The Fire and the Rose

by David R. George III

  “I am,” Spock said. “I was contacted by Doctor McCoy.”

  “Yes,” the nurse said, standing. “He said you’d be here shortly. If you wait here, I’ll get him for you.” He set the data slate down and walked past Spock to the far end of the room. The wide doors there parted silently before him and he disappeared into the intensive care section. Before long, he returned and motioned Spock forward. “Doctor McCoy asked that you come in,” he said.

  Spock trod over to the nurse, who then escorted him into a central observational compartment, off of which opened a dozen large patients’ alcoves. A long multi-person workspace stood in the middle of the area, where two other medical professionals currently sat. The illumination remained low, though brighter light spilled out from one of the far alcoves. A melange of scents reached Spock, some of which he associated with illness, some with healing.

  The nurse led Spock through the compartment, stopping at the well-lighted alcove. Within, a variety of diagnostic and life support equipment lined the bulkheads. Dr. McCoy stood beside an oversized diagnostic pallet, examining the readings on the panel above it.

  Captain Kirk lay on the pallet. An intravenous sleeve remained wrapped around his upper arm. The neural stimulator affixed to his temples had been removed, replaced now by a neurological monitor. With his eyes closed, the captain looked weak, but far less so than he had even earlier today.

  “Spock,” McCoy said quietly. “Come in.” Dark circles arced beneath the doctor’s eyes. Spock knew that he’d had little sleep over the past few nights, spending many of those hours in the Enterprise’s sickbay.

  “I’ll leave you to the doctor,” the nurse said, and then he turned and left.

  Spock stepped forward into the alcove. “I’m sorry to get you down here so late,” McCoy said. “I should have told you not to come until the morning. As you can see, Jim’s already fallen asleep.”

  “What is the captain’s condition?” Spock asked.

  “Even before we left the Enterprise, he showed some good neural activity,” McCoy said, “and a few hours ago, it got even stronger. About ninety minutes ago, he regained consciousness. I ran some tests and he’s showing good progress.”

  “Did you speak with him?” Spock asked.

  “I did,” McCoy said. “He was exhausted, but he was coherent. He knew who he was and who I was. He remembered being on the bridge and fighting the Klingon vessels, but not getting into the turbolift or the explosion. That’s common, though, not recalling the time leading up to a head injury.”

  “What is your prognosis?” Spock asked.

  “Complete recovery,” McCoy said. “We’ll probably keep him here another week or two, but he should be fine.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Spock said. “For your work here and on the Enterprise.”

  McCoy tilted his head to one side. “Are you saying good-bye, Spock?”

  “I am merely offering my gratitude for your exemplary efforts,” Spock said.

  “Well, then, you’re welcome,” McCoy said. “Come on, we should probably both get some sleep.”

  Spock peered at the captain, then back at McCoy. “I would like to stay for a few moments, if you have no medical objections.”

  “No, no medical objections, but…” McCoy did not finish his statement, but peered appraisingly at Spock. “No, it’s all right,” he finally concluded. “Just remember that even Vulcans need sleep.”

  “I do not intend to stay long,” Spock said. “Good night, Doctor.”

  “Good night, Spock,” McCoy said, and then he left. Spock listened to his footsteps, following them until the doctor exited the intensive care section. Then he looked over at the captain.

  Yet again, Spock felt a billow of emotion—happiness for his friend’s recovery—but now, he found it much easier collecting himself than he had at other times recently. He constricted his feeling, then replaced it with the logic of the situation. With the captain in an injury-induced coma for three days, his return to awareness and lucidity provided reasonable cause for relief.

  Spock saw a chair by the captain’s bedside, but he chose not to use it. Instead, he simply stood in the corner, near where he’d entered the alcove. He brought his hands together before him, entwining his fingers, then bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  In his mind, Spock envisioned the statue of Vektan in the T’Lona Sanctuary. He concentrated on the visage of the ancient Vulcan healer, revered for his teachings on applying the mind to aid the body in overcoming sickness and injury. Spock found power in the image, and peace in his meditation. His breathing slowed and his mind cleared.

  Seconds passed, and then minutes, and then-

  A sound stirred Spock from his reverie, like a wind sighing through a canyon. It came a second time, and he opened his eyes. On the diagnostic pallet, Captain Kirk had grown restless, his head moving sporadically from side to side, his arms twitching, though his eyes remained shut. He vocalized once, more a low moan than a word.

  On the captain’s temples, the neurological monitor gave no warning of any kind. Above him, the diagnostic panel recorded an increased respiratory rate, but no alarms activated. Still, unsure if the captain might be having a seizure, Spock sped out of the alcove.

  At the workspace in the center of the main intensive care compartment, he addressed the two medical personnel there, a Denobulan woman and a human man. “Captain Kirk is not conscious, but he is moving about on his pallet,” he said. “Since he has suffered trauma to his brain, I thought he should be checked.”

  Before Spock had even finished speaking, both people had risen from their chairs. “Let’s take a look then,” said the woman as both she and the man left the work space and started toward the captain’s alcove. “I’m Doctor Lexit, by the way,” the woman said as she walked. “This is Nurse Fenster.”

  Spock said nothing, the introductions incongruous to him under the circumstances. But as he followed the doctor and nurse into the alcove, Lexit said, “And you are?”

  “Commander Spock,” he said. On the pallet, he saw the captain still shifting around.

  “Spock?” the doctor said as she bent over the captain and examined the neurological monitor. The nurse took up a position on the other side of the pallet. “First officer of the Enterprise, right?” Lexit asked before gazing up at the diagnostic panel. “I saw the ship in the repair dock. Looks like you were fortunate to get here in one piece.”

  Again Spock did not respond. He watched as the doctor picked up a scanner and tricorder and started to examine the captain, who murmured again, though nothing intelligible. “Trouble with the Klingons?” she asked.

  “Doctor,” Spock said, “I am not at liberty—”

  “Nurse, four cc’s of improvoline,” Lexit said, as though Spock had not even spoken.

  Fenster pulled open a medical pouch that hung from his waist. From it, he extracted a hypo, to which he then attached an ampoule. He adjusted the device’s setting, then handed it across to the doctor. Lexit held the hypo up herself and rechecked the setting. “Captain Kirk is just dreaming, Commander Spock,” she said. “All of his neurological and other readings are consistent with that and normal. We want him to rest more peacefully, though, so I’m going to give a small dosage of sedative.” She reached down and injected the improvoline into the captain’s arm, through the orange patient’s jumpsuit he wore.

  “Edith,” Jim whispered.

  Spock felt as though he’d been stabbed. All of the emotions he’d been experiencing in recent days, and all the way back to his second encounter with the Guardian, even back to his first encounter, came charging back. He could focus on only one thought: What have I done?

  “Commander Spock, are you all right?” Lexit asked, staring over at him. Atop the diagnostic pallet, he saw, the captain’s sleep had calmed, his body no longer moving about.

  “Thank you for your attention to Captain Kirk,” he said as evenly as he could, and not answering her question. “I will be returning to my qua
rters now.” He left without waiting for a reply, hurrying back through intensive care and the infirmary’s outer office. He hied through the corridors, heading for his guest cabin.

  But beyond that, he didn’t know where he would go.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Timeless Moment,

  Never and Always

  If you came this way,

  Taking any route, starting from anywhere,

  At any time or at any season,

  It would always be the same: you would have to put off

  Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,

  Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity

  Or carry report. You are here to kneel

  Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more

  Than an order of words, the conscious occupation

  Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.

  And what the dead had no speech for, when living,

  They can tell you, being dead: the communication

  Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

  Here, the intersection of the timeless moment

  Is England and nowhere. Never and always.

  —T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding, I

  Twenty-Three

  2297

  Through caverns sculpted by primordial forces and made their own by Vulcans now dust for ages, T’Vora walked. She kept her pace slow, each hand wrapped about the opposite forearm and buried within the arms of her white robe. Behind her, to left and right, Elders Rekan and Sokel trailed along on their way to the traditional destination. The triumvirate’s footfalls echoed thinly in the damp space, the cool of the subterranean labyrinth a lie that would be exposed out on the Fire Plains of Gol.

  On the cave walls, symbols passed. Etched into the rock here and out on the high plateau, they had been recorded in no other known place on all of Vulcan—not in the land, not on parchment, not in the memories of the scions leading from the mists of prehistory to the present. And yet the ancient icons had given up their meanings, studied through to understanding by masters past. That knowledge now passed from one generation to the next, but only within the circle of adepts.

  It had been argued that keeping such information the sole province of the masters flouted logic, and that the notion of privilege defied the rights of the people in a free society. T’Vora agreed, though she had never been invited to offer her opinions in a public forum. She also knew that, apart from the principle involved, the actual content of the primordial characters lacked relevance to modern Vulcan society. The figures told no story, provided no insights, recorded virtually nothing about those who had engraved them, but for their egocentric dedication to their own passions. That aspect of their existence had survived beyond them, though, and its impact on Vulcan history had long been understood. The contribution of uncontrolled ardor to the near self-annihilation of the entire culture had been well recorded during the Time of Awakening.

  From up ahead, T’Vora felt the hot, dry breath of the lava-riddled plain. Soon, she would know if she had succeeded. After an adult lifetime administering the Kolinahr, she did not doubt her strengths and capabilities, and now, after more than nine seasons with Spock, neither did she doubt his efforts as aspirant. But the issue, as always, would have nothing to do with their toils; rather, it would hinge on their collective judgment. Had Spock been right to petition when he had, and had T’Vora made the right choice when she’d accepted it? Had she decided wisely then a second time, when she had reconsidered his candidacy halfway through the process and allowed him to continue? It could be reduced to a simple equation: if their shared judgment had been wise, then Spock would achieve Kolinahr; if not, then he would not.

  As T’Vora climbed around a rising, arcing length of the cave, the shadowy surroundings grew clearer. Daylight reached her and she felt the chill of the underground fall away completely. In the distance, she heard the low snarl of molten rock flowing in pools and rivers. The Fire Plains awaited.

  T’Vora emerged from the mouth of the cave into the scarlet tint of twilight. She peered upward at the huge likeness of a master shaped from fire red stone. With its back to the caverns, the statue stood astride shallow, multi-shaped rock ledges that had been crafted into steps. Incised with the olden glyphs, the stairway led downward, where a ribbon of the stonework reached out into the edge of the sweltering Gol plateau.

  Beneath the great figure, T’Vora stopped, as did Rekan and Sokel behind her. Out on the plain, at the end of the sliver of wrought masonry, amid pools of boiling water and cauldrons of churning, liquefied rock, Spock waited. Clad in a long, sleeveless ceremonial tunic atop a brown robe, he kept his head down and his hands together in a pose of meditation. T’Vora had directed him to spend the day here in contemplation of what would come next. She had not told him what that would be, because she did not know.

  Now they would all find out together.

  T’Vora pulled her hands from within the sleeves of her robe, spread her arms wide, and raised them high. “The journey we have taken together, leading this aspirant, ends here,” she recited to the two elders from a litany now thousands of years old. “Here, on these sands where our ancestors cast out their animal passions.” Spock, too far away, would not hear. She delivered the words not in the language she normally used, but in that of Old Vulcan. “At this hour, on this day, we seek to invite the aspirant to join us in a world of reason. A world in which emotion has been shed, and where pure logic dictates all that we are and all that we do.” She lowered her arms to her sides. “Elder Rekan,” she said. Rekan stepped forward and turned to face T’Vora. “You will judge first.”

  “I will judge first, Master T’Vora,” Rekan said, also in Old Vulcan. The elder turned again, back toward the high plateau of Gol. Then she descended the stairs, the taps of her footwear swallowed up by the vast plain.

  T’Vora watched as Rekan paced out to Spock. When she arrived before him, she spoke to the aspirant. Spock then lowered himself to his knees, folded his hands before him, and raised his head to the elder. Rekan reached forward, her hand going to his face, her fingers setting in place to allow her to meld with him.

  The connection lasted only minutes, but T’Vora knew that the duration held no indication of consequence. Failure to achieve Kolinahr could be detected in an instant or an eternity; likewise, success. There could be no reasonable expectation regarding the span of time required. The elders and then T’Vora herself would take as short or as long as needed to arrive at their individual determinations.

  Spock did not move from his knees as Rekan withdrew her hand from his face. The elder walked back across the blistering stone, then mounted the steps. Without a word, she took her place to T’Vora’s left.

  “Elder Sokel,” T’Vora said, and he moved to face her. “You will judge next.”

  “I will judge next, Master T’Vora,” he replied. As Rekan had before him, Sokel made his way over to the aspirant beneath the gloaming sky. He spoke to Spock, then established a mind meld between them. This time, the link continued for more than twice as long as it had with Rekan, but again, T’Vora drew no conclusions from that fact. She simply waited for Sokel to return to his place at her right.

  “I will now judge,” T’Vora declared, and she started across the scored volcanic rock. All around, steam rose from water bubbling up from underground. The scent of sulfur clung to the air like the dampness had to the cave walls. Farther afield, lava roiled within fissures and vents.

  As she reached Spock, her gaze met his. His features revealed no hint of emotion. In his time as aspirant, his hair had grown long and his skin more rugged. Some of the ancient symbols preserved in the walls of the caverns and out on the steps and here in the ground ornamented his tunic. “Spock,” she said, “the journey we have taken together ends here. You have been an aspirant these many seasons, but that too will end. Today you will achieve the Kolinahr or you will not. Regardless of the outcome, you will depart the Akre
lt Refuge tomorrow and return to a life without these demands that you have asked of yourself, and that I have directed.” She awaited his response.

  “I understand, Master,” Spock said, offering the ritual reply. “I am prepared.”

  “Your thoughts, then,” she said. “Give them to me.” She raised her hand to Spock’s face. His flesh felt hot and coarse beneath her touch, but the sensations faded quickly as she sent the tendrils of her mind in search of his. “My mind to your mind,” she said, her eyes closing. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

  This became the first test, the first area in which to judge. Although a mind meld necessarily required a lowering of mental defenses, it could also be accomplished—and most often was—with some barriers left in place. If still an emotional being, Spock would reflexively strive to maintain his guard at some points, despite that, in these circumstances, logic commanded otherwise. As a master, T’Vora could compel the release of all his thoughts, though of course she would not; as his Kolinahr master, though, she would need access to those thoughts, and if he could not make them available to her, it would reveal a deficiency of either his reason or his control.

  But T’Vora encountered no resistance. Since she had not melded with Spock recently or often—though they had frequently bridged—she had allowed for some small measure of opposition. Instead, the filaments of her mind at once floated freely, interlacing with Spock’s. It had happened that quickly, that easily. Far evolved from the last time that they had melded, his discipline impressed her.

  T’Vora floated in empty space, and knew it to be filled. She looked for that which she most recognized: herself. Memories surrounded her in the next instant, and she chose from among them the first.

  There, in the Akrelt Refuge, beneath the sculpture of T’Klass, standing at the altar, at the reliquary atop it. “Do not assure me,” she told him as he made his petition to her. “The Kolinahr is not a haven from what you feel… the purging of emotion is a serious matter… Spock, child of Sarek, child of Skon, your petition… is denied.” She reached forward and set the bell down atop the candle, extinguishing its flame.