The youthful brow twisted with concentration, the mouth grimaced with the strain of furious thought. He looked up again.
"I can bring a healer here."
"It is a long journey back across the desert," Spock warned. "There are many dangers. And it will be night again soon. I will go." But his youthful self stood up, his voice defiant, determined.
"No. He is my pet. It is my duty. No one else can do this for me. But, will you stay with him?"
Spock considered, trying to keep events sorted out. If this had actually happened before, then his younger self should succeed in the journey. If it hadn't already occurred, and this was yet another variant in the time line, he might be risking his own life in all time lines by letting the boy go. Then he remembered the uncertainties of his early adolescence, the constant burning desire to prove himself again and again. He nodded his acquiescence, but reluctantly.
Young Spock took off immediately, disappearing over the rolling, heat-warped horizon in the direction of ShiKahr. Once the boy was out of sight, Spock relaxed and regarded the dying sun. It turned the desert floor to deep purples and threw maroon shadows in the lee of small dunes.
He reached out and idly stroked the massive head of the sehlat. The big fellow looked up at him trustingly. But it was also confused. That was no surprise. This was the first time it had gotten a close whiff of Spock. Obviously this tall stranger was not his young master.
And yet—smell and to a small extent sight, said otherwise. It was very puzzling.
"This did not happen before, I am sure of it," Spock said to him, ruffling the warm fur behind an ear. "My life's decision was made without the sacrifice of yours, old friend."
Ee-chiya moaned softly and stayed calm under Spock's ministering hands.
"I know there is pain. I can help a little. Sleep now."
He reached over and moved both hands on the sehlat's neck, probing. Then he made a motion similar to, and yet unlike, the thing he had done to the le-matya. The great eyes closed all the way and the entire massive body seemed to slump.
Spock sat back and watched the desert. Absently, gently, he continued to stroke the now supine head. Kirk would have found the present tableau incongruous. Doubtless Dr. McCoy would have seen in it opportunities to apply his own particular brand of humor.
But to Amanda or Sarek, the pose would have looked entirely natural and very very much in character.
It grew dark rapidly and soon young Spock had to depend on his natural, well-developed night vision. Vulcan had no moon.
He moved at a fast jog across the black, shadowed landscape. His eyes rarely took note of dim shapes and distant moving objects. They stayed fixed on the ground in front of him. A few small nocturnal animals observed the passage of the slim, ghostly shape. They scurried instinctively for the safety of their burrows.
Once, the predatory shriek of a night-hunting le-matya cut the air. It was distant, and young Spock didn't break his stride. But he did look back over his shoulder. And in not looking ahead, he failed to see the coil of dark vines half-buried in the sand.
Another step—the vines suddenly uncoiled, snapping out like a dozen whips and grabbing at his legs. He made a half-running, half-standing leap that would have done credit to any athlete in his age class and fairly flew over the powerful thin tentacles.
There was a sharp, popping sound. One convulsing, clutching coil had just missed his ankle and snapped instead against the heel of his left boot. He continued on, resolving to keep his eyes on the rough gravel and sand immediately in front of him even if a le-matya screamed right in his ear.
The writhing unthinking vines of the carnivorous d'mallu did not ponder on the near miss. They merely recoiled and reset as the plant—with the inherent patience of all growing things—arranged itself once more to wait for less elusive prey.
There was a peculiar emblem on the door, cut into the highly varnished yellow wood and inlaid with shiny metal. Below this an odd-shaped plaque, functional as well as decorative, was also recessed in the wood.
A soft, tinkling clash—wind playing with distant temple bells. It stopped, started again as young Spock shoved insistently against the plaque.
It seemed ages passed before the door finally opened. A tall, middle-aged Vulcan appeared, dressed in a togalike night garment. This toga was red with garish blue stripes. A private expression of a publicly prosaic physician.
The elder eyed Spock with evident displeasure. He was not in the mood for idle chitchat.
"The hour is late. I trust your errand is urgent?"
"Yes—," young Spock panted, trying to catch his breath and speak at the same time. "Most urgent, Healer. My sehlat fought a le-matya in the foothills. He suffered a small wound. The poison of the le-matya's claws is working in him now. Please—" The carefully maintained, even tone began to crack. "You must come with me. He needs your knowledge!"
The healer considered, studying his late-night caller. The dim light at the door made recognition difficult, but not impossible.
"You are Spock, son of Sarek, are you not?"
"Yes, Healer." The physician nodded in satisfaction.
"I have heard of you. You have a tendency toward what humans call 'practical jokes.' "
The youth nodded knowingly. He'd expected something like this. Vulcan gossip reached far and lasted long.
"It's true, I did that two years ago, and did not repeat it. Healer, I would not call you out at such an hour if it were not deathly serious. You have heard several things about me, it seems. Have you ever heard the son of Sarek called a liar?"
The healer's tone softened. Such direct challenge from one so young could only be admired.
"No. That has never been said." A quick glance at the boy's disheveled clothes and flushed face brought him to a decision.
"Very well. Wait here and I will gather my things."
Young Spock called after him as he disappeared into the house.
"Healer, please hurry!" Inwardly, he was relieved. He'd delivered himself and his message so quickly, so urgently, that the healer had not thought to ask a most obvious question.
What was a young lad of seven doing in the black mountains with his sehlat in the middle of the night, and why had he come alone to get help?
Spock was not ready to waste time on embarrassing explanations.
It was wondrous strange to be sitting alone at night with a dying figure out of one's old childhood, instead of in the commander's cabin on the Enterprise.
The sehlat moaned softly, conscious once again. A quiver of pain ran down its flanks. Inside Spock's belly something tightened. There was nothing more he could do for the suffering animal. To put it under again might prove fatal in itself, given the advanced state of weakness of the creature's systems.
There was another soft moan. At first he ignored it. Then he rose and stared into the night. The moan was still distant, but growing rapidly louder. It had not come from the sehlat.
It was a thick purr now, rough and mechanical. He scanned the dark horizon wishing, wishing for a battery of portable lights from the starship. But the Enterprise had not even been built yet. He didn't have so much as a flare.
It was needed. Silhouetted against the night sky, he saw the source of the sound. A desert flier, a streamlined version of the standard city skimmer. Low and rakish, but practical; built for emergency bursts of speed.
An ordinary citizen would not rate such an expensive, compact craft. Logically, he had no need of it. It was also bigger than the average skimmer, big enough to carry several passengers. There were only two figures in it.
As the craft drifted closer he recognized his younger self and another, older man. That could only be the healer young Spock had gone to find.
The skimmer came close. It whined to a halt and hovered a meter or so off the ground. The rocks where he waited with Ee-chiya were jagged and close together, so the skimmer pilot had settled down in the nearest flat space. It raised a cloud of sand and dust before the old
er Vulcan cut its power.
He climbed out, and young Spock began to lead him up into the rocks. Spock turned and walked back to stand next to the heaving bulk of the sehlat. He stroked the head, scratched it behind weakly fluttering ears.
"It will not be long now, old friend."
A moment later young Spock and the healer appeared, scrambling over the last rise. They moved to join him.
The healer took only the briefest of looks at the long scratch where the le-matya's claws had struck. Then he removed several compact medical sensors from his carry-case and began a thorough examination of the stricken animal.
Spock stood and placed a hand on the youngster's shoulder. From the first there had been no shock at the sight of his younger self. He'd been well prepared for that. But this first actual physical contact brought home the alienness of the situation in a way that mere sight never could.
The full, true incredibility of it slammed home for the first time. Under his hand the boyish shoulder stirred. Spock felt a need to mumble something, anything.
"You made the desert crossing most efficiently, Spock. And at night too. I have a hunch—call it a preliminary evaluation based on sound initial observations—that you will not fail your father in the Kahs-wan." Young Spock didn't look up at him, instead kept his gaze focused on the sehlat and the healer.
"I wanted only to help Ee-chiya. He was my father's before he was mine. I didn't want him to come with me, but he wouldn't stay behind. To lose him—" Spock interrupted as gently as possible.
"A Vulcan would face such a loss without tears."
"How?" Controlled or not, there was a universe of emotion packed into that one word, that single desperate exclamation.
"By understanding that every life comes to an end when—when time demands it. Believe me, Spock, when I say that the demands of time are not to be argued with. Loss of life is to be mourned, true, but only if that life was wasted.
"Such was not the case with Ee-chiya."
The healer looked up from the sehlat. He had to hunt a moment before locating them in the dark.
"Spock?" The youngster turned. So, automatically, did the older Spock. The boy glanced up at him curiously, but there were other things on his mind. He dismissed the incident as he moved closer to the healer. Spock followed, thankful that the healer had not witnessed the lapse in his meticulous masquerade.
"Yes, sir?" The sehlat was moaning louder and continuously now. The healer glanced down at the animal and shook his head slowly.
"It has been too long, I fear, and the scratch was deep enough. No known antidote can save his life." The boy stood silently in the dark, contemplative.
"Is there nothing you can do?"
"To save him, nothing. But I can prolong his life—though he will always be in pain. Or . . . I can release him from life. In this I will need your decision. He is your pet." The healer did not look up at him.
Alien, unchildish thoughts vied for attention within young Spock's mind. He turned away from the two adults so they could not see the effort he was putting into his answer—or the anguish that might be visible.
Spock waited several minutes, then moved up quietly to stand behind the boy. He put his hand on the small shoulder once more. This time there was no shock, no sense of unnaturalness. For the first time, he truly was Selek, the wise cousin. Young Spock glanced up at him, then back down at Ee-chiya. When he spoke it was in a flat, mechanical voice, to the healer.
"Release him. It is fitting he dies as he lived—with peace and dignity."
The healer nodded expressionlessly and reached into his case. He withdrew a small tube whose size and looks belied its effectiveness. There were only three controls on it—two tiny dials and a button at one end.
He adjusted the settings. Young Spock watched for another moment, then walked over and knelt beside the sehlat. He sat down on the hard ground and took the massive head in his lap.
Ee-chiya stared up at him and burrowed himself deeper, closer to the boy. There was an ethereal, minute hiss as though from a tiny spray. Young Spock's face remained unchanged, emotionless—Vulcan!
"I regret that my actions troubled you in any way, Father," young Spock said, "but I am convinced my actions were necessary." Sarek blinked in the strong light pouring in through the garden window as he studied his son.
There was something in the youth's attitude and speech pattern that the elder Vulcan had not detected before. In fact, both seemed somehow rather like . . . he chanced a quick and hopefully unnoticed glance towards his odd cousin, standing impassively by a far bookcase.
Spock was studiously examining an ancient terran book. It happened to be a fantasy, a childhood favorite of his by a terran with an odd name. Sarek could not see the title and it probably wouldn't have set any thoughts going in his head anyway. The paper books were Amanda's province. His mother, however, might have made something of the coincidence, but she was too relieved to notice much of anything but her son just now.
Sarek turned back to the boy.
"I hope you can explain why it was necessary. Your mother and I were . . . worried."
"There was a decision to be made," said young Spock firmly. "A direction for my life had to be chosen—and before the artificiality of the Kahs-wan. I chose—Vulcan."
On the other side of the room, Amanda turned away briefly in her chair, fighting off tears. She felt a slight sense of loss, common to all mothers at those strange, off-center times when they realize their child is growing up. Her son had elected to follow the more difficult path.
Sarek exhibited no outward reaction to this announcement—but he was naturally pleased. Of course, it would be unthinkable to show it, or to smile. He nodded solemnly.
"It is well. You have comported yourself with honor." He paused. "We will see to it that Ee-chiya is brought home from the mountains."
"Thank you, Father." Young Spock shuffled his feet impatiently. "If you will excuse me now, I have some business to attend to."
"Business?" queried Sarek suspiciously.
"With some schoolmates. A demonstration of the Vulcan neck pinch. Our cousin taught me." He nodded by way of excusing himself and left the room.
When he'd departed, Spock replaced the friendly old tome in its slot on the shelf and moved towards Sarek and Amanda.
"I, too, must beg to be excused. I must make my farewells now. Your hospitality has been most kind, more than you can know. But I must journey on. Already I have spent too much . . ." he paused and almost, almost grinned, "too much time here."
"Just enough time," said Sarek gratefully. "You saved my son's life. There is no way I can ever repay you for that." Spock interrupted him smoothly, his voice turning serious.
"Try to understand your son, Sarek of Vulcan. His troubles, his confusion, his battles with his emotions. That will be repayment enough."
"An odd and intimate request from a stranger, but I will honor it. I am bound to honor it. If you ever pass this way again, or if there is anything I can ever do for you—all that I have is yours."
"I should like to, but I fear that circumstance will dictate that I not retrace this path again." This was becoming too painful. It was time to leave. He raised his hand in salute. "Peace and long life, cousin."
"Peace and long life," saluted his mother and father in return. "Long life and prosper, cousin."
He didn't look back as he left the garden gate and started down the path leading back toward the desert. But he could feel their curious eyes on his back, watching, watching . . .
He remembered now that his parents had never mentioned a cousin Selek. He smiled inwardly. Even so, he understood now why he had never forgotten that remarkable individual . . .
James T. Kirk paced nervously back and forth in front of the Time Gate. He was alone on the rocky platform in front of the Guardian of Forever.
Unresolvable shapes drifted across the center of the time portal, cloaking unknown mysteries, enigmatic pasts. Suddenly he stopped pacing and stared
at the rippling mists. They began to slow, to organize and coalesce into a definite pattern. The Gate was activating.
It was confirmed a second later as a deep, now familiar rumble issued from some still indeterminate locale.
"THE TRAVELER IS RETURNING."
Kirk studied the Gate with painful expectation. At first there was nothing. He began to worry. Then, in the distance, a transparent flowing form seemed to jump towards him. It was solidifying as it came through the Gate.
A familiar lanky frame, clad in the attire of another world's bygone days, stepped out and shook hands with him. Spock didn't say anything—but Kirk had had enough experience reading barely noticeable Vulcan expressions to tell that the trip hadn't been a total disaster.
Spock went immediately to his waiting pile of normal clothing. Off came the worn soft-suit and tight boots, swapped for the daytime uniform of a Starfleet commander.
"I sent the others up to the ship," Kirk volunteered in response to the unasked question. He nodded in the direction of the again blurred time portal. "What happened in there? You were only gone twenty-four minutes . . . subjective time."
"Nothing different happened, nothing unexpected, Captain." He paused. "Oh, one small thing was changed, nothing vital. A pet died."
Kirk looked relieved. "A pet? Well, that wouldn't mean much in the course of time."
"It might," Spock replied, "to some—"
Kirk eyed his first officer more closely as he swapped Vulcan carry-bag for utility belt, communicator, and other modern necessities. Kirk hesitated, decided to ask no further questions—for now. There were more important ones to be answered. He flipped open his communicator.
"Enterprise . . . this is the captain. We're moving away from the Guardian. There'll be two to beam up."
"Aye, sir," came Engineer Scott's reply.
A moment later both men stood still as a luminescent glow enveloped them and turned them into pieces of sun.
This state was quickly reversed in the main transporter room of the starship. Both Kirk and Spock held their positions, however, after rematerializing—Kirk uncertain, Spock apprehensive.
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