In fact, it was not a difficult choice because I had, almost from the outset, suspected that this was some kind of test. It seemed highly unlikely to me that such a situation, which so starkly pressed upon me the urgent need to make a moral choice based upon ethics and loyalties, would arise naturally. Later, in our debriefing, I admitted to Number One that I had deduced that this was a simulated test, and that as a result she should consider the data which she had acquired about my responses not useful.
She sighed. “I told him you’d work it out.”
“I regret that I have invalidated the test.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll think of something else.”
“I shall be mindful that such an eventuality might arise.”
I spoke to other colleagues at the time and learned that they too were tested in a similar fashion, although no simulation was identical. Number One showed a very canny ability to determine what was likely to trigger complex emotions and reactions in the new recruits brought on board the ship. All of the situations which my colleagues described in some way tested whether or not our loyalties to Starfleet would hold under duress, or whether some aspect of our personal circumstances might cause our resolve to waver. I did not hear of any case in which a recruit failed this test, although I am not blind to the irony of the fact that I have mutinied many times, and, on one occasion, on account of Pike himself. I am not blind either to the fact that I did once use a mind-meld to acquire information under duress, when I was a much older man. I will come to this story in time, Jean-Luc, although I believe it does me little credit. There never was another test such as this, and perhaps if there had been, I might have been more successful when the trial came for real.
* * *
In the mid-2250s, the simmering tensions between the Klingon Empire and the Federation finally boiled over into the war which began with the Battle at the Binary Stars. Despite the savage losses we incurred in those early months, and to the surprise of us all, the Enterprise was instructed to continue on its mission, and not to return to the front. The reasoning, as I understand it, was that we were to be held in reserve, until use of us was completely necessary, but this was not a popular order among the crew. To be asked to remain away from the conflict while friends and colleagues on board other ships were in the line of fire was the cause of considerable distress for many people. I myself could not see the logic of being asked to stay away until there was nothing to return to. If there were complications arising from the part that Michael played in precipitating the outbreak of the war, and what this might mean for my loyalty, this was never broached with me. I would deduce therefore that this was not the case: if there was any question as to where my loyalties might lie, it would surely have been easier simply to remove me from the Enterprise for the duration of the war.
Ultimately, I concluded that logic was playing very little part in this decision. Keeping the Enterprise in reserve chiefly served an emotional function. Had the Enterprise participated in the war and been, as would have been likely, severely damaged or destroyed, the blow to morale at the disabling or destruction of the flagship would have been huge. Keeping us away from the fighting prevented this eventuality. The blow to the morale of the crew of the Enterprise was presumably a price worth paying: the needs of the many do outweigh the needs of the few. But this was a bitter pill for many of my colleagues to swallow. I was not, myself, eager to find myself in battle—my early training had impressed on me that to prevent conflict from ever arising was the most logical strategy, as long as one was prepared to end a conflict as the victor—and I had no personal need to prove myself in this regard. I know that for others, this was not the case, and our absence from this conflict remained a sore point for many for years to come. When the war did end, and our mission too ended, I was soon preoccupied with other matters. This was when I was forced to take an extended leave of absence from Starfleet in order to deal with the ramifications of my visions of the Red Angel.
It is to Pike’s credit that he allowed me to take this leave. I remain forever grateful to the loyalty and trust he showed me during the months that followed, which remain some of the most difficult of my life. Certainly, there was no benefit to him in his science officer becoming unable to function. But he could not possibly have guessed where this would lead. After the events surrounding the Red Angel, of which you are now apprised, Jean-Luc, Pike continued his support of me, allowing me an extensive period of leave back on Earth to see my grandparents.
They were in their early hundreds by this time and still active. Their life had not changed much. The house remained the same, a peaceful and creative haven. Their conversation too was unchanged—their interests as wide-ranging as ever. They had much to say about the ethics or otherwise of the war with the Klingons; they were glad that I had avoided this conflict, although perhaps disappointed that I could not give them much in the way of first-hand information about this deeply alien species. They also had many questions about Michael—and I was, of course, not able to give many answers. What I told them was that Michael’s mission had been top secret, that she was missing in action, and that there was no question now of her loyalty or her courage. I asked them not to ask me more, and they respected this request.
Vulcans may not lie; humans can and do. I have often wondered what I would have done, had they asked me to tell them more, and insisted on their right to know. This would have been a truer test than any simulation, and I believe I may well have lied to them. I was already concealing information about her. Were they owed the truth? Certainly. Was I in a position to reveal it? I believed not. I could perhaps, at this point, equivocate and claim that technically I told my grandparents no outright lies, that I told them enough of the truth to protect them while offering whatever consolation I could about the loss of their adopted grandchild. But that would be self-serving. They died not knowing the circumstances of her disappearance, and they also knew that there was a story which I was not telling. That they so palpably forgave me is more to their credit than mine.
Chiefly, when I visited, they wanted me to know that they were aware of my breakdown, that they were worried about me, and that they wanted to be sure that I was on the road to recovery. In this respect, at least, I could reassure them. The proof of the existence of the Red Angel had a profoundly liberating effect on me: any lingering doubt that my vision had arisen from imbalance in my own mind had been entirely banished. This was not the last visit that I made to my grandparents before their deaths, but it was a deeply significant one. I was no longer a child, by any means; now I was no longer a child in their eyes. Adult secrets lay between us, and I was never able to confide in them as fully as I had in the past. Instead, our positions were reversed, and I became the protector. We must all come to this in time, I think, as those people who have cared for us and nurture us move on from the active sphere and into old age, and we take on the mantle of care. My career did not always make it possible to see much of them, but I tried, from this time on, to see them as often as I could.
It was during this time in my life that I acquired the habit of not speaking about my family. Discussing one’s past, particularly with humans, invariably led to questions which it was not possible for me to answer. How would I talk about my childhood, or even my decision to enter Starfleet, without thought or mention of my sister? It was considerably easier not to open discussion on these subjects at all. I did not want to lie, and I also wanted to draw a line beneath some difficult and painful experiences. But this habit did, on numerous occasions, cause me difficulties.
On one of my visits to Earth, I met Leila Kalomi, and this need of mine to keep the various aspects of my life private did, I think, have significant adverse consequences. Leila and I met at a scientific conference concerned with the establishment of new colonies. She struck me at once as a very gifted and intelligent woman. We spent a great deal of time together at the conference, and during the weeks of my leave that followed. I found her co
mpany restful and interesting. Perhaps I should have seen sooner that she was falling in love with me, but I did not. I could not reciprocate, of course, because of the promises made to T’Pring and to her house. Any suggestion to Leila that a relationship was possible would have been unjust. But my retreat from the friendship was clearly baffling to her, and I can see now, with distance, that I mishandled this break. Explaining the betrothal would perhaps have helped, but I was no longer willing to discuss my private affairs. It was too easy for mistakes to be made, and information divulged that had to be kept secret. But this left Leila with no sense of finality about our friendship; worse than that, she was left with the idea that perhaps the door was still open to love between us.
When I said goodbye to Leila Kalomi, I intended it to be for good. I heard later that she had left Earth to join an agricultural colony on Omicron Ceti III, and I hoped that this decision signified that she was at last moving on. This turned out not to be the case: when we met again, some years later on this colony world, these feelings had clearly been allowed to take seed, and be nurtured, and this time were reciprocated. The unique environment of Omicron Ceti III allowed its inhabitants to live in a state of euphoria, of bliss, that made the world close to paradise. But this was an illusion—it was not the world-as-it-is. Whatever life we could have led there was not real, merely a fantasy. This was not one I would choose to inhabit, although I was to learn why others might.
At various point throughout the years that were to follow, I was to find that even if I wished to draw a line beneath certain aspects of my early life, this was not so easily done in practice. Not even the Romulans, who, so the saying goes, do not tell themselves their own secrets, can compartmentalize themselves to such an extent. Those aspects of ourselves that we try most industriously to repress will invariably make their return. This certainly was the case when it came to my duty to Pike. When the crew was informed that a new captain was coming on board, and that Pike would not be commanding our forthcoming five-year mission, I naturally felt many regrets. There was also a small sense of relief too, that this odd situation would not continue, in which my commanding officer knew so much about my sister and my breakdown, but there was, in effect, an oath of silence surrounding these events. It would certainly be easier, I thought, to be surrounded by people who knew nothing, to whom I could present myself simply as the officer I had now become.
I had served under Christopher Pike for many years, during that crucial time in our lives when we are required to make the transition into adulthood. When I arrived on board the Enterprise, I believed myself well informed, well trained, and well prepared to take up my role as a member of the ship’s crew. Every cadet believes that; every cadet is—to some extent—completely wrong in that self-assessment. My own time serving under Pike was significantly complicated by the events surrounding the re-appearance of the Red Angel, and this overlap between what was personal and what was professional was not one that I had wanted, nor did I want to happen again.
By the time Pike left the Enterprise, there was a general sense that the ship was entering a new era. Our old chief medical officer, who had a reputation for being overly blunt and direct, was due to leave, with some sense of relief amongst the crew, who were hoping for a more approachable replacement. As well as the new chief officer, there was significant turnover in a number of key crew positions. We all knew that the team that had served on board the Enterprise was altering, that a new mission was coming, and that with Pike’s departure nothing would be the same again. The captain sets the tone of the ship. A difficult captain—a poor captain—destroys morale. We were the flagship, yes, and the choice of Pike’s replacement would have been carefully considered… but were we likely to be so lucky again?
When Pike left the Enterprise, it seemed to me that I was personally passing some kind of watershed in my life. Our lives are not ever so simple, of course, and decisions that we made in the past have ramifications for who we are now, just as decisions made long before our birth alter the course of our lives. This was not the last that I saw of Christopher Pike, a man to whom I owed a significant personal debt of honor. The next time that I saw him, however, he was much altered.
We maintained contact after he left the Enterprise, of course; not frequent, but regular. I sent a message of congratulation after his promotion to fleet captain and received a very cordial acknowledgement. You may not be aware of the circumstances of Pike’s accident. He was on a tour of a J-class training vessel when a baffle plate ruptured, causing a radiation leak which threatened the lives of several cadets. Pike threw himself into the fray, bringing out all the surviving cadets, but was himself trapped by the automatic lockdown as the delta radiation reached critical. He was left with severe and life-altering injuries: paralyzed and badly scarred. He was using a chair for both mobility, life support, and to communicate. Having reflected upon my various debts to him, I concluded that this was not how he would wish to live, and I conceived of a plan to assist him.
There are many aspects of my time on board the Enterprise serving under Pike that have been subject to secrecy for a long time, and that have hitherto remained classified. I have told you some of this already; there is, perhaps inevitably, more. In my early years serving under Pike, the Enterprise came into contact with the Talosians, inhabitants of Talos IV. I do not know the extent to which you are aware of the events surrounding our contact with this world, Jean-Luc. As you surely must know, Talos IV is subject to a General Order, which forbids any vessel—under any condition, emergency or otherwise—from visiting the place, under penalty of death. I shall assume you know no more than this. The General Order was issued as a result of our encounters with the Talosians, which revealed them to be able to induce illusions so real that one might inhabit them indefinitely, believing them to be truth. Very little of what we saw when we visited Talos was real, only the Talosians themselves, and a woman named Vina, sole surviving crewmember of the U.S.S. Columbia, which had crashed on Talos years ago.
The Talosians had captured the Enterprise in order to investigate the possibilities of using humans to repopulate their war-ravaged world. The captain and Number One were eventually able to make the Talosians understand that humans preferred death to continued imprisonment. They were released, but Vina was unable to return to the Enterprise with them. The crash of the Columbia had left her badly injured, and the Talosians, lacking knowledge of her species, had left her disfigured. She preferred to remain within the fantasy world the Talosians had created for her. Pike told me, later, that his last sight of Vina was as she went back into their complex, an illusory version of himself at her side. “They said to me,” he told me, “that I had reality, while she had an illusion—and hoped that my way would prove as pleasant.”
Such a sentiment made no sense to me. Who would wish to live a lie? I knew that Vina was often in his thoughts, and that her fate preyed upon his mind. A little later, during my breakdown, I was brought to Talos by my sister, where the Talosians, showing her what lay in my mind, were able to prove that I had not murdered my doctors in escaping the hospital where I was being held, and assisted in restoring the balance of my mind. All of this I recalled when deciding how I might best help my former captain. I determined that the best course of action was to take him to Talos, to enable him to make this choice. This necessitated committing mutiny. I contacted the Talosians to gain their help, assisted them in seizing control of the Enterprise, and (as far as my colleagues were aware at this point) faced a court-martial as result. As I said to Jim later, the secrecy of my actions was paramount. I would not have asked any colleague to put themselves at risk of the death penalty to assist me. When the subterfuge became clear, and the Talosians at last revealed themselves, Pike was given the opportunity to go with them. This was what he chose. Everything I did at this time was undoubtedly worth the consequences. My last sight of Christopher Pike was of him in peace and plenty, and without pain, on Talos IV with Vina. Would I want to live my life in such
a way, knowing that everything around me was an illusion, but that any return to reality would be a return to pain and suffering? I can say unequivocally not. My education taught me to value chthia, to endeavor to see the “reality-truth” of the world. Leila Kalomi had offered me the illusion of paradise, and I did not want perfection on those terms. I wanted the truth, as it is.
But, as a human poet once said (and I paraphrase), humans cannot very easily bear too much in the way of reality. What then was the alternative? In Pike’s position, would I instead choose death? I have survived even death, of course, but such options are not open to us all. I have not had to live with the reality of great bodily suffering, with no hope for relief, and perhaps in those circumstances, I might have wanted to live my life differently, in a world free from this pain. This was what my first captain chose, and while I might not have made the same choice, I was willing to do what was necessary to ensure that his decision as to how to live his life would be honored. I hope that my first captain, who went well beyond what was necessary for me, believes that I performed the same duty for him.
Enterprise
HAVING SERVED ELEVEN YEARS UNDER CHRISTOPHER PIKE, learning to live and work under a new captain, and with many new crew members, required adjustment. My promotion to first officer came at the same time, and I quickly found that Enterprise under James Kirk was different from how it had been under Christopher Pike. For one thing, the Federation was enjoying a period of peace after years of war with the Klingons, and a spirit of adventure and of outwardness was at last returning to Starfleet. Those were our orders. To explore. To discover. To learn. I recall the excitement on board the ship before we set out. I recall how young the crew now seemed, to my eyes. I also recall my private sense of relief. One positive outcome of there being a whole new crew was that I was able to become more detached, a calm observer of all that was happening around me. One might even say—as my colleague Dr. McCoy so often did say—that I presented as the typical Vulcan. It was both refreshing and restful. I mean this quite sincerely.
The Autobiography of Mr. Spock Page 11