Heart Break

by

Pat Foley

Chapter 3

Sarek's tale

As devastating as the attack in the Terran Embassy had been, I recovered swiftly. Within a few moments, I was able to leave the Embassy under my own power. And no obvious ill effects, other than a slight headache from the rise in blood pressure, which my own physiological control quickly dealt with.

But to be so violently stricken obviously implied some serious condition, which required a Healer's investigation. I made my way to the Healer's Enclave, pondering what it could be.

For someone normally so confined to a desk, to a conference table, my general health has been good. I hike regularly on the Forge. And I pursue other, less traditional forms of exercise that stimulates the heart, in addition to other areas of the body. I considered myself reasonably fit.

In spite of my wife's occasional ribald comments to the contrary, my diet is also generally moderate. I eat very lightly at midday, often neglecting to do so at all, when work becomes pressing, as it frequently is.

Dealing with volatile beings in high profile negotiations can involve some considerable taxing of my control, and strain on the system, but so far I have always been equal to it.

Marriage to Amanda has added its own strains, for as a Vulcan I have had to impose an additional level of control in interacting with her. One cannot live with a human wife without touching her, but untempered handling can cause bruising to humans. A thoughtless grasp could break bones. Humanity is so fragile in comparison to Vulcan strength. And my wife's strength of will often belies the fact that she is a delicate creature by all Vulcan standards. In short, living with Amanda requires an extra exercise in control on my part, and continual vigilance. The few slips I have made in unguarded moments have taught me how necessary such control must be. Countering that, though, is the joy that she otherwise brings to me. In a life of duty and control, she is my one, and by Vulcan tradition, my only licensed indulgence, the one being to whom I can relax control – though that relaxation must also be strictly regulated. But she has served me well. Indeed, upon reflection, I believe that I could never have survived twenty years of Federation politics so well without her.

To that point, my existence would be far more peaceful in the absence of Federation striving and rancor. But, without the Federation, I would also have no Amanda. A tradeoff that so far, I have believed she has won. At least in my heart.

But as a result that heart has survived more strain, perhaps damaging strain, than those of other Vulcans. I had thought I had coped with it well. If my heart had often seemed to beat too rapidly in my chest, there had always been sufficient provocation for the strain. And it had always responded to my physiological controls to slow its unbridled race. The constant vigilance of the control under which I lived was sometimes wearying, but I also had other compensations. I had not thought there was much amiss.

Thus, I'd had no particular reason to visit the Healer's Enclave in many years.

If they were surprised to see me, their control was equal to it. I was attended to immediately and swiftly met with. But there, their control slipped. The neutral expression on the face of the first Healer as he examined me broke briefly into one of gravity. He summoned a second whose brow actually furrowed in concern. Among healers, that was as violent as a reaction as one could never wish to see, for it boded ill. When a third Healer was summoned, if I had hoped otherwise, I suspected then that the condition was quite serious. And when they spoke to me, they confirmed my surmise.

The icon in the Terran Embassy had indeed been prophetic. My heart was broken. A malfunction in a heart valve, to be specific, but broken, seriously damaged none the less. And the Healers were adamant about their recommendations for its mending.

"You must resign all your duties, Sarek. Immediately."

Perhaps this was to be expected, but still, the immediacy of it shocked me. "Surely there is some other redress for this condition."

"Of course. We will begin a program to address the situation. Biofeedback at first, supplemented with other healing techniques. If that does not serve, there are medications. And, as a last result, even surgery, should it become necessary."

"Surgery?" If I had not been apprised of the seriousness of the situation before, I was now. Surgery is rarely indicated for Vulcans, considered a barbarous technique of last resort.

"Naturally, such drastic measures can't be countenanced immediately. Fortunately, it should not come to that."

I struggled to come to grips with the situation. "There is an issue. In three weeks time, I am due to attend a most important Federation conference."

"That is quite impossible."

"It is quite imperative," I insisted. "My attendance has already been scheduled."

The healer looked excessively patient. Perhaps, even with Vulcans, he dealt with those unable to accept unwelcome news. At least, so his manner implied. "It will have to go on without you."

I tried to imagine how it could. I held or represented dozens of Federation votes, both within and without the Vulcan alliance. And there were others that would look to me to see how I would vote, and vote accordingly. There was no replacement that could accord the same weight at the conference table. There was no one of my staff who held the same level of trust, who could hold a volatile and often unruly coalition together. If I could not attend, there was a serious possibility that Corridan would be refused admission to the Federation. The repercussions on one world and one people would be great indeed.

And yet, my thoughts veered off into an undisciplined tangent. At the back of my mind, was the memory of Amanda, rearranging her schedule to play Ruth yet again, following me at the expense of her own career. Would she be pleased if it were not to take place? No, on further thought, the reason for it would outweigh any pleasure she might feel about missing the Corridan conference. She would, in fact, be quite distressed.

"I must go," I said. Or had I only said it in my mind?

For the healer, meanwhile, continued to speak of his plans. One phrase of his caught my attention, drawing me back from thoughts that were becoming increasingly labored. "To that avail, Sarek, you should call your heir home immediately."

I raised myself from my musings. Over the years, most of my associates had learned better than to speak to me of Spock. "My heir?"

The healer stared at me uncomprehendingly. "Your son. Spock," he added, when I failed to react. "Surely, Sarek, you understand how your circumstances have changed. It is time for your son to return home and assume his duties – your former duties."

Perhaps it was unVulcan of me, but I could not so swiftly exchange in my mind a lifetime of duties from present to merely former tasks, to be completed by others. It was not so easy, not in practice, or in mind. And as for calling Spock home, every fiber of my being rebelled and found voice. "That is quite impossible."

The healer's authority was so absolute over his patients, he persisted, even when others would never have challenged a statement of mine made so emphatically. "It is true this should be a temporary measure. The probability is that we will get your condition stabilized and you will eventually resume most, if not all, your former activities. But for the present, you must completely rest, Sarek. You must avoid all strain. The only work you can undertake is that with the healers in regaining your health."

For a moment, I stared at the healer, wondering how I was to explain that the very prospect of dealing with my wayward son was what had contributed, at least in part, to this present attack. That dealing with Spock entailed considerable strain even in the most innocuous of social situations. That, as Amanda would say, we 'walked on eggs' around each other, neither striving to engage the other in a debate that had promised no solution and that only increased the rift between us. In no way could I order my son home to Vulcan to take up my clan duties. The only other major illness of my life had been due to the rift caused by his very refusal to attend them. But how to explain this? The rift between myself and Spock was not well publicized. Only T'Pau knew the extent of it.

"Sarek." The healer had been waiting patiently for me to respond. "Do you understand? You must call your son home. Now. You have no choice."

No choice. The words echoed in my mind as I struggled with my thoughts. Trying to form words to explain. Even for a Vulcan, sometimes events become too much to take in. What kept intruding on my logical thought processes was the irony of the situation. No choice. I had always had choices, a choice, my choice. It was others who had lacked choice.

I thought of Amanda, who had at times over the years rebelled, at least in thought, at the loss of choice in accepting a Vulcan bonding. Who even now sometimes bridled if I thoughtlessly used the emphatic mode in addressing her, giving her a tacit, or less than tacit, order. I thought of Spock, so determined to be free to choose that he sacrificed his family place to obtain it. I was a Vulcan male, head of a household, leader of a clan. Loss of other's choices necessarily surrounded me, as tradition and custom had destined my rule. But my own choices had never been constricted. My thoughts whirled even contemplating that.

Constricted. Like the fist suddenly surrounding my heart, increasing the pounding in my chest. Causing a tightness in my lungs, preventing me from drawing a full breath. And now, I realized why my thoughts were so disordered, so undisciplined. So lightheaded, as Amanda would characterize it. I truly was not well.

No choice, I thought. Even Amanda would find it ironic. And then, I thought, in a last undisciplined fancy, she must never know.

The vise closed around my chest again, drawing the blackness down, preventing word, breath, thought. Had I been conscious, I would have seen the Healers, for all their vaunted control, truly lose countenance. But I was lost myself in a green mist, shading to black. A crushing pain brought me to my knees, well below their stricken gazes. This time, a groan broke my once vaunted control.

I had my second attack.

To be continued…