ordinary, the room empty, no meal being prepared, no human mother. A blinking light on the kitchen communications console signaled a message from her.
Frowning, he pressed play.
"Sorry, darling, but I have a student with a thesis emergency. I'm afraid you'll have to shift for yourself for dinner. There should be plenty in the gardens or in stasis. Or worse come to worse, there's always the food processor. I tried to reach your father, but he's incommunicado in a meeting with some Federation official. See that he gets the message. Eat something, please. And don't burn down the kitchen doing it," she warned him, then added sweetly, knowing he would disapprove, "I love you."
Spock huffed. He hadn't burned down the kitchen since he was seven, and even if she did not recall it, he'd had good reason to do so then. 1 He tilted his head, considering his reasoning from the lofty precipice of nearly seven years growth, doubts niggling as to that conviction, and then, unwilling to entertain what was long past, dismissed the thought for more pressing considerations. Just like his mother to be not home, when he was home, not hiking the Forge. And after making such a point about his meals too.
He frowned over the prospect of making a meal. He'd just as soon go back to his studies. But his mother had left him an order and he supposed, as a good Vulcan son, and given the dictates of logic that indicated failure to do so might lead to more onerous exams, he supposed he ought to obey.
In spite of his Vulcan training, alone with no witnesses Spock wrinkled his nose at the idea of eating from a food processor, at home where the gardens abounded with the fresh food he much preferred. Of course he'd have to go out to the gardens to pick it, and the Terra-formed gardens were always wet, cold, dank and nasty by Vulcan standards. That was a chore he was too often assigned and that he preferred to forgo without a direct order. Resenting this interruption in his orderly life, he considered what kind of emergency a mere thesis could create. Humans were so emotional.
Sighing, he deferred all this to a greater power, and going out the garden court door, crossed the formal gardens to his father's office in another wing of the Fortress. There were corridors within the Fortress that would lead to it, but this was the shorter way. The inner door off the anteroom was closed, meaning his father was in conference. One of his father's aides, Sprue, peering around from his office down the corridor to see who had entered, gave him the jerk of the chin that was characteristic of a Vulcan negative, meaning his father was unavailable.
Spock decided to wait. He could now see, outside the long windows, the whole of the aircar he had spied from above, and that it was marked with both Federation and Starfleet emblazons. Given his father's views on Starfleet were known to be negative, at least as regards any more than a superficial presence in Alliance territory, he somehow doubted the meeting would be very long. Spock waited, meditating on a number of things, the oddity of a thesis emergency, the growling in his stomach, distasteful food processors, the futility of his father's meeting with this official, given his known views on Starfleet, and the incongruity of a flyer with Starfleet and Federation blazons sitting before the Fortress.
He eyed the relatively unfamiliar Federation emblem meditatively. Odd that it seemed a rarity here in the Fortress, given his father's work as ambassador to the Federation. There were images of their clan herald in banner, tapestry and statuary, and more than a few symbols of the ancient Vulcan Alliance, the coalition of many worlds and Vulcan colonies which his father led and had brought into the Federation. But he had never seen any Federation emblems in the Fortress except on communications from the Federation Council. The ones his mother called marching orders and bitterly resented for sending his father on diplomatic assignments, him to boarding school and breaking up their family life. Perhaps that was why the Federation symbol was in scarce residence in the Fortress.
He shelved this fascinating conjecture as the minutes ticked by. His father was normally precise as to meeting times. If Sarek had expected his mother home, as her message seemed to indicate, Spock wondered at him meeting with this Starfleet representative at this time. Was it the visitor who had been late, or perhaps had run over the allotted time? Spock himself would not dare to be anything but punctual if summoned by his father. If Sarek were detained, Spock assumed it was the more illogical species of the Federation causing this delay. He thought he felt a thump, a vibration rather than a sound, as if something had slammed onto a hollow surface, like a desk. He sat up, curious. Sprue also poked his head outside of his office at the vibration. But Sarek's office was quite soundproofed, so their surprise and curiosity went unsatisfied. Until the door opened.
The human who exited apparently didn't have much respect for his own privacy, for he was continuing his argument, gesticulating with his hands in a most uncontrolled manner, even as Sarek was escorting him out. That said much to Spock, both that his father had determined further discussion was pointless even before the human had finished, and that the human was frustrated enough to continue, even past Sarek's indications otherwise. Perhaps the human had actually pounded the desk, as he was pounding the air. Perhaps that was why Sarek was escorting him out now. Spock was familiar enough with his father's snubs to know that they could be obvious when Sarek so deemed it necessary. He listened idly – he could hardly help doing so - as the visitor blustered:
"Ambassador, if you would only consider my position you would see that this proposal is in Vulcan's best interests-"
"I have considered," Sarek said, his even, neutral inflection at odds with his steely tone, "and I must convey to you that it is for Vulcans, most notably myself, to determine what is in Vulcan's and in the Alliance's best interests."
Almost hidden in his corner chair, and ignored by both parties, Spock set his own mouth against a betraying curve at Sarek once again being Sarek. At least for the moment he could enjoy the novelty of not being on the receiving end of such disdain.
"But—"
"I believe your installation at Rigel is sufficient for this quadrant," Sarek concluded. "Good day, sir."
Spock looked curiously at the visitor. He was used to dignitaries coming through the Fortress, used to formal dress, and sets of aides. This personage had many bars of medals, bands and ribbons on his uniform. By human standards that often indicted a high office. But Spock was unused to seeing a being so emotionally wrought. Red-faced and sweating, obviously unacclimated to the planet, so not one of the embassy or local Federation personnel, lips working, almost too upset to convey his message in words due to his extreme frustration, the human was in marked contrast to Sarek's steely control. Yet, in spite of its flaws by Vulcan standards, Spock found something compelling about such passion. He found the incident curious, and filed it away for future consideration.
Sprue began to escort the human toward the outer doors, but, mopping his brow, the man turned as if for a last ditch argument, noted Sarek's cool dismissive posture, turned away in frustration, took sudden notice of Spock sitting in the corner, curious and watchful, and harrumphing, followed the aide out the door.
Sarek turned that critical gaze onto his son. "You want something of me?"
It was one of his father's least pleasant openings, tantamount to saying go away, at least in that inflection. And his swift turn and steely countenance was anything but welcoming. But Spock could be inured to Sarek's brusqueness, when he wasn't, for once, the direct cause of it. "Mother left a message. She will be late."
"Sprue would have seen that I received it."
That was enough of an answer to Spock's unspoken question about dinner, but he was perverse enough, for once being himself cool and in control when he could see Sarek's control had been taxed by meeting this human, to press his father past this clear dismissal. "Should we dine now, or wait for mother?"
Sarek frowned at him. "Spock, in 23.4 days you will be completing your post-secondary education, at least according to existing estimates. You will then begin your internships and advanced work at the Science Academy. Surely that means you can procure a meal by yourself. Without destroying the kitchen," he added pointedly. Echoing, in an unusual coincidence, his human wife's thoughts.
Spock raised both brows, surprised at this, and curious. He let Sarek turn before stating, icy in turn as he rose to go. "That was not my question."
Sarek whirled around. In spite of himself, Spock took a step back at this evidence of Vulcan temper. But Sarek had caught himself in the next instant. "You are still a growing child," Sarek said tersely. "And require nutrition at regular intervals. I will wait for your mother."
Spock flicked a brow and left, offended, slightly superior at seeing Sarek having lost countenance, and also, buried deep, absurdly hurt that his father chose not to share a meal with him just because his mother was not there. Was he not worthy of even that minor consideration? And then he castigated himself for feeling any of those things.
He went to the kitchen and nosed morosely through the cabinets and stasis compartments. Now that he considered it, after that stressful meeting his father was probably far more in need of meditation than food. And he was probably what his mother would characterize as a brat to have goaded his father when his control had been so taxed. But now he himself wasn't too inclined to eat either, in spite of hunger warning him that he needed to. And he also knew, if his mother had been home and had prepared a meal, his father would have eaten with them anyway. It was only his presence alone that wasn't reason sufficient enough - he stopped that thought by main force of will, and grabbed a cereal bar, a compressed log of grains, nuts and dried fruits. But considering its uninspiring prospect, he decided that he required meditation as well before eating anything. Since his mother wasn't home, and his father didn't want him, he would go to the Forge.
Moments later, he came back downstairs, dressed in desert togs. He tossed three of the bars in a light rucksack that contained his computer pad with some school work, added a container of juice and a couple of pieces of fruit. He then left, with somewhat of a satisfied air, a note for his mother that he was spending the night in the Llangons. He shut the garden court door with a sharp snick. The garden path led him from the house out through the formal gardens, past a massive lematya statue, looming overhead in the gathering dusk. At the outer gate, he looked back, thinking of his note sitting forlornly on the pristine kitchen table, a tacit check to the winking gambit of his mother's message light, the parry and thrust of his family's interactions.
He nodded to the Fortress security staff at the gate and crossed to the ancient trail head that led up the mountain. Long ago, his Vulcan ancestors and the Fortress itself had served to guard this one navigable pass against marauders into the fertile Shikahr plains. Now his family had designated this area and the hills and passes above as a historic site, as well as a nature and wildlife preserve, aircars forbidden except for the patrol and emergencies. The lower trail was relatively safe, wide enough for armies to traverse it in double file. But higher up, it grew rocky and steep, and dangerous predators abounded. The gate guards at the Fortress still noted those who ascended the trail past their ancient guardpost and up into the mountains. They notified the Patrol if they failed to descend.
But Spock wasn't considering dangers. The air was sharp and spicy with the coming evening. All around him, he could feel the wildlife stirring, ready for a long night of feasting and roaming. The katabatic winds rushing down from the mountains lifted his hair and ran through his blood like electricity. He had to discipline an equally feral and delighted expression from his countenance. Here, at least, he belonged. Here was refuge, sanctuary, solace, and his heritage. This he had come to regard was his element, his true home.
To be continued…
1 See Small Talk