Spock drew himself into a sitting position in the bed. There was a slight discomfort, as always, in the roughness
of the manufactured sheets against his skin, and he shifted slightly, pushing the crumpled blankets to the side.
Beneath his feet the floor trembled with the power of the ship's engines, the walls and the ceiling and the
embodiment of the vessel seeming to breathe in and out with a vast, unbridled power. For a brief moment he
caught a wisp of feeling that the ship was alive and swelling and moving beneath him as a being, not just a collection
of parts. And for that brief moment his mind went to Scotty, and the man's fervent passion for the working,
breathing being that led them through the depths of space. But the thought was locked away in an instant by
his own precise, calculating mind – it was almost a trap, set to capture any fleeting emotion and, after categorizing
it as illogical and therefore irrelevant, dispose of it. Logic governed all that was important, he chastised himself.
There was nothing else but that which could be reasoned and explained – and even the human unpredictability
of emotion had its root in logic and science, for in their most rudimentary form, were nothing more than very complex
chemical reactions all synchronized for the survival of the organism. This knowledge, Spock had taught himself at a
very young age, was at the root of all existence and should be that which kept his movements precise and his thoughts
orderly and practical. In that way, he could not do wrong. But he had cautioned himself of this many times in his
life, and the words were well worn into his consciousness. To revert to his old lecture was a dull comfort, and the
logic flowed into his mind, and it became a computer, calculating equations and setting up constants and variables
and allowing the scientific process of proofs and statements and practicality sooth his spinning mind. He consciously
slowed his thought process, cautioned his mind from moving with such rapidity, and focused on calming himself.
He could feel the quiet beginning of a meditation poised like darkened ink blots at the far edges of his mind, and he
allowed the urge to remain there, though he made to move to access the reserve.
* * *
The lights on the ship were beginning to grow dim as the circuits rerouted the power for the night, and he sensed
that the ship was sleeping. Logically, by sleeping, he meant that the ship's computers and mechanical parts had
reverted into a more energy efficient mode since they would not be used until morning. But he could not erase the
feeling that his keen mind had formed into word only moments before, though it was no longer important. It lingered,
like an irritant insect, too, at the edge of his consciousness, one with him as he breathed the recycled air felt the deep
vibrations in the walls.
* * *
Spock lay down again, drawing the thin blankets over himself. He now had nowhere to look but the ceiling, and finding
the air duct directly above unpleasant to look at, closed his eyes. Darkness washed over him, immediately bringing a coolness
to his eyes and his mind. Dreams began to whisper to him, creeping towards him as sleep threatened to sweep down and
claim the weary Vulcan. Spock resisted gently, and instead quieted his mind, allowing a meditation trance to flood his consciousness.
He lay in the odd, memory-like place, seeing a muddled array of colors and feeling nothing, and then, as it was logical to do so,
slipped into a deep sleep.