Thus, as you see, my interest in Romulan affairs stemmed back to the very start of my diplomatic career, although it did not become a priority for many years. My early years as a Federation envoy and, later, ambassador, were chiefly concerned with Klingon relations. I had great experience in first-contact missions, and this expertise was often called upon. During this time, I was also drawn into discussions with refugees from Bajor, requesting asylum and assistance, in the wake of the Cardassian annexation of their homeworld. I know that you yourself have knowledge of this conflict, Jean-Luc, and I wonder to what extent your experiences here may have informed your later decision to become involved in the relief mission to Romulus. I know that I was profoundly affected by the sight of those refugees from Bajor. I was reminded powerfully of my first encounter with Saavik and those abandoned children on Hellguard, victims of decisions taken light years away by powerful people who are most interested in weapons and fleets, who can cause grown men and children alike to weep, and must, I believe, think very little of the harm their policies cause—or, worse, take delight in knowing they have the power to cause such terrible harm.
The Cardassians, like the Romulans, were aggressive, expansionist, and merciless in conquest. What was it, I wondered, that drove civilization to such excesses, that made them do so much damage and create such harm? The answer to this question lay within my own history, of course: lack of resources on Vulcan was the cause of our most violent wars. Our attempt to rise above this bloodletting, an attempt which has lasted for millennia and which continues to this day, drove us to find technological methods to overcome these scarcities and psychological techniques to control our worst impulses. I myself was the product of a resource-rich civilization, one in which replicators were now ubiquitous, and dilithium powered our voyages from one world of plenty to another. I understood very little about poverty, and its effects. But I was forever frustrated that we were not able to do more for these Bajoran refugees, and I believe that we could have done more without provoking the Cardassians. I continued to believe we could do more. But, seeing what the Cardassians were doing on Bajor, and reading, as I did, their literature and its emphasis on duty and sacrifice, I struggled to see where this cycle of expansion and invasion would end, unless in more blood, and fire.
I mention this, since my experiences with Bajoran refugees were in a significant way contributory to the deep rift that was soon to occur between me and my father. I intend now to give a full account of this disagreement, which to my great and enduring sadness marred our relationship at the very end of his long life. I am aware, of course, that my stepmother, Perrin (whom I shall discuss further, later), informed you of this, Jean-Luc, when you first met on board the Enterprise. You have not, of course, heard my version of events, and while you might agree with her that I was wrong to do and say what I did, I would like you to have the chance to make that decision for yourself. As was always the case with my father, the roots of his disapproval of my stance toward the Cardassian Union ran deep, were complex—and were also entirely honorable and consistent with his beliefs. So were mine—but we did not agree. Having reminded myself of our closeness in the days after my mother’s death, I find myself saddened again to think of the great distance that was soon to emerge between us. I wish with all my heart that we had mended this rift in person before his death. My relationship with my father remains the source of many regrets, some of the greatest of my life. But I do not believe either of us could have acted any differently and remained true to ourselves. Let me explain myself to you, and you may be the judge.
Sarek
HERE IS A STORY ABOUT ME AND MY FATHER, which I have often thought about over the years. I was a very young man, not more than seventeen years old by Earth standards, I should say. My sister, having lost her place in the Vulcan Expeditionary Force, was now serving on the U.S.S. Shenzhou, and I was trying to find a way to tell my father of my intention to go to Starfleet Academy. It was late one evening. My father, recently returned from Earth, seemed particularly serene that evening, clearly glad to be back again in his home, with his wife and son. I remember that my mother was listening to Mozart—a string quartet, if I recall correctly. When my father suggested that we play kal-toh together, I accepted gladly. For the first time in a long time, he suggested that we play competitively. I took up the challenge. I had some theories about his play that I wished to test, and this game would at last provide me with the opportunity.
Partway through this game, which was very evenly matched, my father said to me, “My son, I have noticed that you watch me as often as you watch the board. Why is this?”
I considered my answer to this question carefully. “Sometimes,” I said, “I find inspiration in the world around me that assists with the game.”
My father looked at me dispassionately, and then turned back to the game. “That is not wise, Spock. Kal-toh is a game of strategy, of prediction and anticipation of the other’s moves arising from the moves already made. It is a game that requires thought, not reliance on inspiration. The board itself contains everything you require in order to be able to win.”
I did not reply. What would I say to him? The truth? That whenever he determined to use the T’Nir maneuver, the muscles of his lower left eyelid would twitch, ever so slightly? That, over the many years of our play, I had learned to distinguish twelve other miniscule but distinctive unconscious actions that gave me information about his intentions, and that I was now in the process of testing the extent to which this information might help me with the game? No, I could hardly tell Sarek of Vulcan—the most disciplined mind and respected politician of his generation—that he had a tell. I would not have dared. Moreover, I believe that he would have thought the use of such information to be a form of cheating. Kal-toh is a game in which one wins by logic, not by interpreting the unconscious body-speech of one’s opponent. Nevertheless, the purpose of any game is to win. I won that evening, and, after that, I began to win our games of kal-toh regularly. By the time I left home, we were evenly matched. I certainly saw this as an advantage. Yet, as I believe I told you once, Jean-Luc, my father never saw my ability to see beyond logic as a strength—only as a weakness.
When we were not at odds, this was no more than a slight irritation; an occasional reminder that our similarities were perhaps more superficial than he would like. Sometimes, this unresolved tension would exhibit as a cold but momentary quarrel, my mother mediating until some resolution was achieved—or, at least, some kind of equilibrium was restored. But, on one occasion, perhaps inevitably, the private fact of our fundamental difference intersected with our public lives—and we found ourselves on opposite sides of debate over policy. I should imagine that he had been anticipating such a disagreement once I left Starfleet and embarked upon a diplomatic career; I most certainly had. It was the logical outcome of our fundamental difference. I would not, however, have predicted that the source of our disagreement would have been over Federation relations with the Cardassian Union.
Cardassian-Federation relations had always been cautious, and, in recent years, had become increasingly wary. At this time, the Cardassian intelligence agency, the Obsidian Order, was particularly effective. On-the-ground information was hard to come by, and internal Cardassian politics were largely opaque. Our best sources seemed to suggest that the Cardassian military was now in the grip of particularly hawkish elements. Cardassian involvement in the internal affairs of Bajor had been troubling the Federation for many years, and when the annexation was formalized, this seemed, to my mind, to bear out my fear that the Union was entering a new period of aggressive expansionism. I spoke to many colleagues at the time who shared my fears, and I knew that at the very least, many of us were expecting increased skirmishes along the border, it not outright war. My first-hand experience with Bajoran refugees had naturally informed my perspective. Nevertheless, my surprise was great when my father made a speech to the Federation Council about it being imperative that we should seek to make a pea
ce treaty with the Union.
“Our treaty with the Klingons shows that great enmity can be transformed to great friendship, should conditions be propitious. Why not offer out this hand of friendship? Look at how we have succeeded in the past.”
The intervention of Sarek of Vulcan raised the debate over Federation-Cardassian relations to a new level. Many people—particularly those to whom I had been speaking privately—urgently wanted to know what Spock of Vulcan thought about this matter, particularly given my part in the Khitomer Accords.
I considered my position carefully before responding—and it might be helpful at this point to consider the nature of our respective roles. My father and I were both diplomats, yes—but we served different institutions. My father was the Vulcan ambassador to the United Federation of Planets. His task was to speak on behalf of the people of Vulcan to ensure that their interests were served within the interstellar community of which Vulcan was part, and also, perhaps, to influence Federation policy as best he could so that it aligned with Vulcan (by which I mean, dominant Surakian) political philosophy. I did not speak for Vulcan. My role at this time was a Federation envoy-at-large. My most usual purposes were to represent the Federation in first-contact situations, to provide a neutral observer to external conflicts, or to gather information on behalf of the Federation on external situations such as the Bajoran refugee crisis. I could not and did not speak for Vulcan and nor was that expected of me. I spoke in what I believed to be the best interest of the Federation as a whole, and I said what I considered to be true. That the dominant ideology now in power within the Union was of a kind so aggressive, so warlike, and so xenophobic that to make peace with such people was not only illogical but immoral. The comparison with the Klingons that my father had drawn was not valid: they had come to us, in an hour of great need, seeking peace. The situation was not the same.
“We know repeatedly from history that intolerance must not be tolerated,” I said. “Cardassian culture and civilization has many virtues—they are community-minded, sophisticated, and subtle. But the poverty of their natural environment, combined with their sense of the superiority of their own culture, has allowed a viciously imperialist faction to gain ascendancy. One does not make peace with those who hold such ideas. They do not act in the best interests of their people and they are unlikely to act in good faith. I do not believe that any peace made with such people would stand the test of time. Furthermore, to make peace with such people espousing beliefs such as this would be, I think, a betrayal of all those within the Union seeking a different path for their civilization.”
This speech made something of a stir. The clear rebuke given to my father was one matter; a Vulcan (even half a Vulcan such as I) adopting a stance that in no way could be considered pacifist was yet another. My speech had the desired effect. It influenced Federation policy toward the Cardassians for many years—and I have no regrets there. My characterization of their ruling class as vicious was accurate, as evidenced by the tragedy that was unfolding on Bajor; my belief that they were aggressively expansionist was borne out by their incursions across our borders. We were indeed eventually at war—but neither hampered nor humiliated by a peace treaty that was only ever intended to be kept by one side. My reading of the Cardassian military was accurate: they could not be understood logically. They were driven almost entirely by violent and aggressive passions. Reason, logic, and measured debate are no use in the face of such an enemy. A refusal to be intimidated, and compassion for their victims, are the only response.
My father did not reply either publicly or privately. His office issued what I can only call, despite the author, a waspish rebuttal to the effect that experience often gives a wider perspective and better information. He did not contribute to the debate over Cardassian-Federation relations again. He had made his position known and had nothing more to add. More than that, my father and I did not, in fact, speak to each other again for many years. His wife, however, had plenty to say to me. We had several conversations in the wake of this dispute, none of which were particularly pleasant, but which did, at least, give me more understanding of my father’s position in this matter.
My father had, by this time, remarried. His third wife, Perrin, had been a good friend of my mother’s. Their stories had many similarities: Perrin had come to Vulcan on marrying her first husband, Salik, a mathematician at the Science Academy. Perrin, who was a very gifted pianist, devoted her considerable organizational ability to the ShiKahr Interplanetary Arts Festival, becoming one of the festival’s directors. It was in this capacity that she had come to know my mother, and, after the early death of Salik, my mother had shown her great kindness. Perrin had been a frequent visitor during my mother’s last weeks, when her loyalty, great sense, and evident love of my mother had earned my respect. After my mother’s death, her visits continued, and, presumably, did so after I departed. Her marriage to my father was presented to me as a fait accompli; I received the news after the event, when they were traveling to Kir province for a quiet holiday together. It was a surprise, certainly, but I did not begrudge either of them whatever comfort or happiness their union brought. Perrin’s deep sense of loyalty was now directed to my father, and my public disagreement with him inevitably brought me into conflict with her.
This was an uncomfortable period, during which it often seemed to me that my father and I were conducting our argument through the medium of his third wife. In our conversations together, Perrin would relay to me some thinking of my father’s, to which I would give my response, which would then, I assume, be transmitted to him. For example, she suggested that I might consider whether my characterization of Cardassians as xenophobic was not a kind of xenophobia in itself. I replied that no, I did not believe so, since I did not think that all Cardassians hated other species, any more than I believed all Vulcans hated other species—not least because while I had indeed heard such sentiments expressed on Vulcan, I knew for a fact that they were not the whole. My father did not reply to this.
On another occasion, less fraught than the previous one I have outlined, Perrin suggested that if I wished to understand some of my father’s reasoning, I might recall his friendship with Ghett Iloja. Indeed, this was something I had forgotten, since Iloja died when I was still a small child. Ghett Iloja, a well-known and excellent Cardassian poet, was exiled from Cardassia on account of the fact that he lived openly with a man. The Cardassian notion of “family”, until after the Dominion War, was defined very narrowly, and solely in biological terms. As Cardassian society became more militaristic and xenophobic, a raft of laws came into force to enforce this concept of the family. For example, unions which could not lead to the production of children were outlawed, and illegitimate children were barred from inheritance and public life. These cruel interventions follow a similar pattern in many civilizations, and I believe you can deduce others for yourself, Jean-Luc. Iloja and his partner, Alon Kherrit, barred from living openly together in Cardassian space, were invited to Vulcan, settling in Prim, an artist’s community in T’Paal. (He is often referred to as Iloja of Prim; I wonder how he might have felt, being best known by the name of the place to which he was exiled.) Both Iloja and Kherrit became prominent voices in the Cardassian dissident movement, and it was in this context that my father became acquainted with them.
Most of this happened before my birth, although I do have one memory of Ghett Iloja, by this time widowed and very old. A big, white-haired, and fierce old man, ridged and scaled, resembling nobody I had ever met before. His blue eyes fixed upon me, and he said, “He’s very like you, Amanda.”
“Nonsense,” said my mother, “he looks exactly like his father.”
“Sarek’s face,” said Iloja. “Your mind.”
I must have been four years old. Iloja died later that year and was buried in Prim with Kheritt, who had died several years earlier. After the Dominion War and the reconstruction of Cardassia, when the old family laws were struck off, some of the soil from thei
r resting place was taken back home to the Union. There was, I understand, a moving ceremony which was attended by the castellan and his husband. A small stone garden now exists commemorating them, the red soil of Vulcan mingling with that of Cardassia and planted with kil’na succulents and perek flowers. One large stone stands in the center of the garden, and inscribed on this are Iloja’s most famous words:
Red sun, black night.
A new world rises
From the dust.
My father was of course often away from Vulcan, and I believe that the thought of being unable ever to return preyed upon his mind. After Iloja’s death, he often mentioned his exile, and the fact that neither he nor Kheritt ever returned home. To this extent, then, I can see that his understanding of the Cardassian people was shaped by this friendship. But the simple fact was that Iloja was an exile: he was, by definition, not representative of those in power in the Cardassian Union. Quite the contrary. I said this to Perrin; I received no response, through her, from my father. None of these conversations led to a satisfactory resolution. My father continued to be angry with me. I continued to hold firm in my belief that I had done the right thing. Perrin, caught in the middle of this dispute, quite naturally took my father’s side. Since this situation seemed irresolvable, and I had no wish to quarrel further or to force Perrin to continue in this uncomfortable position, the logical step was to minimize contact with them both. I sent them regular news, but we rarely communicated directly again, up to the time that I left Federation space for my first trip to Romulus.
The Autobiography of Mr. Spock Page 18