… exf4
Gambit accepted.
Thesis.
His father had taken two point two additional hours at the Education Institute, smoothing over Spock's violent outburst in the professional, polite and implacable way he might have tackled a diplomatic incident with a Klingon scimitar pressed to his jugular.
Diplomacy among Vulcans was a fascinating thing to behold (in other circumstances than one's own personal disgrace): a courtly, ritualistic dance of circumlocutions, at once dissembling, courteously neutral and cuttingly direct. The gist was plain: the half-breed would not be tolerated but for his respected position in the First House of Surak and any further outbursts would be the end of him. Sarek was no less plain: this never happened; if it is brought up at any time, in my son's presence or to his discredit, the slightly misdirected wrath of T'Pau would be felt on behalf of her House, if not her grandson. Sarek won.
Spock sat in the corridor for those two point two hours. It felt appropriately liminal – a stasis position until his fate was negotiated, and he had to clamp down hard on the urge to swing his legs or tap out the rhythm of his annoyance on the sleek Vish'aii wood of the bench, carved with its ancient runes of prosperity.
He was not afraid of the outcome of the conversation. His trust in his father's protection and authority were absolute, still the unwavering certainty of childhood that a father was a bulwark against anything and everything. Just not, he thought bitterly, against himself.
His father was truly Vulcan, face as mobile and expressive as an extrusive igneous shelf. Did Spock imagine the crushing look of disappointment in his eyes when he regarded him? Was it his own half-human frailties he was projecting onto the blank canvas of Sarek's face? His mind was reeling with half-felt, aborted emotions, ricocheting violently within him like loose firecrckers.
I married your mother because it was logical.
The words tormented him on the hover-ride back to their suite, his father's mute and rigid presence making itself felt beside him with the silent, crushing force of a singularity.
Spock felt like he was churning inside, simmering, bubbling and bursting and ready to brim over. These feelings –something as ephemeral and indistinct as a state of mind, so easy to ignore, shield, supress – was now material, physical, rooted deep within him and making him vibrate with the energy of it.
He clenched his jaw imperceptibly.
Stonn's obnoxious little cousin and his friends. The irritation, the twinge of anxiety that made his shields vulnerable to their physical contact: the tendrils of disgust, contempt, the unmistakeable tinge of envy that had crept in through that contact. And then the roar, the rush of adrenalin and primal protective response of his mother, the overwhelming visceral rage that flooded his vision and made him gasp for air, the pounding of blood in his temples. So sudden, so new, so overwhelming, so primal. It had ripped through his shields like wet paper, welling over the dam and flooding his senses. Even now, it lingered like a green haze in his mind. His pulse, swift and fluttering like a hummingbird's wing, throbbed unpleasantly in his split lip. He could have killed him, maybe would have done if strong, adult, shielded hands had not pulled him away. He was terrified of himself, his delicate hands, bruised jade knuckles, looked alien to him. He could have committed one of the greatest crimes it was possible to commit in a moment of madness.
What was this?
They clearly felt emotion too. Spock had felt the emotions when Sirkar had pushed him. Vulcans were not immune: fear, hatred, animalistic lusts and impulses to violence, this crippling loneliness. It was not unique to his human legacy. But then, he knew that. The unspeakable time, the Plak Tow. If it was anything like his experience today, limbs quivering with it, pulse hammering, then Blood Fever was an accurate description.
Vulcans were trained, almost from birth, to control, suppress, shield, compartmentalise. The emotions, deep, consuming, were isolated, chained and buried. The surface was a pool, clear shallows of limpid thought where logic could prosper. Humans, he understood, had no such ability to regulate their feelings. Mental discipline for their species was difficult if not impossible to achieve. Meditation, study, choice of lifestyle could allow Humans a clarity of thought and purpose equal to that of a young Vulcan – in their conscious mind at least. But this took years of dedication to achieve and was consequently rare: nigh on impossible to achieve in the ordinary course of a life rich with experiences and novelties and the constant siege of others seeking to make emotional ties. For it to permeate into the unconscious mind was impossible. They dreamed, after all.
Since Humans could not regulate and segregate their feelings, they all ran loose in their conscious and unconscious minds like inks in a solution, merging and diluting, filling the clear spaces with streaks and smudges and blurs of colour. The human mind was a kaleidoscope of refracting thoughts and feelings. But because they were so unregulated they diluted one another, dissipated, bled out through every gesture, every expression, every word. Each touch conveyed a message that the recipient could only feel an echo of, that fled vainly to vanish in the air. To touch a Vulcan was to share the feelings with all their true potency, swarming over the contact point in a wild rush, jostling in to inundate the calm oasis of a Vulcan's mind, contaminating and polluting like black oil. It was overwhelming. It was to be avoided by all means.
But for all their vibrancy, their flashes and cloying intimacy, Human emotions, with their myriad outlets and siphons, were like tendrils of smoke compared to the wild, intense, imprisoned passions of Vulcans, whose feelings festered and gathered and clamoured against the shields that were constantly strengthened, shored and re-built to keep them at bay. Human emotions flitted and frittered away, ever replacing and ever shiftless.
Spock, as the son of an ambassador and the son of a Human, had always been encouraged to study and seek an understanding of other worlds and customs. His enthusiasm and single-mindedness in this pursuit had not been anticipated. Fortunately, obsession was not a word that existed in Vulcan. He had read widely in the literature and language of the majority of Federation home worlds and even what little he could locate of Klingon and Romulan tracts: scripture, laws, combat manuals, scholarly treatises, children's tales. Each scrap a clue, a puzzle piece of an unknown universe. Terran literature, his earliest interest, spoke often of emotion. It focused on character, on psychology, seeking to describe for others feelings that they must try to identify from within themselves and recognise in another.
Spock had found himself at a loss when his mother introduced him to various ancient texts that had garnered the title of Classics: Gone with the Wind, Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, Of Human Bondage, Therese Raquin. These books exemplified an observable social phenomenon that had been dubbed by popular psychology a 'love-hate relationship'. These two, supposedly most powerful and utterly conflicting emotions in the sentimental spectrum, become some inextricably bound together as to be almost indistinguishable. Either felt in rapid succession as two connecting points on a wheel, or, even more incomprehensibly, simultaneously and indelibly as one inherently conflicted sensation. To a Vulcan this was simply a concept too alien to translate and Spock had looked at the conundrum from all angles, able to rationalise it from what brief glimpses he had of his mother's emotional landscape, but utterly unable to understand or recognise it.
And yet, today, in that sudden catastrophic collapse of his trusted self-control, in that ensuing maelstrom of feelings, Spock finally understood. And it was terrifying.
These feelings were dangerous, frightening, rampant in his system like a toxin. His lack of control of was lamentable. His willingness to capitulate to these impassioned forces was a flaw that could undermine and crack open even his most carefully constructed shields. This was his Human legacy, his human weakness.
As he entered the high, vaulted atrium of their home, sandstone glowing ruddy in the evening light and Delta Vega's cold blankness cutting a white slither in the sky over the balcony rail, his father's tall, solemn step beside him, Spock felt suddenly and utterly alone.
Humans were doomed to being alone. No matter how much they tried to reach out, to share, connect themselves through webs of empathy, they could not. They were trapped in their own heads, like a wanderer lost on the fire-plains – an endless landscape to explore utterly alone.
But Vulcans had a gift, a way to forge a connection as beautiful and bright as two minds sinking together like falling stars. Something precious and fragile, the ghosting touch of two souls. But culture dictated that that was all it would ever be: privacy was fiercely protected and even a bond – that eternal meeting of minds – was as logical, calm and shielded as the rest. It was a traditional link to one's clan, it was a way to ensure the Blood Fever did not seek to destroy one's chosen bondmates in its violent madness. It could not destroy a part of Self, when all the shields came down.
Spock's parental bonds were a case in point: his father's was slender, utilitarian, strong and silent. His mother's was a thrumming, living coil, spilling over and leaking warm pulses of love and support and fond exasperation, and sometimes hurt or concern, that she did not even know she was sharing. To shield this off was the first thing he was ever taught. But every so often he would peel back a corner of his mind and just selfishly bask in the blissful security of his mother's all too human love for her son. It was his most precious possession.
He had not done so today. He had kept their bond carefully wrapped away from the swirl of his anger, protecting it, her, from himself. She was psi-null, defenceless against him if he let himself loose.
But then, as he stood in front of her, every inch the naughty schoolboy who hadn't been on the verge of beating another student to death, his mother just smiled in sympathy, abandoned all propriety, and pulled him into a rare and tight embrace. And it was as though her arms were physically shielding him for a moment from the face of his father's disapproval and all he could feel was that familiar tide of warmth and love and pride and concern seeping through her arms and into his mind, blending with all the rage and the violence and enveloping it. The tension, the fury, evaporated in the halo of his mother's bright concern like asteroids in a nova.
His eyes fluttered closed in ecstasy and a stray thought idly wondered if Sarek had ever allowed himself to feel his wife like this, to share something so wonderous.
But the touch was brief, almost momentary, and she was standing back under Sarek's brooding scrutiny, hands falling back to her sides, leaving him giddy and bereft. Spock greedily gathered those last wan strands and slammed a shield around them.
His father was watching them, inscrutable. He spoke quietly and firmly. "Spock, you must meditate. Clear your thoughts and rebuild your shields as you have been taught. You will attend the Institute again in the morning and further your studies." It was not a request.
Spock withdrew into his chamber, polished granite gleaming dully under the light-orbs. He removed his dark unyielding robes with its high, severe collar and slipped into a cream mandarin tunic and loose trousers that had been a gift from his mother on his last name day. The fabric rustled like the susurration of dry leaves as he settled on the meditation mat, looking at his split knuckles with something akin to wonder.
For twenty-three minutes he sat, regulating his breathing and trying to herd his skittish thoughts back into some semblance of order. The negative feelings of the day were still there, tugging at the periphery of his consciousness but the wash of contentment from his mother had settled in the forefront like a great well of brightness. The meditative state just would not come with it there, but Spock could not bring himself – not, just yet – to push that wonderful feeling away and baton it down. Maybe it would be the last time he would ever feel so cherished, so comforted, so blissfully loved.
With a barely audible exhalation, he stood and moved to the chess board, vines of mother of pearl in the dark mahogany, gemstones neatly arrayed.
Click, a pawn forward. Click, an opponent.
Spock let the logic of the game begin to soothe him like first shallow pull of a meditative trance, let the feeling remain just a few moments longer as the pieces began their elaborate dance.
Antithesis.
It was dark by the time he made it home and the wind had already blown off the last of the day's heat. He had jogged the last mile for lack of a jacket.
Jim knew where to tread to avoid the creaky board on the porch stair.
He gingerly lifted the latch and stepped inside. The house was dark and silent but that didn't necessarily mean much. Maybe Frank had drunk himself to sleep again. His mum had been due back on leave for a week now. He knew better than to hope she'd be there. A brief inspection of the front rooms and the garage confirmed that he was alone. Sam wouldn't be back for hours. Frank neither if he'd headed into town.
Jim paused as he turned to head out. Then slowly, cautiously, almost timidly, he turned back to the silhouetted shape of his dad's Mustang, hidden under the oil-stained tarp. He didn't realise he was holding his breath until he peeled back a corner, revealing the first glimmer of red paint and elegant silver curve of a cracked headlight. A shaky exhale as he ran his hand over this other, this memorial, this fellow thing that his dad had loved and left and now sat abandoned and corroding and subject to Frank's whims and abuses. His finger traced a fresh dent in the grill and his exhale was shaky.
It was so rare to be left alone with anything of his dad's and Jim's fingers were already at work, stripping and dragging, and he was swinging his legs over and sliding down the cold leather. It smelt of damp and moths and disuse and he sank into the driver's well, fingers drumming on the slim wheel and exhilaration swelling in his chest.
His imagination already put him miles away, wind whipping in his hair, a carpet of Fall leaves painting his windshield scarlet and gold, feeling much older, much surer, much braver. He could hear Sam whooping behind him as he took a bend almost recklessly fast, seamlessly, inch-perfect, his mother was beside him, head tipped back in delight and golden hair streaming in the wind, looking young, looking alive, looking at him…
Jim was quite unprepared for the swell of childish emotion that rose in his gorge like bile. The garage interior was shadowed and had the coldness of concrete. He was glad for a moment he hadn't turned on the light as he felt the wetness gathering on his lashes.
He swung his legs out from the pedals and up onto the seat, blinking furiously, feeling far too old to be crying about this again. He punched a thumb petulantly at the glove compartment and blinked as it swung open and something heavy fell out with a soft thud, swallowed in the gloom of the passenger's side.
He fumbled blindly for a moment, scrabbling in his hurry. His fingers felt the heaviness of it, the thickness, that slightly unfamiliar brittleness. Paper. A wedge of the stuff, cover slightly thicker and shinier under his roving touch. An old-style book. He hefted it in one hand as he raised it. Even in the darkness, he could see the colour was a violent yellow.
Suddenly it seemed important to get to his room, to get out of Frank's lair, absent or not. He clutched his unexpected prize to his chest, heart hammering, childish intuition telling him this was somehow significant, a door at the back of his closet, a label saying 'Drink Me', a loose floorboard full off letters. The book had a pleasing bulk, a substantiality that a PADD lacked.
He slipped back to the ground and left a lingering hand on the red, glinting door frame.
One day, he silently promised, I'm gonna fix you right up and drive you the hell out of this shithole.
He pulled back the old cover with a gentleness bordering on the reverential and picked up the book from where he had placed it on the cold floor, breathless with anticipation. He tried to suppress it; this was probably one of Frank's betting bibles or something equally disappointing. Probably nothing. But it was a book. An honest-to-good book. Made from paper. And Frank wasn't the type for sentimental links to the past. So…
He laughed humourlessly as he crossed the yard and climbed the rickety old ladder to the barn loft. His life really must suck if the emotional highlight of his day was ten minutes in the dark with an obsolete piece of early transport machinery. Even an eleven year-old knew that that wasn't normal.
He clicked and the lamps flickered on; his main monitor flashed to life, followed by the whir of about twenty micro-routers. He'd been quite proud of that when he'd programmed the sensors last year. They'd been so rusted in the scrap heap that he'd doubted he'd be able to get them working. The routers were about seven years out of date, but a man was more than his hardware after all.
"Gimme the code, you stupid Mick!", the obnoxious voice demanded. He'd programmed the welcome screen to sound like a particularly gangster cartoon detective from the ToonFlix network and it usually raised a smile. Not today.
"Kelvin Twenty-two Thirty-three Zero Four, Computer." It was voice-recognition calibrated too.
"You gotcha, Macky." A pause. "Nothing doing today."
No messages. Nothing from his mom. He wasn't surprised. Recently, he couldn't even raise the energy to feel hurt.
This time, he didn't even notice; he flopped onto the mattress and stared at his bounty.
It was yellow. Bright, garish, cheap-looking yellow. A pasty white cartoon character with rough black features, which included a massive pair of nerdy spectacles, was offering him a cheesy thumbs-up and pointing at rather chubby-cheeked man in a black mitre who was cowering away from an enraged lady in white who seemed to be on the verge of hurling her crown at him. The title slanted up the diagonal in childish block print.
CHESS FOR DUMMIES.
Huh.
He tentatively opened it, feeling the frailty of the thin leaves within, when something on the cover plate caught his eye. A neat, tight note in the top right corner.
Seriously, George, for all our sakes, take this and stop embarrassing yourself.
You know she's never going to like you for your brains anyway, right?
Chris
And then, just below, in a cursive wide achingly familiar script, almost hastily scribbled at an angle where his mother hadn't even bothered to turn the book upright:
Ha! So now I know. But I'll marry you anyway, you big fraud.
Jim doesn't know for how long he's been staring at those words. That tiny, flippant, insignificant, fragile, perfect window into the past of this man, this hero, this gaping hole in Jim's life, a hole patched with PADD reports, newspaper cuttings, annual Starfleet condolence cards, the three holos he'd managed to rescue before his mom had destroyed the rest, the limited files he'd managed to hack without being caught in a security firewall. He clutched at the words like fleeting strands of a dream.
This hint, this glimpse, this precious clue into the world that existed before the Kelvin exploded into shrapnel.
He swallows slowly. Chris. Christopher Pike. His godfather. Another absentee figure in a burgundy uniform.
He opens the book like it's the most valuable thing in the world. He opens it and he begins to read, his eidetic memory already scanning, filing, devouring every word.
He reads long past Frank's drunken, swaggering collision with the fence post. He reads long past Sam cuts his engine and stumbles blindly into Frank's waiting fury.
He reads until the words blur and his head is falling, sleepily, onto the final pages as though he could simply absorb them through his skin and rosy-fingered dawn is prodding him through the uneven wall slats. He reads and he feels his dad with him, piecing him together from all those fragments he had gleaned of that short, bright life, frantically reading, laughing and absorbing this ridiculous joke gift from his ass of a best friend, and imagines with him that shocked and delighted look in his Chess Captain mom's eyes when Jock George Kirk proves for the first time he's not just a ladies man and a pretty face.