Star Trek reloaded
Chapter 1: Memories from the Future
Spock was old, very old actually, even for a Vulcan.
Sitting on the veranda of a modest wooden house on a hill, he observed the few lights of the small town below, "New Vulcan".
He thought it was a truly high-sounding name for that small, cold and remote urban agglomeration on that planet that recently bore the same name.
"The city has 166,441 inhabitants... around the quadrant, at the moment, there are another 2,335,213" he thought "with the mediocre growth rate that distinguishes us, as well as with our irrational tendency to avoid interracial relationships... extinction goes beyond mere probability."
He crossed his fingers and tried to make himself comfortable in the shabby wooden chair.
"A gift from the Federation, as are all those shebs over there."
He felt tired and embittered like never before and the biting cold of that supposed summer, so far from the often oppressive heat of his home planet, penetrated into his bones, reminding him that the proud boldness of his race was now a distant memory, just as his youth.
After the destruction of Vulcan, after finding himself in this new timeline, he had at first thought it was basically just a new opportunity; no one really knew if the times he had known had survived, no one was able to say if a future time still existed, perhaps parallel to the one he was experiencing, where Vulcan continued to be a headlight of civilization for the Federation... once upon a time where him, a young officer, explored space aboard a ship called "Enterprise", together with Bones, Scotty, Jim...
Initially he had considered the vortex theory plausible which, imagining the flow of time as a river, believed that any modification of the past, caused by temporal accidents or by the more or less conscious action of possible chrononauts, was destined to run out like a whirlpool in the water... water, or "time", destined to recompose itself in its original form as soon as possible, so that the future would once again coincide with its memories.
But... maybe it was just wishful thinking.
The arrival of Nero, the mad Romulan who with his absurd thirst for revenge had destroyed his home planet, had been anything but a whirlwind.
By now he had been living in this new present for four years... he had seen the rise of a J.T. Kirk very different from the one he knew: courageous and combative, certainly, but he was not the wise and, in his own way, very logical man with whom he had shared many adventures. He thought about the young self he had met and, the more he thought about it, the less he recognized himself: despite appearances, the "new" Spock was a concentration of absurdity, so dedicated (against himself?) to emotions that he was practically indistinguishable from a human.
Would this have been enough to make a difference? Would his vulcan's eye, as had happened so many times in "his" time, really give the young Kirk an additional tool at his disposal to understand and solve the thousand problems that would gradually appear before him?
He had been perplexed by the story with Khan, the new Khan, so enormously different from what he remembered: reading the reports he had not found the slightest logic in those events, ultimately resolved only with strength and good luck... No , it wasn't at all what it should have been.
The cold was increasing, it was time to go into the house and sit in front of the fire... he already knew that, even that night, he wouldn't be able to sleep.
Then, a roar.
The light lasted only a fraction of a second, just long enough to dazzle him.
As soon as he regained full possession of his field of vision, with amazement, or rather, with curiosity, he saw a small spacecraft of an unknown shape landed badly in his garden.
The small cultivations of flowers and vulcan plants, which had never really taken root in that alien atmosphere despite his obstinacy as an improvised gardener, had been definitively uprooted by that artefact, dented and scorched, which was puffing out acrid smoke from what looked like a engine irremediably damaged.
He instinctively looked towards the small city: no sign of alarm, no police drone already in the air, no siren... Whatever it was, that ship had bypassed all planetary surveillance systems without being identified.
He returned to observe the object: it was no more than 15ft long and seemed largely occupied by a cockpit topped by a transparent teardrop canopy.
For a moment he put his hand on the communicator to warn his people but, without knowing why, he withdrew it and, slowly, walked towards the ship.
The paint on the bomb was largely peeling and blackened, but a logo remained clearly visible, a logo with unusual shapes as he knew them, but still unmistakable: the logo of the Federation.
When he was really near to the object, the canopy literally blew off and a shadowy figure pulled himself out of the cockpit with some difficulty.
-Long live and prosper- said the elderly Vulcan, with his right hand raised to shoulder height, in the ancient pose of greeting and peace.
-Spock... it's you... I didn't think I would make it...- the being was clearly a man, only partially hidden by a space suit of a shape never seen before- sir, has no idea how happy I am to encounter you...
Having said this, the man fainted and fell to the ground.
Spock wondered if irrationality had struck him too. Instead of calling for help, he dragged the newcomer into the house and laid him on a bed. The tricorder had confirmed the absence of biological dangers and the substantial good health of the man, apparently suffering only from considerable dehydration and starvation.
The suit vaguely resembled those already in use during his last days in the ancient timeline, when with the Jelly Fish he attempted to collapse the stellar anomaly that would then destroy Romulus, but it was still different, it seemed much more advanced.
On his chest, clearly visible, that strange logo of the Federation.
Spock took off the visitor's helmet and was not at all surprised to find a face he had never seen before: he was a handsome man, in his forties, tall and muscular, with a dark complexion, perhaps originally from Atlantic Africa, genetically speaking.
He continued to reproach himself for the illogicality of his actions, for the private management of the strange event but, in his heart, he felt that it was the right thing. And over many years he had learned to listen to even the human half of himself, the rare times he had deemed it necessary.
Finally, after rapid hydration and the administration of banal intravenous nutrients, the man regained consciousness and looked him straight in the eyes: -I pray that you haven't called anyone.
Spock didn't know why, but he expected these words.
-No, no one - he identified the officer's ranks on the interlocutor's collar - no one knows that you are here, only me and, I am sure, you will want to have the courtesy to explain to me the reason for your arrival.
The man sketched a smile: -I was looking for you, I've been looking for you for years... and I'm damn tired...- Spock looked at him better, his guest had an unkempt beard and his uniform was dirty and in disarray; he had certainly seen better times.
-What do you have to tell me requires immediate action?- Spock's voice was steady and calm, as always, as he addressed the unexpected guest.
-...No... not really... although...
-I think it's better for you to rest for a few hours, I'm sure we'll all benefit from it.
The man nodded and barely had time to utter a "thank you" before letting himself go into a necessary and deep sleep.
Spock remained by the bed for a while.
At first the desire to merge his mind with that of the man had tickled him, but there was no need for this act, so similar to an intimate violence if not concerted: the visitor would have told him everything to awakening.
Spock sat down again on the uncomfortable chair he had at the entrance to his house, but not before taking a quick look at the curious means by which the man had come to him.
The inspection confirmed his suspicions: he was undoubtedly a Federation vehicle but not of these times, nor of those he had left.
It seemed like something extremely advanced, far more sophisticated than anything he had ever seen used by the people of the Federation. The anomalies found by the tricorder had given a first significant answer to his many questions.
In the chair, Spock felt, unexpectedly, a great sleep coming upon him too.
His last thought left no way for doubt: "The question is not where our friend comes from, but when."
He fell asleep with a curious grimace on his lips that, to a human's eyes, might have looked like a smile.