Fifty years after the five-year mission, I attended a conference organized for cadets at Starfleet Academy, reflecting on its enduring significance, and what students at the academy could continue to learn from our logs. I heard many interesting presentations—on the influence of Kirk’s decisions on the evolution of the Prime Directive; on our impact on interstellar politics at the time, particularly post-war relations with the Klingons and the new cold war with the Romulans. I attended various fascinating seminars—on our excursions in time and the ethics thereof, or on continuing relations with some of the species we encountered. Everyone was remarkably well informed—but then, I reflected, our mission logs were all available, as were our reports to our superiors. We had been meticulous, in this respect.
My friend Pavel Chekov was also in attendance. During a break in proceedings, he came to find me. He seemed bristling with irritation, and I asked what the matter was.
“I was speaking to a cadet,” he said. “No, a child, surely!”
I concealed a smile, recalling how young Chekov had been, when he came on board.
“He was talking about the time we were on Deep Space Station K-7. Do you remember?”
I remembered extremely well.
“He said that Mr. Scott started the fight. As if Mr. Scott would do such a thing! I clearly remember throwing the first punch.”
I did not have the heart to tell my friend that the student had been entirely correct. His memory had made something different of events. This happens often, I think, when we tell and retell a story. The tale gains its own life apart from what happened and can become our lived reality. And why not? For those of us who were there, these events have personal and psychological significance. That is what we emphasize in retelling. For others—they are history, or legend, or even, increasingly, myth.
What is there to be said, after so long, and after so much has been said already, about the five-year mission we undertook on the Enterprise under James T. Kirk? Sometimes I believe that I participated in a piece of epic literature—the voyages of Odysseus, perhaps, or the great journey of Setel, across the Forge, to swear his oath to Surak in the last days of the war. You do not realize at the time, of course, that history is being made. You are simply reacting as calmly as possible to the latest situation that is unfolding around you.
Our mission—as yours was in turn, Jean-Luc—was most certainly not without incident and adventure. One might consider, among other events: encounters with tribbles, interstellar con men, or augments who had slept since the Eugenics Wars; journeys into the past, to alternate versions of our own universe, to worlds that were influenced by the history of your world under Prohibition, or where gladiatorial battles were still fought; contact with aliens who could spin whole worlds of illusions or take on the aspect of gods.
There was uncertainty, yes, and split-second decisions to be made, and, in the past, when I have spoken about these events, it has been these that have been the focus of my reflection and my consideration. But that is not sufficient for this t’san a’lat. Now that I come to reflect upon those few brief and vivid years, for what might well be the last time in my life, I have to say that what I took most from them was that for the first time in my life I experienced what it meant to be part of a functioning family. In my childhood, I saw glimpses of this—the easiness with which my cousin carried himself through life, the unconditional if occasionally exasperated way in which his parents accepted him. At the academy, too, observing peers, I saw more of how such units (they were many and varied in type) might function well. In my early years on board the Enterprise, under Pike, the interruptions of my “real” family affected too much, perhaps, the relationships that I could form with those of my immediate colleagues who had full information.
This was not the case with this crew. My family circumstances were irrelevant. When they did intervene—as of course they did—they were of considerable interest, but they did not affect anyone’s view of me as the executive officer on the Enterprise. Consider, for example, the occasion when I began to undergo Pon farr and was forced to return to Vulcan. At the onset of symptoms, I was filled with dread at what I might be forced to reveal about myself. But when the dust settled, I was left with the understanding that what mattered most from those few days was not the ending of my betrothal to T’Pring, but the lengths to which the captain was prepared to go on my behalf, the inventiveness of Dr. McCoy, the kindness and almost limitless patience of Christine Chapel. These things happen, people seemed to say, and then we returned to our work.
At some point toward the end of our five-year mission, I realized that I had passed an important milestone. I had been in Starfleet longer than I had spent growing up on Vulcan. A realization such as that provides a significant counterweight to everything that has gone before. I recall reflecting then about the two halves of my life. One half was vibrant, immediate, and real. It required me to act at all times with confidence in my knowledge and my judgment. I was at the height of my powers, a way of going about life that carries continuing and exponentially growing rewards. The other half was… not fading (no, never that), but was certainly being put considerably into perspective. This is what I mean when I say that I found the mission restful. In all other respects, I have never been so busy in my entire life. A starship filled with vibrant and brilliant people, many of them young, and all of them filled with a desire for adventure and a sense of wonder about what they encountered—and I was second in command. An account of those five years alone could fill this book; it has filled many already.
* * *
After the conclusion of our mission, the balance had tipped in favor of my Starfleet career. I had, by that point, been a serving officer for twenty years. As our crew began to disperse, some with more alacrity than others, I began to wonder if my own future lay in Starfleet, or whether the time had come to consider other options. I had not been home for some time, but having seen my father and mother again on the Enterprise, and perhaps resolved some of what lay between my father and myself, I began to consider whether a return to Vulcan was the next logical step. The years on the Enterprise—the most recent mission, in particular—had been stimulating, exhilarating, and adventurous in a way I had never thought possible. I wished to reflect upon these experiences. I wished to know what they meant in the grander picture of my life. I was curious, too, to see Vulcan again, to discover whether it had altered (I suspected not), or whether I, in all my years away, had altered. I wished to know whether I had drawn closer to my home, or moved further away, and to what extent this distance could ever be resolved.
My mother received me with delight; my father with interest. I found myself glad to be home. I resisted making enquiries about T’Pring and Stonn, although my mother did offer to find out. I was no longer interested. All that I wanted was to be present, once again, on Vulcan. Not long after my arrival, I went again to the quiet waters of the Sirakal canal. The last time that I had been here, I had swum with the o’ktath and melded with them. There was no pod there on that day with which to swim and meld. It was autumn, and the red leaves were falling from the fa’tahr trees. I picked one of these from where it lay on the ground and, placing it on my palm of my hand, studied it closely. Here, the tip or apex, the limit of growth. There, the veins, channeling sustenance throughout. Here, the stem, the point of connection from the whole, now severed. The color would soon fade, I thought.
I pondered again how varied life was, how it presented itself in all manner of ways, some of which we barely comprehended. Placing my hand against the black bark of the tree, I considered all the processes—biological, chemical, evolutionary—that had brought it into existence. It seemed, suddenly, to be the most marvelous thing I had ever seen. How extraordinary, I thought; such elegance and efficiency. I wondered whether it would be possible to meld with something like this, to experience the universe from its perspective, and what that might be. Would I sense some of kind of affinity with something that also originated from this w
orld, some deep connection at a molecular level? Or would this life be alien, more alien, than anything I had encountered, even on the long voyages that I had recently undertaken? Looking around, Vulcan seemed suddenly to be a new world, a place that I had barely begun to explore. I knew now that I wanted the time and the peace to do this. I wanted complete clarity. I wanted to comprehend the universe without the distracting filter of emotion, without the busyness and distraction that came from others. I realized that I had made my decision as to what I should do next. I would undertake kolinahr.
You will recall that kolinahr, or the way of pure logic, is that set of rituals and disciplines whereby the remaining emotions are purged, and the discipline is acquired and practiced in order to maintain this state. At the higher stages, it involves retreat to a monastery or shrine, for at least two years and more usually five or six, a period of seclusion and withdrawal from life. This is not a path undertaken lightly, and there is no guarantee of success. When I returned home and told my parents my intention, I saw the reservation in both their faces. I suspect, however, that these misgivings arose from different sources: my mother doubted whether it should be done; my father doubted whether it could be done. Perhaps I do him an injustice. You will recall that his first wife, embarking upon such a retreat, eventually chose to take Repose, sealing herself away from the world. He had lost her entirely to the most rigorous practice of kolinahr, and this had, I suspect, set off the chain of events that resulted in his estrangement from their son. Perhaps he feared he was about to lose another son to the silence. I cannot say: at the time I knew little about these matters. Had I known more of the circumstances surrounding his first wife’s retreat, I might have chosen a different place to begin my journey to kolinahr, but there it was. I too was on my way to the P’Tranek Monastery, and this must have caused him some qualms.
As for my mother… As the day of my departure drew closer, I could see that her unhappiness was growing. To cause my mother unhappiness was not what I wanted. Sitting with her in our garden, beneath the fa’tahr trees, whose branches were now bare, I said to her, “I do not wish you to think that this is a rejection of you, mother. But this is the logical step for me—”
“You will be changed, when you come back.”
“Not in what matters. Rather, I would say, I will be less burdened, less encumbered. I will be closer to my truer self.”
This was true, as it turned out, although not in the way I had anticipated. And it did not console my mother. She put her hand against my cheek. She said, “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds…” She stopped. The sky was growing dark, but I could hear that she was crying. “Come back to me, Spock,” she said. “That’s all I ask.”
Over the next few weeks, I received a series of communications from my former crew, my friends, asking about my decision and what it meant. One might have suspected a concerted attempt to dissuade me from my purpose. Only one of them was so blunt as to voice his direct concerns, however. The evening before I left, I received a message from Leonard McCoy.
“Damn stupid cockamamie idea,” he said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
* * *
P’Tranek Monastery is located in the foothills of the mountains around Lake Yuron. There are not many large inland seas or lakes on Vulcan, and the vastness of Yuron and the stillness of the waters draw many people to its shores. The south-east end of the lake in particular can become very busy with visitors. But if one wanders further north, into rockier terrain, one can find more tranquil places, where the silence is so great that one can imagine it to be tangible. The monastery itself is a warren of hidden rooms, secret passages, and quiet nooks dug out from the mountains. Hundreds of feet below the main part of the monastery, deep within the bedrock, lies the reason for its presence here: the hot springs, where one can cleanse the body to prepare for the purging of the mind. Outside visitors do come on occasion to P’Tranek, but I never saw any during my more than two years there. It was not difficult to avoid them: the maze of corridors and rooms permits as much privacy as is desired.
Much of monastery life would be familiar to anyone from your world who chose to investigate such establishments as you have there, Jean-Luc. But they are significant divergences between these and the sanctuaries that are found on Vulcan. For one thing, the nature of belief is completely different. These are not the kind of place where the divine is contemplated, or some supernatural entity is worshiped. There is no private or communal prayer. One meditates, either alone or else under the guidance or example of a high adept or master of kolinahr. I understand too that most enclosed religious sanctuaries on Earth place considerable emphasis on communal life, and I assume this arises from their historical roots as centers of trade and learning as much as they were places of prayer and worship. This is not the case on Vulcan, where communal life would provide an unwanted and unnecessary distraction from the work being undertaken. There was a period of several months during my stay at P’Tranek when I spoke to nobody other than T’Set, the master with whom I was working, and then only infrequently. At one point I went nearly a month without speaking to another living soul.
Does this sound overly solitary? Perhaps the thought of such solitude might even sound peaceful or restful. I did not find it so. On the contrary, the experience was grueling, one of the hardest tasks I have ever set myself. Each thought, I monitored and considered; each impulse, I checked and discarded. Some days the effort required to step outside of my small room was beyond my ability. The silence was a great benefit, since even the smallest sound seemed to take on the volume of an avalanche or great tempest. How very different this life was from that of an executive officer on a starship, where my days were filled with a series of requests, demands, decisions, and all manner of minutiae required to ensure the smooth running of a highly technologically advanced machine and the harmonious living of hundreds of people from multiple species contained therein. And this is not taking into account any crisis in which we might find ourselves. But, after all, had that not been the purpose of this retreat—to move from that life of constant action to one of complete contemplation? To consider everything that I had learned during those years and, through reflection, to transform that knowledge of the outside world into a deeper and more lasting self-knowledge?
All acolytes at P’Tranek at some point during their stay take the well-known walk that winds down from the monastery to the southwestern edge of the lake. This trail is known as the Path of Enlightenment. It is very old and well-trodden, smoothed down by the hundreds of others who have come this way in years past, and leads through the sheer black stone of the hills to a small cove on the shore of Lake Yuron. The rocks along the path are etched and painted with symbols and images from folklore and history; you cannot help but stop many times to contemplate them. There was one image in particular that drew me, and I sat for several hours before it, there, on the path. It depicted an acolyte like myself, but centuries ago, swimming with the o’ktath, hands out to touch; his mind to their minds. He had swum with them before they became extinct. He knew them before they all died. I knew them after they had been resurrected, when we had turned our knowledge of genetic engineering and the wisdom born of understanding the great crime that had been committed, to bring these creatures back to life.
The cove, when at last you reach it, the Haven of the Acolytes, is quiet and hidden. I spent three days there, alone, watching the surface of the water. The heat was like a forge. I fasted and meditated. I felt scoured, as if layers of myself were being removed, leaving only the essential knowledge required to carry me forward to a new way of being. It felt as if I was transmuting into something wholly new. I was not disturbed or distressed—far from it. This was why I had come here, after all. To rid myself of unnecessary emotions; to forge a self that was as close to pure reason and logic as possible. To disengage from what was small about the universe so that the greater whole could be more easily perceived and known.
Thro
ughout my entire time at P’Tranek, I was aware of some small part of my consciousness that was never wholly disengaged, that could never entirely divorce itself from the world. In my early days at the monastery, having identified this as the chief wellspring of emotional impulse within me, and guided by T’Set, I endeavored to reduce this to its bare minimum. I pictured it in my mind as a kind of blot: blue ink poured upon white paper, perhaps. I then imagined that action in reverse. Slowly, over the months, the blot became smaller, until it was no more than a point, perhaps the mark made by the nib of a pen pressed lightly upon the page. But that mark never entirely went away. Even in my last months at the monastery, when my mind was the most tranquil it has ever been, that dot remained. And then, for what reason, I did not understand, it seemed to begin to grow again, as if the sheet of paper upon which the pen was pressed had become suddenly absorbent. By that point, my self-discipline was such that I was able, with some concentration, to prevent the mark from spreading. But these lapses surprised me. I had presumed this mark would eventually reduce itself to nothing. But no—it seemed that my control was slipping.
I did not respond with anxiety, or worry, or panic—I was far beyond any such emotional response. Instead, I considered very carefully what this might mean, and I searched my memories for some guidance. I recalled the experiment in which I had participated in my academy days, when we had pushed a warp core very near to its limits. Just as we thought everything might slip out of control, a hyper-stable state emerged. Was something similar occurring here? Were these apparent lapses in my self-control merely a precursor to some hyper-stable state? Was I on the brink of achieving kolinahr? But the point remained obdurately there, and each day the mark arising from it grew a little larger, and, in the end, I realized that this was not something occurring entirely within my own mind, but some external influence seeping through. Some great consciousness, attempting to communicate, and finding, in the near blankness of my thoughts, a space upon which it could place its mark. The masters were right to tell me to depart. My time at P’Tranek was at an end. I had nothing more to learn there; there was nothing more they could teach me. Whatever knowledge I sought was not to be found on Vulcan and, in fact, was not to be acquired through achieving kolinahr.
The Autobiography of Mr. Spock Page 12