Chapter 27
Dying to Live
Alpha Centauri Spaceport was usually a very busy place. It was the space gateway for the entire system, and the spaceship traffic had always been high. Millions of people came and went through the spaceport's various facilities every day, making a chance of meeting an acquaintance without an arrangement statistically impossible.
Yet Spock was feeling a familiar presence.
He was standing with Sudak at a huge plexiglass window while they waited for the boarding to their shuttle to start. The elder Vulcan gazed impassively at the spacefield, apparently taking observations of different spaceships' design. Spock's eyes were on the crowd.
He felt a presence.
Involuntarily, his heart had picked up the pace, and he had to control his respiration. This could not be. This could not be happening. Even considering the fact that there was perhaps no greater lie than statistics, his telepathy simply didn't work that way. He had to be in physical contact with a person to feel them that acutely.
But to deny the sensation was also illogical. He was a Vulcan. He was incapable of hallucinating.
The presence was growing steadier within his mind, making him wince slightly. There could be no doubt now. He had spent too much time in the mind of that human not to recognize it. In a way, he had known this mind better than his own. Definitely better than the one to whom it belonged did. There could be no mistake.
He felt a wave of dizziness overcoming him; the sound of voices had melted into a blur. Spock closed his eyes and concentrated on his feelings, trying to determine direction. Blindly, he reached out and touched Sudak's arm, drawing his attention. He didn't see, but felt the other's carefully tuned down astonishment.
"Heinrich Kramer is here," Spock said softly, knowing he had his companion's full attention. "In the crowd. He is armed."
A sensation of definite alarm from Sudak.
"We must notify the authorities," he began to pull away.
Spock's grasp on his arm tightened, as the younger Vulcan opened his eyes to look at him strictly.
"We are the authorities."
"You are no longer a Starfleet officer, Spock."
"No. But you are still a Federal Commissioner."
It was obvious Sudak was not pleased with the reminder.
"Very well," he said, freeing himself from Spock's hold determinedly. "I shall notify Security and—"
"No," Spock cut him off, his focus turned inward, as if he was listening to a transmission coming from within his own chest. "He is not stable. People will be hurt. He would kill."
"Spock, we are not—"
"He's moving," Spock snapped flatly. "We must go."
And without waiting for an acknowledgement, he started forward, slicing the crowd like a knife. He felt vaguely Sudak's presence behind him, but all his senses were directed onward, following the invisible, but unbreakable link. They crossed the crowded hall of the fourteenth level and walked out into the transition area. Spock walked on confidently, with his eyes almost shut, resembling a torpedo locked on target. It wasn't exactly clear how while maintaining this speed—they were close to running—he didn't bump into anyone or anything. It was almost as if someone was clearing his way for him.
Sudak, who naturally couldn't see Kramer, managed to turn around on that almost run to try and locate some Security personnel, but none came in sight. This wasn't surprising. Alpha Centauri was as close to the heart of the Federation as possible; crime here was almost unimaginable. It was no wonder that the facilities were not overcrowded with Security guards.
They slipped into one of the corridors leading towards the spacefield. It was much darker here, and there was hardly anyone inside. Spock's pace quickened even more. There was some inexplicable sense of urgency growing within him. He was led entirely by his inner senses.
A turn. Another turn. A gangway. Climb up. Another corridor. Empty. Another one.
Sudak was saying something, but Spock couldn't hear him. He almost felt like he was a weight on a rubber-band, contracting to return to its point of origin. In the end, he ran. He knew Sudak would not leave him. Shari were not called the Guardians of Vulcan for no reason. Primarily, they were the guardians of the Vulcan way. But there was no possibility that a Shari would leave any member of the Twelve Families alone in danger. The ancient ways were too strong to allow for that.
Suddenly, it was all gone. The pull was lifted, the second sight removed. Spock looked around, blinking, as if coming out of a compelling dream.
Or, a nightmare.
They found themselves in a small cargo bay, seemingly unoccupied. Judging by the layer of dust on the containers, no one had been here for quite some time. Yet now they were definitely not alone.
"I'm glad you could make it, Spock," a familiar voice sounded somewhere ahead. "I wasn't sure if I could renew my hold on you."
"Kramer," Sudak breathed out, as the shadow formed some five meters in front of them.
"I see you brought a friend," Kramer noted. "How thoughtful of you, demon."
"I'm calling Security," Sudak made a decisive step towards the doors.
"Uh-uh-uh," Kramer forestalled him, drawing a hand disruptor out of his clothing. "Nobody's going anywhere."
"How did you find me?" Spock asked with calm determination. There was nothing he could do at the moment.
Kramer laughed softly.
"Did you really think that I would let you go?" he clipped his tongue reprovingly. "I am not in the habit of leaving the seeds of evil not eradicated."
"You put a mental marker on me," Spock realized, probing the imperfection within his mind which he hadn't noticed before. "I knew not."
"Of course you didn't, you were unconscious most of the time," Kramer looked at him almost pityingly. "Once activated, it brought you to me. To meet your destiny."
Spock was watching him coolly. In his report, he had stated that Kramer's Esper abilities superseded the highest known human rating by at least ten points. The assessment seemed shocking at the time. Now, Spock was beginning to wonder if he hadn't underestimated them by another ten points. It was clear that whatever enhancements Remans had put into him, none had gone to waste.
"My destiny?"
"You betrayed the human who put his trust in you," Kramer's voice became cutting, edgy. "I saw the connection within his mind—and yours. But you left him. And with him—the only hope you had for my forgiveness."
"Who are you to judge him?" Sudak stepped forward suddenly. "You know nothing of the way of our people. You are ignorant, like the rest of—"
"Silence!" Kramer roared, his hand shooting towards the elder Vulcan.
Sudak clutched his throat reflexively, gasping for air. Kramer clenched his palm into a fist and the Vulcan fell down to his knees, suffocating.
"Release him," Spock said urgently. "You wished to punish me, not him."
"Why should I spare the life of another demon?" Kramer intoned, watching Sudak with obvious pleasure. "But you are right, the time is precious."
Those were the last coherent words Spock had heard.
Kramer was moving toward him, and before the human, his hatred strode. Spock didn't bother to raise his shields. They were no match for what was thrown at him. The chaotic sphere of wild emotions, each wave bringing more disorder and turmoil. He could hear vaguely Sudak moaning at his feet, hit by the shockwaves.
Hatred, anger, jealousy, malice washed over him, making him tremble. They penetrated his mind, but they didn't linger on there. Were all the years of his exposure to human and alien emotions to blame? Or was it some core basic instinct of the Vulcan race, engraved deep within his being? Spock didn't know, but whatever it was it helped him find the only possible solution.
With enormous effort, he ceased all resistance, opening himself completely instead. He turned himself into a conduit. Accepting everything and holding at nothing. He could sense Kramer's rage over the ineffectiveness of his attack, could feel him concentrating harder, giving himself fully to the task. The human never noticed another figure rising behind him, reaching for his neck...
Snapping it.
Three bodies slumped hard onto the cold floor. One dead, one dying and one struggling for his life.
How long a time had passed before Spock knew his bearings again, he couldn't tell. He straightened up with difficulty and looked around, as if after a year-long sleep.
Kramer's body was long cold and stiff. Spock couldn't help the tiny sigh of relief escaping him. It was really over now. And he was still sane.
Then he noticed Sudak. The Shari was half-lying, leaning against the bulkhead. His breathing was hard and ragged, his eyes half-closed, lips moving slightly.
His whole body aching mercilessly, Spock made himself rise and walk over to kneel at Sudak's side. Apparently sensing his presence, the elder Vulcan turned to him and focused with difficulty.
"Spock."
"I will summon help," Spock said quickly, making a move to rise, wishing he still had his communicator.
Sudak's hand on his forearm stopped him.
"No need. You know I have minutes to live. It would be illogical."
Reluctantly, Spock nodded. He sensed the life energy slipping away from his companion and instinctively he knew that nothing could be done. Sudak was not dying from physical injury. The damage to his body could have been repaired. But his mind was beyond salvation.
"Spock," Sudak's breath caught again, as he struggled to get the words out.
"Do not speak," Spock told him. "It will make your condition worse."
"It is of no consequence," the voice was ragged, but the gaze locked on Spock's face was steady. "You must know, Spock. I was wrong about you."
"Wrong how?"
"Your control is better than I thought. Perhaps than you thought, too. In fact, your control is better than mine. That is why he," his chin pointed towards Kramer, "could not kill you."
"It is of no importance," Spock replied tightly.
"On the contrary, it is. I believed you forced yourself on the human. I was in error. What you had was not one-sided. Your human might not have understood, but he had wished it. You both had. All was as it should be. It was not my place to interfere. Spock," he propped himself up with difficulty and looked the younger Vulcan in the eye intently. "It is not too late to go back. Shari Tcha'kla will understand. It is not too late."
His body went suddenly very tense, as if caught by a seizure, and then he fell back heavily and moved no more. His death stabbed Spock like a dagger, making him jerk back under a shockwave. He leaned on the bulkhead, enervated, and closed his eyes.
He had known it.
The moment he had first realized what was happening between him and Jim made him feel the deepest fear he had ever experienced. Fear that he was the one responsible for it. That because of him, Jim became a subject to mortal peril. So strong was that fear, that it had effectively prevented him from analyzing the situation. He had called Jim his shield-brother, yet he had forgotten the simplest fact about this form of relationship.
One does not become t'hy'la unwillingly.
Ever.
Such was not the nature of this kind of bond. Mutual consent was not obligatory for a number of other connections, for a matrimonial bond, for instance. But for this one, it was. More than consent, in fact. Both parties must not only be willing, but active participants. The bond existed between him and Jim. If he removed his blocks around it, he would feel it even now. The bond existed.
Oh, Jim...
Spock pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose determinedly, as if trying to extinguish the pain.
What have I done to you, t'hy'la? To both of us?
He had known. Of course, he had known. Not consciously, but on some deep level he had known it all along. From the moment he had asked, 'Why are you here?' and Jim answered, 'Because you need me,' he had known. It was true, he needed Jim. But he didn't summon him. Jim came on his own will. He had a choice and he made one. Freely. Spock had had nothing to do with his decision.
It is not too late to go back.
Spock opened his eyes and stared in front of him at the opposite bulkhead.
Sudak had obviously tried to rectify some of the supposed damage he had done. But he did not understand. Or perhaps he had underestimated Spock again. He thought he was the cause of the rift. In truth, the Shari was merely a measuring indicator in a chemical reaction. Nothing more. Spock's decision to leave was not induced by anyone. He had arrived to it independently and he had even made Jim see his point.
And Jim let him go.
And that perhaps was the most responsible action either of them had taken since a very long time.
When you have no control, the least you can do is acknowledge it.
That was one of the first lessons that Sarek had taught him, but it was only now that Spock came to realize in full what it meant. Many years ago, when the conversation had taken place, he had only looked at his father in confusion. To his surprise, Sarek presented him with a book instead of answering. What was even more intriguing, the book was written by a human author, the great poet of old Earth, William Shakespeare.
Many years later, Spock had acquired a great respect for his works, but the first one he had read had remained as much a puzzle for him, as it had been when he was seven.
'This story is completely illogical,' he declared, laying the book on the kitchen table.
Amanda looked at the cover and then glanced at Sarek questionably.
'Whatever gave you the idea that Spock is old enough to read 'Romeo and Juliet'?'
Sarek was watching Spock intently.
'I shall be the judge of the rate his education should progress, my wife. Spock. Why do you think the story is illogical?'
'There is no logic in killing oneself. Both those humans acted irrationally. They committed suicide when they had a number of other options.'
'Why do you think they killed themselves?'
Spock took a moment to consider this, but was forced to shake his head.
'I did not understand this.'
Sarek nodded slowly, as if expecting this answer, and turned to Amanda.
'Perhaps your mother could explain it better.'
Amanda looked pensive for a moment.
'Well... They loved each other. I know, I know, love is illogical, but they were humans, not Vulcans. They loved each other so much that they could not bear a thought of living in the world when the other one had died.'
'But,' Spock couldn't grasp it, 'had they waited, each of them, for just a little longer, they would have known that their lover lived. There would have been no need to die. Killing oneself is not difficult at any time. To wait would have been only reasonable.'
'Yes, but you see, they couldn't wait. Their feelings were too strong, they overwhelmed them,' she glanced at Sarek again, realizing the point he was trying to make. She looked back at her confused son. 'Humans can control their emotions, too, Spock. But Romeo and Juliet were very young. They had no experience that could have helped them deal with emotions of that magnitude. Their feelings were controlling them, not the other way around. You know,' she sighed and shook her head with a soft smile, 'I've always wondered what would have happened if their families had succeeded in separating them, and they had met again later in their lives.'
The discussion of emotions was alien to him and distinctly uncomfortable, but Spock struggled to get his mother's meaning.
'They would not be in love anymore?'
'Oh, no, I think they would have been. Love is a bit like wine, Spock, it gets more mature with time,' she shot a quick look at Sarek and smiled. 'More potent. But, with age, there also comes experience and the ability to recognize that which drives you.'
'You control it better?'
'Not necessarily,' she laughed. 'But at least you do know what is happening. You are cognizant of your own actions. And you have the power to either seize control over them or let go.'
Spock frowned, considering this.
'Letting go appears to be excessively dangerous.'
'Indeed,' Amanda laughed again. 'But sometimes it's worth it.'
'And sometimes it kills,' Sarek said. 'There will be many situations in your life over which you will have no control, Spock. Be careful to recognize them. Control, once you master it, gives one a semblance of being safe. That is an aberration. It is essential not to delude yourself. If you cannot control your reactions, admit it. It is the first step in regaining control.'
'Do not be concerned, Father,' Spock pronounced, tilting his chin up determinedly. 'Once I master the discipline of control, I shall never lose it.'
His parents exchanged a glance over his head.
'That,' Sarek said gravely while Amanda smiled, 'is something I have never accomplished.'
Indeed, Spock reflected with a twinge of irony. The arrogance of youth.
He could go back. The idea was unmercifully tempting. To talk to Jim again, to explain, to apologize. To ask forgiveness for all the errors he had made, for all the pain he had caused.
But where would that leave them?
In chaos, he answered honestly. In a maelstrom of emotions, too strong for either of them, or both of them together for that matter, to master. Spock did not believe in any kind of deity, but the universe itself had been kind to him, it would seem. It gave him the chance to rectify the mistake they had made by letting Kramer go.
The error had been corrected, but Sudak had to die for it.
An innocent had died because of them.
If he went back, this would sooner or later happen again. Rather sooner, given their occupation. For how long would they be able to cope with guilt? It would tear them apart eventually, and considering the scale of their involvement, they were unlikely to preserve their sanity were this to happen.
All of a sudden, Gol seemed to receive a whole new meaning.
The monastery had its reputation for a reason. Spock would be able to achieve a new level of discipline and order there. And with him gone, Jim would bounce back after a while. He would be in pain for some time, though. Maybe even for a long time, but eventually he would get over it. Without Spock, he would be able to live a long and eventful life. He would remain a highly efficient officer. He would find his happiness with someone else one day. And after completing the Kolinahr, Spock would regain full control over his life, too.
It appeared to be a reasonable, logical and the only possible solution.
And if his vision was blackened dead at the thought of never seeing Jim again, it was of no consequence.
Of no consequence at all.
--
Jim Kirk walked out of the Starfleet Headquarters main building into the glorious sunny day. The breeze from the bay was a little fresh, but Kirk had found it pleasing. After spending the better part of his morning in some closed up dark conference rooms, the change was most welcome.
He didn't have any particular destination. All he wanted was to place some distance between himself and the building he had just left. He needed to clear his head a little.
These two weeks on Earth had passed in a strange blur. He could give a detailed description of his activities, but at the same time he felt as if it was someone else taking part in them, not him. He was merely an observer. But now it seemed like a decision was being pressed upon him, making him come out of his oblivion.
For about four weeks now, he had lived in a state of numb torpor. Nothing could penetrate this veil thrown over his senses. Beneath it, he was reverting more and more into his inner self, seeking shelter from the outside world.
Events registered, but didn't sink in, no matter how closely they concerned him.
Two days ago, the Enterprise was officially declared an unassigned vessel. Kirk had completed all paperwork diligently, stepping down as her captain. But he wasn't there when she was hauled to the orbital spacedocks. Scotty had been there, Kirk knew it. Some of the others, too. Uhura. Sulu.
He didn't go.
He knew they had all thought that it would have been too painful for him to say goodbye to his ship, but the truth was he didn't care and didn't want anyone to realize that. They would have been offended in their best feelings, and he preferred to skip the event all together.
He was a little surprised at himself. After all, he had considered his ship to be an essential part of him. He had always believed that when this moment would come, he would be crushed, devastated by the loss of it. But all he felt was a pang of nostalgia, which didn't last very long.
He felt numb.
Once, when he was a very young and a very promising Ensign, his ship was caught in the war zone. They were forced to abandon ship, and landed on a moon, which only had one small and understaffed defense installation. The Klingons had tried to seize it, and a ruthless battle had ensued. His squad leader had been killed when the victory had been nearly at hand. There was only one other survivor in the squad, another Ensign. The Lieutenant's death had sent him into overload. Kirk had already shot the Klingon who had killed her, but it didn't stop the Ensign from attacking him.
Attacking the body.
He beat the immobile form mercilessly, then pulled out his knife and began to stab it. By the time Kirk and another Lieutenant got to him, the body was mutilated. Vividly, Kirk remembered looking in the dead face. It wore a happy sneer of a berserker killed on his way to Valhalla—the same expression it had assumed at the moment of death. The human who had lost his head could have done anything at all with his fallen enemy, but he couldn't hurt him.
Beyond death, there was no pain.
There were mornings when Kirk had asked himself if he had become that Klingon. Things that were happening to him now were leaving deep wounds and should have sent him into endless agony. Instead, he felt nothing.
It was unbearably ironic at times.
When Spock had handed him his resignation, Kirk couldn't shut up. He couldn't shut up to save his life. When Bones came to him several days later in pretty much the same manner, he couldn't utter a word. He stared in his old friend's face and prayed for the words to come, but they didn't. He could tell McCoy was expecting him to say something, maybe even do something.
He couldn't.
It was almost as if he were split in two persons again. One was screaming desperately that he was losing his friend, perhaps the only real friend he had left. The other one could only say, 'I know,' and do nothing. The overwhelming guilt he had felt after McCoy was gone was the last real feeling that had touched him. Ever since, he felt nothing more than a dead corpse would.
He came to a stop at the railing, watching seagulls up in the sky.
It wasn't until they had offered him the command of another starship that he realized he had been wrong. He had never been this wrong about anything in his life, as he was about that one most important thing.
He went aboard—why wouldn't he? She was a fine ship, and he was a born captain. Commanding a starship used to be his first best destiny.
The realization caught up with him when he stepped on the Bridge. As his gaze slid over various stations, manned by unnamed, unfamiliar people, he experienced a sudden stroke of claustrophobia. He needed to get out of there and he needed to do it fast. He remembered the surprised and alarmed look on the face of the First Officer, who had been conducting the tour. He couldn't recall what kind of excuse he had thrown at the man before virtually warping out of there.
He didn't want another starship.
Not if it wasn't his own. Not if he couldn't have his crew back. Not if he couldn't have that one man at his side who truly belonged there.
This was the kind of totally unprofessional attitude which he had never expected himself to be capable of. It also was the only undeniable truth. It didn't matter if he could get the best ship in the fleet under his command. It didn't matter if he were made fleet captain or the supreme ruler of the universe.
He would still be alone.
How could he have been so stupid? He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting an upsurge of nausea.
My God, Spock, what have I done? To you, to us? How could I have been so blind?
Indeed, whom gods wish to destroy, they first make insane.
What else but insanity could explain what he had said to Spock during their last conversation? He had been so completely blindfolded, he hadn't even realized it was the very last one. The shallow words he had summoned, the pathetic gestures...
The loss of control.
This was something that had never happened to him to this extent in his entire life, and even that failed to make him see the truth. Blind, blind indeed, three times more blind than a real blind man.
Spock was right to walk away on him. Spock, who had offered him, quite bluntly, his life on a platter. Spock, who had never once recoiled from him, no matter how hard slapped. Spock, whose unwavering loyalty and all-encompassing forgiveness could only have one explanation, one ground, one reason.
Spock deserved better.
Letting him go was perhaps the only thing Kirk had ever done right with him. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless, that he was finally able to summon enough responsibility and integrity to discharge his selfish impulses and let Spock go. That was the only true gift he had ever given his friend.
He was not going to take it back, no matter how hollow his life would be without Spock.
He now had a choice to make. If he refused the command of another starship now, he would never get another chance. Nogura was dying to bind him to a desk. He had only offered Kirk another command because he had no choice. If Kirk didn't take it, if he accepted promotion instead, he would never set foot aboard a starship as captain again.
Kirk frowned, watching the waves.
It seemed unimaginable now, but there might come a time in the future when he would wish to relive the joy of commanding a mission. If that time would ever come, he would regret this day and his decision. But he could not envision this regret to be anything as devastating as what he felt when he had walked into that Bridge and no one he knew had been with him.
He felt like he had betrayed them all in a way. Those last two weeks of the mission, he carried out his duties, he said the right words and took correct actions. God help him, he even laughed and made jokes. But he wasn't even there when he did it. He wasn't really there for any of them. He didn't think he could be anymore.
He must refuse another command now. The crew, any crew, needed their captain to be their leader, strong, confident, with as fine a measure of self-integrity as one could get. He was no longer the embodiment of these qualities. There were nights when he wasn't sure he would live to see the dawn.
There were nights when he wished he wouldn't.
His experience told him he would live. Even now, he could maintain his image most of the time in front of the others. He would have to learn to do it full time, that was all. The day would come when this mask would become an integrated part of him and would require no additional effort to project. Until that day, he would simply have to pull through.
Reluctantly, as if the wind was urging him on, he resumed his slow walk.
Someday, he would find Bones and beg for his forgiveness. Someday, he would become interested in strategic operations once again. Someday, he would be able to take care of the people who trusted him with their lives.
Someday, he would stop falling to pieces every time someone would say Spock's name.
That last part was the key. His mind believed in this, his heart didn't. He would have to work on his balance somehow. According to Spock, mind should prevail over heart at all times. Spock's mind did win in the end... after letting his heart show.
It wasn't fair, Kirk thought countless times. It wasn't fair. It wasn't very Vulcan.
But it was all Spock.
Kirk shook his head, trying to rid his mind of thought. No Spock, no Bones, no Enterprise. This was the life he had made for himself, with his own hands. Now, he had to live it. There was one redeeming quality to it, after all.
He had nothing left to lose.
He was now invincible.
And laughing softly in celebration, James Kirk had started his long lonely way down the street.
