500 Words or Less
By: M. C. Pehrson
Spock was completing his evening session in Seleya's center of education when an unexpected command appeared on the third and final screen. "Respond in 500 words or less: What does life mean to you?"
This was so unusual that he strongly suspected it was his mother's doing. He had seen Amanda give similar assignments to children she tutored, and he knew that she had provided some input for his curriculum. A hint of resentment stirred. He was no longer a child and did not care to be treated as one.
Staring at the words, he briefly considered refusing the assignment, but then thought better of it. Perhaps, after all, it had been devised by a Seleyan Master to test his grasp of Vulcan philosophy.
Spock's head still ached from the morning's facilitation session, and tomorrow there would be yet another as T'Lar worked at removing the last vestiges of his katra from Leonard McCoy. While the words on the screen glared at him, his mind drifted to the good doctor who had suffered so patiently on his behalf.
What does life mean to you?
He thought of Jim Kirk risking his career to restore that very life, and losing his son in the process. Only today Spock had glimpsed his own daughter T'Beth at the foot of Mount Seleya where the Klingon Bird-of-Prey awaited its journey to Earth. She was in trouble again. Back in ShiKahr, she had overheard Spock arguing with Sarek about her behavior and had fled from the house not long after Spock left for Seleya.
Now his mother had come for her.
What does life mean to you?
If there were thoughts of a fair-haired woman, a California beach, and a kiss—he refused them.
But the problem on the screen would not go away.
After another moment of reflection he entered a single word and turned to find Amanda at his elbow. Her eyes settled on his printed response.
"Five hundred words or less," she said, tears welling. Clearly she had hoped for something more from him.
"Is not one word…also less?" he asked in his own defense. He had responded to the assignment appropriately, as any Vulcan might. Yet in doing so he had inadvertently hurt his human mother, as he had so many times in the past.
What did life mean to him?
"Existence," he had said, only briefly considering an additional word—painful—and rejecting it as too personally revealing in one who was expected to manage, redirect, and effectively eliminate pain from his life. Admitting to pain would be admitting to failure.
"Spock…" she said.
In his heart there was a sudden movement and he came very close to telling her that life was a daily struggle. But this, too, would only wound her. Bringing himself back under control, he took leave of his mother, saying, "I must go now to meditate."
And she did not try to stop him.
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