The Autobiography of Mr. Spock Read online

  I said that I did.

  “That is a sound choice,” he said, which was the most praise I had received from him in several months. “Perhaps we will meditate together more.”

  The prospect of this both delighted and terrified me; I simply nodded acquiescence.

  “Very good, Spock. We shall meet again tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you may return to your studies.”

  I hurried away. But I did not return to my studies. I slipped out past the garden wall and away from the constraints of the house. I took the narrow path up into the hills, where the stark beauty and silent desolation of the countryside seemed always to bring me calm. Knowing that these walks were in contradiction of my father’s wishes was, naturally, a considerable part of their charm. But these walks did soothe me. I had begun to learn that these hills—which, from a distance, seemed so bare and empty—contained multitudes. I could sit quietly for an hour, studying the variety of the rock formations, or the tough beauty of the succulents, the kil’na and the pseth-kastik. Sometimes, if I sat quietly enough, a shatarr might slip out from the shadows, and be persuaded to lie upon my palm, as if I were a rock upon which it could laze. I was happy here, and at peace, and whatever my father would say; whatever privileges were revoked for these forbidden forays, I could not, and would not, abandon them. They were too critical to my peace of mind.

  It must be said that when Michael returned from this trip away with my mother she did seem a happier child, as if spending a little time away from our home had allowed a circuit break. She had brought back several books with her for her own collection—and she had also brought a book for me: a large green volume, with gilded leaves. I opened it cautiously, concerned, perhaps, that here would be more words with which I would have to struggle—but the book contained prints of maps. Many maps—but old, very old. Carefully, I sounded out the words on the front pages, but Michael came unobtrusively to my aid.

  “It’s an atlas of maps of Earth made throughout its history,” she said. “Maps made by travelers and voyagers before the world had been fully explored. Some of the places turned out not to be real; some of them turned out to look different or be different. Some of the countries don’t exist anymore…” Looking over my shoulder, she reached out to touch the page with her fingertip. She said, “I used to have an atlas like this. I loved to look through it, imagine all those wonderful places and what it must have been like to go looking for them…” Then, perhaps sensing the presence of my father behind us, her manner altered subtly, becoming more distant and formal. “There is a great deal in this book which may interest you,” she said. “Perhaps we might study it together.”

  “I believe I would learn a great deal from that,” I replied, and I was not incorrect in this assessment. We did look through this book together, many times—discovering strange old worlds, such as Atlantis and Ultima Thule, of empires long fallen, and continents long gone, and to ponder this book, which showed a world that not yet fully understood by its own inhabitants, a world to which I too was connected, but had not yet visited. My curiosity, my interest, in Earth was greatly stimulated by this atlas, and I perceived that these people too—these strange wild humans whose influence caused me such trouble—were perhaps closer to me than I realized, in their curiosity, their desire to explore and understand. In later years, I have wondered if this book was my mother’s idea. This does not diminish the gift in my eyes; rather it is enhanced. It makes me think of my mother and sister together on that trip, taking the time to choose a gift for me to demonstrate their love. I think of the hours that I spent poring through it—both with Michael, and alone—the wonder those worlds instilled in me, the pleasure we derived from each other’s company, and the connection that we made.

  * * *

  After this came a happy period when Michael and I became friends. I should be more scrupulous here: I became her shadow, and she endured the presence of a younger child with more patience and kindness than I had perhaps shown her. I remember one afternoon, in my room, demonstrating every single one of my possessions to her. She sat and listened to me tell the tale of each one. We played drawing games, using our pads to bring them life, taking it in turns to show each other fantastical creatures from our respective cultures: if I drew yon’tislak, then she showed me a kraken. I taught her how to play kal’toh, and we liked to compete rather than collaborate. I suspect that she quickly surpassed me in skill, but we seemed to be evenly matched when it came to winning. Many years later, my mother told me how she looked into my room one day, to see us side by side, heads bowed over the board. “It is the last thing I shall remember, Spock. Both of you, so peaceful and happy.” My mother took us out together once again on expeditions around the city. I began to think about suggesting that we might go swimming with the o’ktath.

  But this new settled way of life was not to be permitted to continue. Two incidents in particular precipitated significant changes in our family lives. The first of these was triggered—as was so often the case—by an incident at the Learning Center. Some of my fellow students once again decided to target me because of my mother; this time, I reacted with force. My father was of course displeased at this emotional outburst and, in an attempt to prove to him that I was able to control myself, I determined to undergo the kahs-wan. This is a test of endurance in the wilderness to which young Vulcans subject themselves, attempting to survive in the desert for ten days without taking supplies or weapons.

  Seven was young to be taking on this challenge, and I am surprised now that my mother allowed the attempt. Perhaps she thought this might bring me and my father closer together; perhaps she believed even the trial would give me confidence. Michael was away with her school cohort on a geological school trip to Vulcan’s Forge, but we had a relative visiting unexpectedly at the time, a distant cousin named Selek. I found him a most interesting figure. In many ways, he reminded me of my mother: calm and reassuring; in other ways he would seem more like my father, composed and careful. His presence over those few days was to prove lucky in many ways. I went out into the wilderness too early, and quickly found myself in danger. In the mountains, I was attacked by a le-matya, a fierce predatory beast. I was saved by my pet sehlat, I-Chaya, that had accompanied me on my journey, and by the fortuitous arrival of my cousin. Selek dispatched the le-matya with a nerve pinch, but I-Chaya had been badly wounded. I ran for help, only to learn that saving I-Chaya would leave my pet in great pain. I chose the logical option, to release him from his suffering. My memories of these few days are hazy; I was feverish from lack of water and from the heat. But I remembered my cousin distinctly. When I came to complete the kahs-wan in earnest, two years later, I was unafraid. My long walks in the hills stood me in good stead; the heat—and the visions that this seemed to induce—held no fear for me. The memory of my cousin’s composure kept my mind clear. I had often thought of him in the intervening years, not least because of his other gift to me: a most effective version of the nerve pinch—a far more efficient tool in dealing with my classmates than anything else I had attempted. After these events, I attempted to discover precisely how Selek was related to our family but was unable to find more information. A small riddle, quickly forgotten—until many years later. But I shall return to this in due course.

  The presence of human children at the Learning Center attracted the attention of people far more dangerous than a few small would-be class tyrants. One aspect of my childhood which should be recalled is how public a figure my father was: not only as the latest in a prominent family, but, in his own right, as ambassador to the Federation. Again and again, he would ask me not to walk in the hills alone; again and again I would slip away; again and again, he would punish me. Yet, in the end, it was Michael who was targeted.

  There is, in the Vulcan outlook, a latent speciesism that rarely goes challenged. This arises from the peacefulness of our society, with little in the way of crime or violence, and the knowledge that this serenity and stability were not only hard-won but are
maintained by a great effort on the part of each one of us to master our aggressive instincts and ensure they are not given free rein. In the best of us, this involves increasing humility, at the realization of how easily one call fall prey to less wholesome impulses. In the more fearful of us, an unpleasant superiority can take root. And, like any other culture, this can become a form of extremism. In its most benign form, this was an isolationist movement seeking Vulcan’s withdrawal from the Federation. In its more unstable proponents, this manifested itself as violence. My father—the Vulcan ambassador to the Federation, married to a human, and with a half-human child—was naturally the focus for their discontent. And, on one occasion, my sister and I were specific targets of their anger: a bomb was placed at the Learning Center.

  I was myself, fortunately, away from the direct explosion. I recall chiefly the alarms sounding, the tutors calmly leading us to safety. I recall security descending upon the area; my mother arriving to take me home.

  “Where is Michael?” I said, as she took my hand.

  I saw tears in her eyes.

  “Mother?”

  “Don’t worry, Spock,” she said. “Everything will be just fine.”

  All I was told that day was that Michael was in the hospital and would be there for a little while. It took me a few days, and some careful listening at doors, to piece together the full story. Michael had been dead for three minutes, and only a mind-meld with my father saved her. When she came home, she seemed smaller. She was quiet. She liked my father to be nearby. I have a clear memory of them that must, I think, be from this time: sitting in silence together under the trees in the garden; her head against his shoulder; his hands around hers. I recall both regret—that I was not the one sitting beside him—and at the same time relief—that she was comforted by his presence.

  That anyone could conceive of targeting an already traumatized child lies still beyond my comprehension. I have tried to understand their reasoning. I cannot see their logic. There is none. But such was the reality of our lives now. My father decided to relocate us for a while to a secure house near Vulcan’s Forge. I recall on the journey there that my sister was increasingly distressed. That night, worrying about her and unable to sleep, I crept from my bed to her room, where I found her making preparations to run away. She wanted me to be safe, she said; that I deserved to grow up somewhere safe, and that she was the reason why our home was targeted. When I said that I would go with her, my words seemed to trigger something inside her. The scene that unfolded between us remains crystal clear in my mind: children, when they determine to be cruel, can wield words with uncanny precision.

  I don’t want you with me, she told me.

  You are my sister, I said. I love you.

  Freak, she called me; half-breed; cold and distant as a moon.

  Not Vulcan. Not human. Something weird, and unfixable. If Michael was saying this, then surely it must be true. She left. I went back to my room. You may imagine how I wept. Remember that I was still very young. I did not understand that she was saying these words in an artless attempt to save me, hoping that by pushing me away she might protect me. I was a much older man before I had the emotional maturity to understand this. But this conversation—the cruelty of what she said, even as she meant to show love—formed me, going forward. I did not trust so openly again, for many years. I did not love so freely again, for a long time. I ran each word she had said over and over in my mind until they were committed completely to memory, and the lesson learned. At length, and wrung out, I fell asleep.

  What happened next was one of the defining experiences of my life. At first, I thought that lights were flickering outside my bedroom window. Then I understood that the lights were closer to hand. I watched as they took form: a red winged figure. I knew from the drawing games I had played with Michael what to call such a creature. An angel. A red angel. Was I dreaming? I rubbed my eyes. She was still there. I did not cry out. I was not afraid, merely curious. I lifted my hand and saluted her. In response, she showed me what I can only call a vision, or a premonition: my sister, in the wilderness, attacked by a beast, her life in danger.

  Now I cried out. “What is happening? Where is Michael?” All my grief and rage at what she had said to me was, for the moment, forgotten. All that I cared about was to make sure that she was safe. “Where is she?”

  But the angel was gone. I was alone, in the dark, but in no doubt that what I had seen was true, and that haste was needed. I ran to wake my parents and tell them what I had seen. I have to wonder now, how I must have appeared to them, standing by their bedside, talking about seeing a red angel, showing me my sister’s death. To their credit, they acted on what I told them. From the vision, I accurately described where Michael was to be found—and she was retrieved and brought home safely. My father was of the opinion that Michael had told me where she was going, but extracted a promise from me not to tell, and that this wild fabrication was the best means available to me to get them to act. I allowed him to continue believing this. Either that, or I had used logic to guess where Michael was likely to be. My mother, I could see, was less certain. Later, when she asked me to describe what I had seen, I did, in considerable detail. As I spoke, I could see her concern mounting, and I stopped.

  “Perhaps,” I said, tentatively, “it was only a dream.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps it was.” But I could see that she was worried. She had, as I shall explain when I give an account of my older brother, Sybok, many good reasons to be concerned that I might lose my grip on reality. I accepted my parents’ judgment that some rational explanation was at work—that I had gathered from Michael where she intended to go and some leap of logic occurred was the official story in our family. But I knew that this was not what had happened. Michael had told me nothing; all she had done was to try to push me away. I knew what I had experienced was real. I had been told, somehow, where to find her. “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the solution.” I was sufficiently a product of my education to believe that there was a rational explanation for what had happened to me—what I did not yet know was what that explanation was. I never doubted that what I had experienced was real. But I knew there was no point in trying to make the adults around me understand. I would have to wait, and trust that one day I would understand in full.

  When Michael was returned safely to us, I understood for the first time how much she had come to mean to me, how much her loss would have devastated me. These emotions, which I experienced almost as a tsunami, I kept entirely to myself. I did not want to face her rejection again. If my parents noticed that I did not shadow her so much, perhaps they believed that I was simply finding my own way. We went back to separate excursions with my mother. I never did take Michael to swim with the o’ktath. I wish that I had.

  I should not leave you with the impression that this period of my childhood was wholly unhappy. In admitting Michael Burnham to the family, in taking on the responsibility for assisting her in finding the means to live beyond the trauma of witnessing the murder of her parents, my mother and father took on a set of challenges that they could not have anticipated. There were many complications to my sister’s situation which they could not have predicted, but one can only applaud their courage and compassion in taking on the task of adopting this wounded child. Nevertheless, there were many things that my parents might have done differently, and there were many difficulties yet to come in my relationship with Michael, many personal ramifications for me as a result of acquiring this older sister. I wonder, sometimes, how my life might have been different without her. Such questions are, of course, unanswerable, and beside the point.

  Hindsight is a gift, and such is the purpose of this book: to reflect, with the peace and wisdom one hopes to achieve in old age, on the events of one’s youth, to consider what has gone before with the benefit of experience. I have not yet earned peace, and, bearing in mind my imminent destination, my wisdom is perhaps not prove
n. But as those troubled years of my pre-adolescence become more distant in my mind, I find that the trials and troubles, the worries and frustrations, have dissipated, and it is other memories that come more easily to mind. I picture myself and my sister, sitting together on the bed in her room. It is early evening, and, beyond the slats of the blinds the sun is setting in a great fire. Inside, the lamps have been lit; blue and silver in Michael’s well-ordered room. We hear steps in the hallway outside; we tumble together beneath the covers. Then the door opens, and she is there—Amanda, the strong and gentle heart of our family, coming to settle us to sleep. She curls up on the bed, one of us on either side, and again I hear her voice—ever soft, ever patient—reading to us, of the adventures of a child who tumbled into a world where nothing made sense, where up was down and left was right, but who found a way through in the end. The griefs and the heartaches, the misunderstandings and missed opportunities—they are forgiven now, and, with my departure, will be forgotten. What remains, in the end—what I would leave behind—is the love.

  T’Pring

  THE AFTERMATH OF THE BOMBING OF THE LEARNING CENTER was a significant turning point in our family life in the way that we were treated by others. That subtle racism that often lay beneath interactions with our family never entirely disappeared (and was yet to have at least one further and significant impact upon our lives), but from this point onward was much reduced. Having now read through their extensive correspondence from this time, I am grateful to see that both my mother and father received many expressions of heartfelt support from friends in the aftermath of the bombing. For some, this was plainly a genuine awakening as to where expressions of Vulcan superiority might lead. It was poignant, and touching, when I read through these letters much later, after their deaths, to see figures from my childhood—men and women of great intelligence and wisdom, whom I admired and continue to admire—speak with humility to my parents and assure them of their desire to learn and improve following these events.