The Autobiography of Mr. Spock Read online

  I fear, these days, that the Federation is heading the same way, that the mistrust sown by the Founders during the Dominion War was not rooted out; that the shock of the attack on Mars has let these weeds of fear and mistrust flourish in our Eden. To speak out loud, then; to act in such a way that reaffirms our fundamental connection to each other—this, perhaps, is the task for us now, Jean-Luc. How does one unify what has become profoundly disunited? How does one establish trust with people so practiced now in mistrust? On Romulus, I learned that our connections to each other were simply fact, and that we must find the courage to assert this.

  * * *

  By the time the Dominion War broke out, there were twenty of our little houses around the city, and a further dozen in the towns and settlements in the province around Ki Baratan. I would spend a week there at a time, before moving on to the next. When I visited, I would speak to whoever came to listen about my desire to see closer ties between our civilizations, which came from a common root, and reaffirmed my belief that as long as we gathered openly, and spoke to each other, and learned from each other, we were in fact reunified. And that while we might have to leave each other at the end of each evening, and return to solitude and disconnection, we could carry with us the memory of our meetings, the memory of connection and unity, taking this with us until we were able to meet once again.

  The Dominion War changed everything for us. For a while, of course, the Romulan Empire seemed ready to sit and wait, but then news began to filter through of the death of Senator Vreenak, most likely assassinated by order by the Dominion. Even on the streets of Ki Baratan the anger was palpable. Romulus changed, and the Empire joined the war against the Dominion. This, by necessity, brought closer collaboration between the Empire and its allies. Near the end of the war, I was approached by a junior official, Vonclas, who asked to speak to me in private. I took him inside the house, and he explained his concerns to me: that, at the end of the war, the Empire would return to its isolationism, and that, given the strong ties that now existed between the Klingons and the Federation, this would leave the Romulan Empire at a disadvantage. He wanted me to reach out on his behalf to friendly elements within the Federation, in order to establish closer ties and, perhaps, in time, a treaty on the lines of the Khitomer Accords.

  I knew, of course, that those in power in the Empire had been aware of my presence in Ki Baratan from early on; I had not, after all, gone to great lengths to hide it. I was aware that I was tolerated on the grounds that I was an old man, with limited resources, no apparent backing from my government, more interested in watching children play than in any serious activity, and thus easily dismissed as a crank. My association with the Qowat Milat perhaps raised some concerns; the spread of our community beyond Ki Baratan surely did. And yet, something had shifted in the upper echelons. This approach was the clearest signal I had received yet that not only were they aware of me, but that they were also listening to what I had to say. With our movement on the ground safe in the hands of Saavik, I was able to devote some of my energy to speaking to some of these officials. (Whether or not this can be considered “cowboy diplomacy” I cannot say, Jean-Luc; you shall have to be the judge of that.)

  During these few years after the war, I was the most hopeful I have ever been that open co-operation might be established between the Romulan Empire and the Federation. To the officials that I met, I restated my belief that friendship could exist between our civilizations, and that more connected us than divided us. To the ordinary people, I restated my desire for friendship and understanding. To all, I wished peace and long life. And, for a while, such things seemed possible. For a short while.

  I was not in Ki Baratan when the arrests began. I was travelling to Hoven, a large town in the Voktub province, where we hoped to establish a new house, when my traveling companions and I received a message not to continue our journey, but to divert to Nuhee, a small town on the way, where we would be met by Saavik. She brought the news that the Tal Shiar had come to the little house in Ki Baratan, where my movement had started all those years ago, arrested everyone there, and had the entire building demolished, leaving many of my neighbors on the street. At first, my companions hoped that this was an isolated incident. I was certain that it was not and was quickly proven correct. The Tal Shiar had, at last, made a move against us, and they did not waste time in carrying out their mission.

  In the space of a single night, our movement was over. Our houses—now stretching into three more provinces—were closed down, and most of them obliterated. Our people were arrested—many of them disappeared, and I have not heard from them again. Only my fame and status as a Federation citizen, the simple fact of who I was, saved me and the people around me. Even so, my position on Romulus became untenable. Saavik, with the assistance of the Qowat Milat, was able to get my close friends into hiding and arrange passage for me out of Romulan space. On entering Federation space, I learned what had caused such a cruel change of heart with the upper echelons of Romulan government: the supernova that threatened to engulf their world and destroy their empire. I returned to Vulcan, my movement in ashes, my mission a failure, truly afraid of what the future might hold for my Romulan friends, and powerless to help.

  * * *

  My intention, once back in Federation space (it was hard, after so long on Romulus, not to think of Ki Baratan as “home”) was to speak on behalf of the Romulan people, who were now in such desperate need. To say that I was shocked at the anti-Romulan sentiment that I found so openly expressed among Federation officials and Starfleet officers would be an understatement. Had such always been there? I believed that in certain quarters these sentiments had moved far from an understandable suspicion of a hostile power to outright xenophobia, and whenever I could, I raised my voice to protest of such views, and in support of the Romulan people, who so badly needed our compassion and our aid. This situation only worsened after the synth attack on Mars destroyed the Federation shipyards. The will to assist people beyond our borders was drastically reduced, overnight. We should, so the argument went, be looking to help our own, and not our enemies. But I knew now, first-hand, that Romulan society—so uniform and impenetrable from the outside—had, like everything to which we give close and patient study, revealed to me depths and complexities that were little known or understood. But, again and again, it was made clear to me that my views were out-of-step with the times. I had spent too much time on Romulus and forgotten where my loyalties should lie. I should accept that reunification had never been a viable proposition and was a dream from a different time. I was—not to put too fine a point on it—an old man, living in the past. I should accept that my time was past and go gracefully into retirement.

  Perhaps all these things were true. But that did not change the fact that my time away gave me fresh perspective on the Federation. In my absence, our society had become a more inward-looking place. I did retire, more or less, to Vulcan, taking some consolation in the fact of your mission, Jean-Luc, and that Saavik and the Qowat Milat were still working with the Empire to save as many lives as possible. But I will not deny that I was deeply frustrated throughout this time. Working through my father’s papers, continuing my translation work, documenting the rise and fall of my movement—these were all honorable activities, but there was a great need to be addressed, and I was no longer in a position to do anything. Sometimes, I despaired, hearing via Saavik the news from Romulan space, seeing the lack of will from the Federation to help, watching hearts which should have been open to the Romulans harden against them. The two great causes of my life—unification, and the Federation—falling by the wayside. The correspondence between us at this time, Jean-Luc, was a great consolation to me, and I know was a call on your time when you had little of that precious commodity. I hope whatever information I was able to pass on during those days was of assistance.

  Perhaps, having been forced by circumstance already to step aside, I was better prepared than some for what happened during thi
s sad time. Not the shock of the attack on Mars, or the appalling news of the ending of your mission and your disgraceful removal from command, but for the fact of the retreat of our leadership from their responsibilities. I knew already that Starfleet—that the Federation—had lost its way. I was already preparing to do something about this. By the time you were back at La Barre, and hoping for me to visit, my new mission was already well under way. I hope you understand now why I never came. I hope you understand, too, what I am about to do.

  In the end, I have realized that I can no longer sit idle. Not only is it not in my nature, but all that I had learned in life told me that to remain passive in the face of great suffering was in itself to cause harm. One must do what one can. But what, exactly, could I do? An old man, sidelined by the current decision-makers, his voice ignored and unheard. I would not persuade anyone to help the Romulan people. For a while, I was at an impasse. My messages went unanswered. My remaining friends in high places counseled me to stop this one-person crusade. I came dangerously close to taking their advice. Late one night, in my house in ShiKahr, pondering the past that had brought us to this sad present, I recalled my last glimpse of the Red Angel, this time tinted with blue. I thought of Gabrielle Burnham’s desperate mission, taken up in turn by her daughter. I remembered my sister, all those long years ago, leaping into an uncertain future. This provided me with the courage I needed not to abandon my cause. What if I too could, in some way, stop what was happening? What if the supernova itself could be prevented from causing more harm? I began to read, to study. I remembered my first self—before I became an ambassador and diplomat, a mentor and teacher, an officer and commander. I was—I am—a scientist. What could the scientist do?

  It has been several years of careful study, but I have now reached some satisfactory—even hopeful—conclusions. My hypotheses are not entirely proven, but I cannot wait much longer. The situation within Romulan space is too desperate. I must act now, or not act at all. You will find all the relevant documents related to my recent research in the file appended to this document. You will see my research into the phenomenon of “red matter”, which I believe may hold the key to absorbing the energy of the supernova which threatens Romulus. My intention is to fly close as possible to the Romulan sun and shoot a small amount of this into the star. A fool’s hope, perhaps, but then, I am an old fool.

  Jim

  NOW THAT I HAVE MADE MY INTENTIONS CLEAR, there is one last subject I must address. I have tried on many occasions to write about Jim Kirk. This seems to me an increasingly impossible task. Jim Kirk lies at the very heart of this account; he is present on every page, the ink in which these words have been written. So much has been said about James Kirk that I almost persuaded myself that there was no need for anyone else to add to the general melee. Children from the learning domes of Vulcan to the classrooms on Earth study his most famous missions. He has been the subject of doctoral dissertations. His leadership style has been dissected; his wit and wisdom propagated. But a great deal of what is said these days about him is wrong, or, at best, woefully simplistic. How do you write about a legend? How do you write about someone that you have so deeply loved?

  Here are some of the misconceptions that I have heard voiced over the years about James Kirk. That he was reckless. That he took unnecessary risks. That he was lucky. That he was casual in how and whom he loved. That he was not entirely in control of his passions.

  When James Kirk was thirteen, living on the colony world of Tarsus IV, he was one of only nine people out of the four thousand selected for elimination by the colony’s governor, Kodos, to survive that murderous policy. Six years later, before his arrival at the academy (we did not overlap), he was already being spoken of as the most promising command-track candidate in many years. That early brush not only with death, but with the coldness by which some men will choose to sacrifice others, made him the very opposite of reckless with life. But neither did it make him cautious. Rather, it made him profoundly conscious of mortality and moved him to act above all to try to preserve life. It made him instinctively refuse to accept the rules of a game, when that game was played unfairly. At the academy, Jim did not accept the premise of the Kobayashi Maru. He changed the rules so that people would live. Jim was very bad with rules. Sometimes that could be irritating. More often than not, it was exhilarating.

  At the academy, I am told that Cadet Kirk was known for his bookishness. He was alarmingly well read. Once, on shore leave on Earth, I took him to visit my grandparents, and I watched him hold his ground with my grandfather (hardly an ill-informed man) in discussion of Spinoza, and the importance of intuition in guiding reason. I did not offer my thinking on this occasion. I merely listened. An expert was speaking.

  Jim loved carefully, fully, and with constancy. He nearly married twice. He loved people of intelligence, who served causes, and my understanding is this is why those relationships ended. They chose their missions or their work over him. But then this was true of Jim. The ship—the crew, the mission—came first.

  There are three occasions that come to mind when I try to think of when Jim was overtaken by his emotions. The first, was when I told him over the conference table that I had offered his services as honor guard to Gorkon. You will recall that the Klingons had recently caused the death of his son. I had calculated, when I asked for the Enterprise, that Jim would see that the value of peace outweighed personal considerations, that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. I was not right. I had presumed too much, asked for too much. I thought, when I saw his face then, that I might have delivered a death blow to our friendship. Would I have blamed him? I cannot say.

  The second time was through glass, when he saw me swimming with whales. I will never forget that.

  The third time was also through glass, but on that occasion, I was dying. I will never forget that, either.

  When I was living on Romulus, I received a letter from you, informing me of your encounter with James Kirk, after his apparent death, still living in the Nexus, and outlining the circumstances of his subsequent and real death on Veridian III. That letter took a while to reach me, and I often think of it, in transit, containing the news that Jim was both alive and dead. That was the only time that I regretted my mission to Romulus, and I did regret it, bitterly. If only I had been present, somehow. Perhaps I might have saved his life, again (although he told me, once, that he would die alone). Was that not what we did, after all—save each other’s life, again and again? At the very least, I might have seen him, one last time. I have not been to see his grave. I believe I can permit myself one illusion in life.

  The first time that I met James Kirk was on the Enterprise, of course. Bones and I went to welcome the new captain on board. The doctor and the captain already knew each other from previous encounters and greeted each other warmly. I did not know Kirk beyond his considerable reputation. As we walked through the ship, Bones behind, I provided the new captain with an update on his ship’s status.

  “Thank you, Mr. Spock,” he said, when I finished. “Admirably thorough report.”

  “Watch out for this one, Jim,” said Bones, over my shoulder.

  “He’s trouble.” “How curious, Dr. McCoy,” I replied, without a pause. “I was about to offer the captain the same advice about you.”

  I recall that Jim’s face lit up, with a smile like the sun. “I think,” he said, “that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  He was not wrong.

  I believe, Jean-Luc, that you are now completely up to date.

  POINT OF E XIT–2387

  Approaching the Romulan border

  HERE, THEN, IS WHERE YOU FIND ME NOW. I am on board my little ship, the Jellyfish, and I will shortly be crossing the border into Romulan space. My friend and co-conspirator, Saavik, has acquired security codes to enable me to pass across the border, and, with the assistance of her sisters in the Qowat Milat, will help me travel through Romulan territory as quickly as pos
sible. This is a small ship, with space enough for myself, but may still attract unwanted attention. The plan that I have devised is bold, and I can make no promise as to whether or not it will be a success. I will travel as close as possible as I can to the Romulan sun, shoot a small amount of red matter into this failing star, and, if my calculations are correct, this will create a black hole sufficient to absorb the energy of the supernova that threatens not only the Romulan homeworld, but the safety and stability of all of us.

  There is no certainty that my plan will succeed. The most likely outcome is that nothing is changed, but that I shall die. I know that you, of all people, will understand the desperation which has driven me to this. The institutions which we have served our entire lives have failed us, Jean-Luc. They have become fearful and mistrustful. They seem no longer able to perform the functions which are their primary mission: to be curious; to explore the universe with open minds and open hearts; to intervene with caution, but not to stand by in the face of great suffering. Both our attempts to marshal large-scale resources to combat this drift toward close-mindedness and hostility have failed. I understand how this has driven you to your own retirement and retrenchment, but I find that I cannot simply stop, not now, not so late. With whatever time there is left to me, I must do whatever I can—one man, in a little ship—to stop these terrible events from progressing further. I would ask you, if you can, to take heart from this, Jean-Luc. If my own experience is anything to learn from, you may find that your world has not yet ended, and that you may yet be called upon to act.