The Autobiography of Mr. Spock

by Una McCormack

  “I’ve known her from early childhood,” Saavik said. “She is quick, intelligent, naturally well informed and very well disciplined. I believe you’ll find her a very apt pupil. Her name is Valeris.”

  I most certainly did find her an apt pupil. Valeris was all these things that Saavik had indicated and more. As well as the natural advantages acquired from an intensive Vulcan education, she possessed a sharpness of wit that marked her out from the beginning as something distinctive. She reminded me, in many ways, of T’Kel, my friend from my own days at the academy, in that there was a freshness and subtlety to her intelligence that was not often the case for those who come through the rigor of the learning domes. She had not been stifled by her early training; instead, she was a creative thinker. She often seemed amused by what she saw around her. I learned that her parents—both Vulcan—were diplomats. Her early years had been spent traveling with them to their postings, where she had been educated in a variety of different schools. She had returned to Vulcan at the age of twelve to finish her education there, attending a prestigious boarding school in ShiKahr. (Her parents remained on Inkaria, where her mother had recently taken a posting.) She graduated joint first in her school year; and, with Saavik’s assistance, prepared an impressive and naturally successful application to enter Starfleet Academy. We all saw great things in her future. During her years at the academy, she shone, and she was the first Vulcan to graduate top of her class. I was quietly proud of her accomplishments; perhaps too proud, and therefore blinkered. Certainly, I was pleased to think that a Vulcan might well become my replacement on the Enterprise.

  Were there signs that Valeris was not all that she appeared to be? I have looked back many times to try to decide whether we should have caught something. I will say now that there was nothing. While I was naturally pleased to see a Vulcan student excel, my colleagues, who had no similar vested interest, believed at the time that she was a star pupil. I remember conversations with my fellow teachers about whether we had an admiral in the making. She was swift and confident in judgment, and her evident sense of humor leavened what I believe others find to be dour about their Vulcan colleagues. But, having spoken to others at the time, and having searched my memory, I remember this, which perhaps is revealing.

  During her time at the academy, Valeris took the Kobayashi Maru test half-a-dozen times. As you will recall, Jean-Luc, this simulation is given to all cadets on the command track, which intentionally presents them with a no-win situation in order to test how they are able to cope with, firstly, an impossible situation and, secondly, with failure. They are called to assist a distressed civilian ship, the Kobayashi Maru, but giving assistance takes them across the border into the neutral zone, and risks causing a diplomatic incident. The first time—despite the increasing dismay of her fellow cadets—Valeris simply refused to cross the border. The needs of the many, she argued, outweighed the needs of the few. Aiding a civilian freighter was simply not worth the price of a potential interstellar war. In our debriefing afterwards, I suggested that she might learn something from engaging directly with the substance of the simulation. At this prompting, she tried once more, this time crossing the border, in order to acquire further data. This clearly stimulated her thinking in some way, as she kept asking to take the test again. In retrospect, I can see that the test never engaged her on an emotional or even a philosophical level. She tried out several different scenarios, identifying the parameters of the test, and concluded that her first decision was the correct one. When I suggested that her unwillingness to give aid in distress might violate Starfleet regulations and bring her before a court-martial, she replied, “Logic would be my defense.”

  “Logic,” I told her, “is the beginning of wisdom, not the end.” This was the first time I would make this observation to her, but not the last. She nodded, gravely, but with that slight twist of the lips that always hinted at some private joke to which others were not privy. I see now how little she had understood of what I had to teach her. No, I should correct that—she saw exactly what I had to teach her, and she could see no value in my lessons.

  After Valeris’ treason, I often reflected upon her upbringing, considering what impact it might have had upon her worldview, trying to determine what had gone wrong. How much easier it would be if there was some tragedy, some trauma, to which we could assign blame, to which we could point and say, “If not for that…” But the simple fact was that there was no such incident. Unlike Jim, she had no personal reason to hate Klingons and wish them ill. And, in fact, she did not hate Klingons. She simply did not believe that, based on available evidence, we could logically conclude that peace was possible. By preference, she would not have sought peace with the Klingons at all. She would not have crossed that border into uncharted territory. But she was a junior officer, not in a position to influence such high-level policy decisions. Others had brought the Federation to this impasse. She believed that she was duty bound to prevent any further demilitarization of our borders, and thus was persuaded into the plot.

  Valeris did not regret this choice of hers. I know this because I mind-melded with her. This action of mine is the one that, looking back over my life, still suffuses me with deep and abiding shame. When we meld with the mind of another, we should do this with our minds as still as possible, with due reverence for the deep encounter with another which is about to occur, with a sense that while boundaries might for a while be dissolved the integrity of the other must be respected. This is not what happened when I melded with the mind of Valeris. I acted then in anger, out of a sense of betrayal, and with no concern for the pain that I was causing this young woman who had been my student. I used a psychological technique aimed to permit the free meeting of consenting minds as a tool of interrogation, a weapon of war. In effect, I tortured her. I prized open her thoughts and forced from her the information that I required. When I entered into her mind, I found her cool, icy, like a calculating machine, and I took what I wanted. As I left her mind, I sensed her growing anger and her shame. I marveled at the speed with which she quenched these emotions and turned them into something close to admiration that I had done the needful thing. I knew also that I would never be forgiven for this humiliation; I can hardly forgive myself. The only thing that makes such an abuse of power worse, to my mind, is that nobody around me intervened.

  “I think, sometimes,” Valeris said to me once, “that you still regret what you did to me on the bridge of the Enterprise.”

  “I regret that act greatly,” I said. “There would surely have been a better way to discover what we needed to know. Instead, I succumbed to anger, and I did you great harm.”

  “You did what was necessary,” she said. Again, she gave that small smile that she had used back in her academy days, that sense she conveyed of always finding the situation in which she found herself slightly amusing. “I would surely have done the same, should the need have arisen.”

  That, perhaps, is the bitterest aspect of this whole affair to me—that in the first shock of her betrayal, I acted so cruelly and so wrongly. I acted out of anger, hate, and expediency. All those years ago, at the start of my time on the Enterprise, both Pike and Number One, wiser and more experienced than I was, saw that this test was one that I would have to face one day. At that time, I cheated—I saw through the simulation, avoided the question, and never truly faced up to what was being asked of me. The real test came far too late in life, and I failed. If there is any consolation to be drawn, any meaning to be found, at least I understood my friend Jim better. I could understand now his anger over the death of his son and his rage toward the Klingon offer of peace. When I look back at some of the disastrous decisions and actions that I took at this time, I can at least console myself with that.

  Valeris has never regretted the decisions that she made all those years ago to betray the Federation and attempt to derail the peace talks with the Klingons. I know this because I have seen her in prison many times over the years. I have force
d myself to visit her because to look at her is to recall what I did, and to remind myself that I should never do the same again, that I should never allow anger to drive me to such cruelty. Valeris is older now, but she has never faulted the choices that she made, not even faced with the fact of the peace treaty that we eventually signed.

  “I made the best decisions I could, based on available evidence,” she said. “I would make the same choices again.”

  The last time that I saw Valeris was only a few months ago. All that youth and brilliance and promise has been wasted in a Federation penal colony. She knew about the failure of my mission to Romulus—I had told her about that. She knew about the synth attack on Mars, about Starfleet’s ending of your mission, and about the Federation’s ongoing retrenchment. She remarked that, at last, Starfleet had come round to her way of thinking, and I found it hard to disagree. She was not triumphant, merely impassive. I realized that she had always expected such an outcome.

  “I knew they would learn this lesson in time,” she said. “I imagine that you too will learn it in time, Spock.”

  “No,” I replied, quite truthfully. “I never shall.”

  * * *

  The shock of this betrayal was, in part, one reason behind my decision to at last step away from Starfleet and move into the diplomatic career that had long been my father’s ambition for me. That some amongst the upper echelons on Romulus could hate us so badly that they would enter into a conspiracy with like-minded people within our own government, and within the Klingon government—the irony that this plot provided the evidence I had hoped for that it was indeed possible for our three civilizations to work together was not lost on me, Jean-Luc, even if they were not working together for the right reasons. But could we find a better, more enduring friendship? Gorkon’s successor, his daughter, Azetbur, was wholly committed to securing the treaty that her father had died for, and so were we. There was a somber air to these proceedings. We were all of us mindful that we had come very close to a terrible war, that Gorkon had given his life to prevent this, and that we had been granted a second chance. This opportunity was not to be missed.

  At least, this was the feeling with the Federation and the Klingon delegations. The Romulan deputation remained aloof, and they withdrew from our talks after a few days. This was a blow, certainly, and one which required the attention and expertise of one of our most experienced and distinguished diplomats—Sarek of Vulcan. My father left negotiations with the Klingons in the hands of me and the rest of the team, and left Khitomer to continue separate talks with the Romulans. This process would consume his energies for most of the rest of the following year. The withdrawal of the Romulans, which one might have thought would have killed the talks at the outset, turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Finding agreement between three interstellar powers was an exponentially more complicated task. The Romulan withdrawal, while narrowing the scope of what we might have hoped to achieve in terms of broader interstellar peace, made an agreement between the Federation and the Klingons considerably more likely.

  I also found that—despite my early misgivings—the work of a diplomat suited me. Attention to detail, a willingness to listen, a not inconsiderable degree of patience, and a desire to find common ground that is tempered by an unwillingness to suffer fools—these are strengths of mine (the latter, in particular, Leonard McCoy could have confirmed, in his day). I could not have been more satisfied with the treaty that was signed. Achieving peace with the Klingons was no mean feat. As a matter of personal pride, my father’s absence from the proceedings meant that the success of the Federation deputation could be attributed primarily to my leadership of our negotiating team. I was no longer in his shadow, but assuredly my own man. We corresponded regularly throughout this time, of course, and when I indicated to him that I would not be returning to Starfleet, but intended to move toward a diplomatic career, I received the following message, delivered in his usual passionless tone: “This is a logical step, Spock, and one which will at last make best use of your talents.” This I took to be a sign of his approval, not often given, and thus doubly satisfactory. The rapprochement with my father, the chance to work closely with him, and so much in step, had been a deeply rewarding part of this process.

  But, on the whole, this had been a very difficult time for me. Not only had there been the shock of the betrayal of Valeris, a student in whom I had invested a great deal of my hopes for the future, I was also struggling with a sense that I had, in some way, been remiss in responsibilities as her mentor. I was deeply troubled, and filled profoundly with regret, at the misuse I had made of my ability to meld with her. Reflecting on these errors was to cause me many sleepless nights and disturb many attempts to settle my mind through meditation.

  I was troubled, too, at how close the most enduring friendship of my life had come to ending over these events. I am grateful, at least, that Jim and I had the chance to remember that more united us than kept us apart before events overtook us once more. Two old warriors, one blinded by his grief, the other blinkered by his pride—after all those years, and with all that experience between us, were we no better than the fools we had been at the start? At least we had the sense to see it. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone is human, as Jim Kirk once told me, except when they are not. When the Khitomer Accords were signed, I received three messages. One was from my father, a brief note to say that the outcome was “assuredly most satisfactory”. Another was from my mother, stating, “We are both beyond proud.” The final message was from Jim: “Well, I guess that’s done. Here’s to peace and all who sail in her.” This was the last direct communication I received from my old friend. The next news that I had of Jim Kirk was that he was dead.

  Pardek

  WHEN THE ROMULAN CONTINGENT WITHDREW FROM THE KHITOMER CONFERENCE, and my father left the negotiations in my hands to continue his dialogue with them, none of us anticipated that he would be kept away for almost a year. I know that even as I took on the role of lead negotiator, I always kept at the back of my mind the notion that Sarek would return to join us, that he would resume his leadership of our delegation, and that he was the one that, ultimately, would be one of the chief signatories of any treaty that emerged between our two civilizations. As events turned out, he did not return until long after the treaty was signed. In the meantime, I had resigned my Starfleet commission and returned to Vulcan.

  Even before the treaty was signed, I had come to the conclusion that my time in Starfleet had reached a natural conclusion. All of my friends from the Enterprise had moved on and the ship was in good hands. Moreover, what had happened with Valeris suggested to me that I had become complacent as a mentor, and that I needed to reflect upon what had occurred before believing that I had anything more to teach. It is most humbling, at a late stage of a career that been marked with many successes, to find oneself failing so completely. But I should not leave you with the impression that my decision to leave Starfleet was one motivated by the desire to retreat. On the contrary, I saw it as the start of what I hoped would be a positive new stage in my life. The treaty with the Klingons was undoubtedly a huge achievement. It was the work of many people, but I had certainly played a significant part. It was clear to me that I was ready now to embark upon a new phase of my life, and one that had always been at the back of my mind, given my background.

  But my new career as a diplomat ended up being put on hold for the best part of a year. A tragedy was about to come to our family, one for which I had not prepared myself, having assumed that it would still be many decades hence. Nevertheless, while I was still shaken by the news of Jim’s death, I received a message from Saavik asking me to come back to Vulcan as quickly as I possibly could. “Your mother needs you,” she said—she did not have to say any more. I was homeward bound within hours.

  My mother, who was now ninety-one years old, had relocated from the capital to the house in the L’langon Mountains while my father was away on his current diplomatic mission. That she h
ad not joined him on this should, on reflection, have sounded some warning bells in my mind. I believe that at the time I had simply assumed that she had thought, as I did, that he would be returning quickly—and she was no longer a young woman. There was much to be said for remaining in comfort at home. Still, she had invariably accompanied him in the past. She was both his comfort and his confidante. Amanda Grayson’s hand and mind lay behind many of his greatest achievements. I thought, as I traveled back to Vulcan from home, and received regular and most worrying updates from Saavik about my mother’s declining health, that I should have been more attentive to the fact of her absence from his side. I knew, at once, that she must be far more ill than she had allowed either her husband or her son to realize while we were preoccupied with our negotiations with Klingons.

  Ninety-one is not old, and while the human lifespan is several decades less than Vulcan lifespan, I had no reason to think that my mother would soon leave us. She had been taken unwell some years previously, and was diagnosed with degenerative xenosis, a condition which can affect some people who spend extensive periods living on alien worlds. This causes degeneration of the neural pathways, and, while there is no cure, there are various treatments that can delay the progress of the disease. My mother had been swiftly treated and the condition was, as far as I was aware, under control. Even taking that into account, I had assumed she would surely be with us for another thirty years. Fifty, if we were very lucky, and the treatments continued to be successful. Both my maternal grandparents had lived past one-hundred-and-thirty; my uncle, Amanda’s older brother, was very active at ninety-four. That we might lose her soon had simply not crossed my mind. But when I arrived home, and saw her, sitting in the garden, I knew immediately that very little time remained. She had always been a small woman, but there had been a warmth and strength about her that gave her great presence. Now she was frail, tiny, as if with one breath of wind she might be blown away. But my greatest misgivings arose when we spoke. Coming to kneel beside her, I took her hand in mine.