The Autobiography of Mr. Spock

by Una McCormack

  But in the years since, a little humility—a little wisdom—has been learned. One benefit of the settlement brought about by the dominance of Surak’s philosophy has been the peace granted us to study and learn. This is of course the start of the great advances we have made in science and technology, not least of which has been in the field of genetic engineering. On other worlds, genetic engineering was most heinously misused, to create individuals whose vastly enhanced physical and mental abilities were matched only by the depravity of their morals. Not so on Vulcan. Here, the field of genetic engineering has been used solely in its reparative capacity, allowing us to breathe life into species long lost to the depredations of the past, and let them once again inhabit our world. Visitors to Vulcan can see the fruits of these efforts in many sanctuaries around the planet, but here, in the quiet waters of the Sirakal canal, one can now see what I still consider one of the most profound sights in the universe: pods of o’ktath swimming in the waters of Vulcan.

  You are a well-traveled man, Jean-Luc, and perhaps you have seen this sight for yourself. If you have not, and do not know what o’ktath are, you might imagine something similar to a dolphin from your own world: an aquatic mammal, streamlined and fast-moving, with a gentle intelligence that is almost palpable. They are curious too, and this, no doubt, caused their downfall, bringing them close to our ancestors, who exploited this virtue mercilessly. As our old world entered its seemingly terminal decline, the o’ktath became extinct. Our later, hard-won wisdom has brought them back again. And here, only a little distance from one of the busiest cities at the heart of a galactic civilization, they swim once again, dipping and diving, and coming up for air, and to peer at those of us who are fascinated not only by their play, but by the simple fact of their existence.

  I do believe that it is here, watching the o’ktath, that I had my first real experience of the alien. The many species that inhabited ShiKahr were like old friends to me. But these creatures—indigenous to my world, yet almost travelers through time—had the capacity to induce awe in me: that deep sense of the wonder that is the interconnectedness of life. Watching them, I experienced what my child’s mind—ever trying to be the perfect son—described to himself as a simple interest and wish to acquire more information, but which I know was a deep longing to communicate meaningfully with something very different from myself, to form a connection with something unlike. I wished to mind-meld with these creatures: to perceive the world entirely through their consciousness; to understand how the world appeared to them. Here, sitting by the canal, watching the o’ktath, I had my first glimpse of the unknown, the alien—and I wished to understand them better. It was many years before I fulfilled this ambition, and there were many rivers yet to cross.

  Michael

  MY HUMAN FRIENDS AND FAMILY, READING THIS ACCOUNT, would no doubt ask whether I considered my early years to be happy. At the time, I would not have been able to answer this question. That I was surrounded by adults who took my physical and intellectual wellbeing to heart, and whose great interest was in seeing me both aspire to and achieve excellence, I have no doubt. I never doubted, either, that I was greatly valued and carefully nurtured. Expectations were high, but this seemed as much a compliment as a burden. The question of “happiness” did not occur to me. Now, of course, I hear my old friend Bones, at the back of my mind, crying, “Dammit, Spock, what you’re saying is that you weren’t happy. You weren’t!” Looking back, I see acutely how complicated our situation was.

  My mother was without doubt my chief source of emotional constancy, and, in her presence, I felt accepted and calm. My mother had a remarkable ability to induce serenity in others, to still the troubled waters of our family, or, at least, to prevent the swirling undercurrents from ever surfacing. For the earliest years of my life, the three of us—my mother, my father, and I—were able to achieve a kind of balance that not even doubts arising from my half-human heritage could destabilize. This equilibrium ended for good the year that I turned six, with the most disrupting experience of my young life so far. Quite suddenly, I acquired a sister.

  The arrival of a new sibling disrupts the life of any child, particularly one where the mother has hitherto been entirely devoted to them. Watching my friends and colleagues over the years, in their interactions with their siblings, I have often observed that even in the healthiest of families, a latent undercurrent of competition remains, as if that early struggle for the attention of their parents has never quite been resolved. These are, most usually, situations where a second child is born. A new baby naturally demands that the parents focus upon them, and the older child struggles with the sense of displacement, of now coming second. Most sensible parents make preparations and accommodation for this. Our situation was very different: we were adding to our tight circle a much older child, and one who had recently suffered a terrible and violent loss. Thinking now of all that happened to Michael not long before she came to us, I feel shame for my behavior toward her; I feel pity, too, for the boy that I was who truly had no idea of the seismic change that his family was about to undergo.

  It was not that I was completely unprepared. My father had traveled off-world to collect her, to bring her home, and my mother had spent the time explaining in clear language that another child was coming to join us. She stated that Michael was older, and human; that her parents had died, and that this would make her sad and lonely. She hoped that I would be mindful of this, and that if there was something I did not understand, that I would speak to her. I cannot fault her preparations. But sometimes children do not fully understand what they are being told. Busy with my own projects—kal-toh, my music practice, and my ongoing struggles with the written word, about which I sensed my father’s increasing concern—I remained vague about what was happening. I knew we were expecting a human child and I knew that she was going to stay for some time. I was intrigued by the notion of a companion. But I did not, I think, understand that this was to be indefinitely.

  I distinctly remember Michael’s arrival. My mother and I were together in my room, when she heard that my father and Michael were almost home. Suddenly, I was filled with fear. Who was she, this girl? What did this mean, to have another child here? My mother, perhaps sensing something of this, said, “Why not wait while I go and welcome her, Spock? It may be easier to meet her here in your own room.”

  She left me. After a moment, I slipped out after her, and hurried to the stop of the stairs, where I took a moment to compose myself. Energetic displays of excitement were discouraged. I looked down into the hall. I was eager to see this new sister that had been found for me. The door opened, and my father came in, a young girl with him. I took a step forward. The girl heard me—her head snapped up to look at me. Her eyes—wide open—fixed upon me for a moment. I watched her register me; I watched her decide I was not a threat. Then I watched her focus slip away. Soon, she was once again looking at nothing, her face bearing that blank and shielded expression that, much later, with years of experience in Starfleet behind me, I would recognize as trauma. I have seen that stare many times again: in Saavik, for example, or many a young ensign, fresh from the first real experience of hand-to-hand combat, understanding fully that no simulation can truly replicate the horror and the grief that comes from seeing the violent extinction of another sentient being. The child that was Michael Burnham had this look. It frightened me, as did the tense expression on my father’s face. In that moment, I understood that this girl was not going to be a companion. She was going to be the source of disruption, confusion, and strife.

  My mother stepped forward to speak to the girl. I could not quite hear what was being said, but I could sense the warmth in her words and suddenly, I grasped that the great fount of love was no longer mine and mine alone. My mother was to be shared, with this frightening stranger. I could not bear this any longer. I ran back to my room. There, at my table, I took out my drawing pad. My mother, trying to make me comfortable making marks with a pen, had encouraged me
to draw whatever was in my mind, to let the pen move freely. I had found that my concentration was helped by this, and that I would become calmer. This was not the case now. The marks became frantic and angry, more scribbles than designs. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs and along the corridor. Were they bringing her to my room? I did not want her in my room. I wanted her gone. My father called out to me; told me that he expected me to teach her, to be friends with her. This, I did not want. I turned, and casting up the images from the drawing pad into a holo of the yon’tislak, the fire beast from a children’s tale, I told her as best I could what I wanted:

  Go away.

  I will not say that my parents were unprepared for taking on the responsibility of caring for a traumatized child. They were deeply intelligent and perceptive people, and my mother, in particular, had great wisdom and a capacity for deep and steady love. But the reality of how fundamental a change this was to our family most certainly caught them by surprise. I was confused by these emotions that I was feeling, and anxious that the strength of them was another sign of my failure to be how I was supposed to be. My easiest route was to lay the blame on the girl who was—to my child’s mind, still using simple models of cause and effect—responsible. Alone in my room, I planted the seed of a deep sense of grievance that I nurtured steadily over the coming days until it was in full bloom.

  The ten-year-old girl whom we received into our composed and serene household was deeply troubled, in shock, and in need of considerable support. This could only come from my mother. She was the one who had persuaded my father to take on this traumatized child; she was the one who took on the burden of emotional care. I make no excuses for my behavior in the weeks and months that followed. I was jealous of Michael—it is as simple as that. I was angry that I was no longer the sole focus of my mother’s attention and bitter that I had to share her with this stranger. On our treasured trips around the city, we were—to my mind—encumbered by this unwanted third party. I derived no satisfaction from showing this girl all the places where my mother and I were wont to visit together. Even worse, I saw how much pleasure my mother gained when Michael’s interest was piqued at some sight or other: at the red leaves falling from the kilsit trees; at the variety of sights and sounds in the markets. My mother did not indulge my jealousy, but in one respect she did spare my feelings. If she ever took Michael to see the o’ktath, it was not in my company. After a while, my mother decided to take us on separate trips. I was glad to have her sole company once again, and while she was out with Michael, I took to going up into the hills that lay behind our house. My father was not happy at these solitary walks (on reflection, now, I see that the son of an ambassador was a target for political enemies), but despite his disapproval, I did not stop. Alone, and outside, I found some peace from the angry yon’tislak that seemed to have taken up residence within me.

  Throughout this period, I was preparing for admission to the Vulcan Learning Center, an important rite of passage marked by much ceremony and ritual, as a child takes their first steps from home out into the wider community of learning. But even this important event was marred, in my mind, by the simultaneous admission to the Center of this unwanted new sibling. Michael would, of course, be attending alongside me, and so my preparations for entry now took place alongside hers—and she had much ground to cover to satisfy the teachers that she would succeed alongside the other children. Secretly, I hoped that she would fail, but with my parents’ guidance, she began to do well. I was not progressing so well in comparison. On the tasks that involved displays of memorization and physical dexterity, I was not concerned. But reading and writing continued to cause me great difficulty. Leaving this aside, it pained me beyond measure to see my parents devote even a small part of their attention to Michael’s work.

  Worse than that, once we were admitted to the Center, Michael’s full humanity only drew attention to my own half-Vulcan status. We quickly became the target for bullies, but even this did not unite us against a common enemy. Not one member of the family was happy throughout this time and, child that I was, the easiest person to blame was the unwanted stranger in our midst. If Michael had not come, I reasoned, then our family would have continued as it should have: my mother and my father, devoted to me; my entry to the Learning Center progressing far more easily. Of course, this was not the case. My own half-human nature would always have been the source of doubt, from children and teachers alike; my trouble with the written word required attention. But it was easier to blame Michael.

  Even as young as I was, I knew that Michael’s admission to the Center was not without controversy. I acquired, during this period, an uncanny (if not particularly laudable) skill for moving quietly around the house, in order to be able to hear conversations between my parents. One day, I overheard them discussing this, and the intensity of the discussion disturbed me further. By other standards, one would call their exchange a quarrel, since no voices were raised, no anger was expressed, but in every gesture that they made, every taut muscle of their bodies and their faces, I could see the effects of this decision they had made upon them.

  “Perhaps we should be considering an alternative,” my father said. “Studying at home, with a human tutor—”

  “There would be no need if the teachers at the Center would take the trouble to accommodate them—”

  “The methods are well tried and tested. If the children are not able to flourish—”

  “They are both more than able, Sarek!”

  “My wife, you speak for them with commendable passion, but perhaps this decision requires more in the way of dispassion—”

  I had heard enough. I went into the garden, where I saw Michael, sitting beneath her favorite tree. I went to stand in front of her. She looked up—whenever she looked at me, I caught what I later understood was a glimmer of hope, that I had come to be friendly, that was always quickly quenched. I said to her, “You are not wanted here.”

  She gasped. From behind me, my father spoke. I had not heard him approach.

  “Spock,” he said, “you speak unkindly and unwisely. You speak from your emotions and not from reason.”

  “It is a statement of fact,” I replied. Before he could say anything more, I turned away. He said, “Spock, sit down.” But I turned my back on him (a truly rebellious gesture, signaling, as it did, my complete disrespect) and went back inside and up to my room. I recall myself trembling from the emotions that I was experiencing, which I could at the time barely name: my frustration and self-doubt at my struggles at school; my sorrow that my mother’s attention seemed to be halved; my jealousy that while emotional care was being lavished on this unwanted sister, the cold hand of logic seemed to become ever more present in my own day-to-day life. I thought of drawing some of what I was experiencing but I could not even stir myself to do this. About an hour later, my mother came to join me. She sat beside me on the bed. After a moment or two, I leaned against her.

  “I know,” she said, “how hard this is. Much harder than any of us imagined. I am your mother, Spock. I love you without condition. I love you with every fiber of my being.”

  I have said that my mother’s great gift was in her ability to induce calm in others, to bring about a sense of wellbeing and tranquility. And so it was for me that evening. She remained beside me on the bed, stroking my hair, until I fell asleep. But, in the dead quiet of night, I woke again, and she was gone. I felt the flutter of fear once again in my chest, and then the deep shame I always felt when caught unawares by one of my unwanted human emotions. I slipped from my bed and out of the house, and walked once again up into the mountains, coming home only when I saw the first pale glimmer of dawn.

  The outcome of this quarrel was by no means what I had intended. Rather than spending more time and attention on me, my mother took Michael away for a fortnight to Eridani D. Ostensibly this was to celebrate her birthday; but, left behind at home, it was hard for me not to read my exclusion as both rejection and disgrace. My father see
med to be of similar mind. The morning of my mother and sister’s departure, I went to see him, as requested, sitting in the smaller courtyard. I stood before him, hands clasped behind me, waiting nervously for him to speak.

  My father contemplated me for a while. He had, by this time in his life, long perfected the art of stillness. Often, throughout my life, he seemed to be exactly the same as one of those statues of our forefathers, as impermeable and durable as stone. It was only near the end that something cracked. Today he studied me dispassionately, seriously.

  “Spock,” he said, “envy arises from our instincts. It is not the product of an ordered mind.”

  I knew that what he said was true. Still, these feelings ran so very deep—and this, in its turn, caused me great shame, that once again my human nature worked against those parts of me that I wished were in ascendance.

  “Michael is your sister now,” he said. “She is family now. To envy her, to hate her for this—all that can achieve is grief and unhappiness. And that is not rational. Hate, grief, pain—who can want these things?”

  I did not want them, that was for sure. I wanted the serenity and balance of our old life to return—and yet this was not going to happen. My father had said this explicitly—and my father was not a liar.

  “It is possible,” he said, “to be strong. To teach your mind to reflect before it responds. To act from logic and not from instinct. This is a choice that you can make, and act upon, Spock. Do you wish to make that choice?”