Infinite Combinations

by iimpavid

Summary:

Spock is three years old when his grandfather, Skonn, completes his work with translating Surak’s Analects. To suggest that the decision to publicly release the Kir’Shara in Federation Standard English is merely controversial would be to understate the situation.

Notes:

• Inspired by Kir'Shara by Sidhzan

iimpavid emerges from her well once a year to present her madness-struck ramblings to humanity. This year it's Star Trek fic.

All Vulcan language features come from the Vulcan Language Institute, a 30-year linguistics masterpiece that deserves to be canonized.

All of Sarek's Analects come from Kir'Shara , which is a genius fan project you absolutely must read as soon as humanly possible. I hope to the gods that I've done the themes of the Analects justice in this bit of frippery.

Chapter 1: Life in the Desert

Spock is three years old when his grandfather, Skonn, completes his work with translating Surak’s Analects. To suggest that the decision to publicly release the Kir’Shara –  unchanged by time where they were recovered from the archaeological site at T’Karath yet now translated into Federation Standard English– is merely controversial would be to understate the situation. 

The High Council convenes and remains silent for weeks. There are concerns about a schism. At Ambassador T’Pau’s behest– grandmother would hardly give up her post in trying times– a bodyguard is stationed in grandfather’s home, and in her son’s, for the first time in decades.

Over the deep, tense silence of a family dinner, Sybok observes, “The great flaw of “logic” is that simple syllogisms can be used to conceal animosity and make hate seem perfectly rational.” For once, their father does not disagree with him.

Spock is a toddler when all of this, and more, unfolds. He does not have sufficient language with which to describe this context to Michael Burnham, his new sister, when the month after the Learning Center she studies at is bombed. 

Michael, being human, assumes that she must somehow be to blame as even during childhood she is well aware of Vulcans’ notorious xenophobia. 

Spock, being half human, is unable to rise above her rejection to correct her. 

Never mind that he has only just begun speaking.

So instead of an argument unfolding, Michael leaves him standing alone on the edge of their family’s property while their parents are still sleeping. The wind kicks up and scours all it touches, smelling of rich copper and dust, stinging Spock’s eyes enough that a tear escapes before he can rein in the one, overwhelming emotion he feels. 

Michael’s silhouette blurs in the dark then disappears.

All at once, the wind stalls to a hovering drone. The sound is deafening. The starlight drafts thin and red before it congeals into a humanoid form. An Angel descends before him, leaving not even a single footprint in the dust. In the crimson drone of time itself, the Angel reaches out for him. 

Spock, compelled by his own curiosity, reaches back.

Whether he touches the Angel’s hand, he could never say for certain, but he remembers what comes next: a split appears in his memory.

In the thread of his memory, clear as day, Michael dies in the Forge. The le-matya pounces on her back in the twilight of dawn and breaks her neck in a single, tidy thrash, before dragging her body back to its den where its hatchlings feast with verve.

Unlike the le-matya, Spock is Vulcan. He understands: all life in the desert is as precious as food and water.

In the thread of his memory, clear as day, Michael survives the Forge in an aborted kahs-wan that she will never forgive him for, never gaining the chance to prove herself as local search and rescue officers happen upon her encampment in a particularly deep ravine not more than a hundred yards from a brooding le-matya’s den. 

Unlike the ley-matya, Spock is Human. He understands: his sister is his sister and she will continue to be his sister, even if she does not wish it.

Each thread is as true as the other. Spock’s memory is split and drawn out on the red Angel’s wings.

Then it stops. 

The Angel is not, and never was, there.

Yet Spock holds two threads of memory within his mind, two futures pulling ever farther apart that threaten, illogically, to split him apart, too.

When he finishes vomiting into the sand, he wipes his mouth clean. He takes a deep breath. He makes a decision. 

The thread of a thwarted future is not so different than the thread of the bonds he shares– with his parents, with T’Pring, even the faint beginnings of the one he shares with Michael, if only through his father’s influence. There are ways to cordon off a bond. He’s read about them. There are ways to place a knot of ideas just so to hold it still, in stasis so that it will not unravel or grow to be consuming.

In a desperate pulse of willpower, as much as a child can muster, Spock sets the thread aside where he will not need to acknowledge it ever again. 

Time has passed– the grey dawn is resolving into the brilliant gold that precedes day. He does not know when the le-matya will attack Michael. He runs. The ground is already hot enough to be painful through the thin soles of his house-sandals. He kicks them off, dust pluming up off of them, in the entryway of the house and hurries, barefoot, through the cool darkness to his parents’ bedroom.

Without warning, he slaps an urgent hand around his mother’s wrist.

“Michael has gone to the Forge,” he tells her, as she startles and blinks awake, “She is inadequately prepared for kahs-wan and will die if we allow her to persist.” 

Mother bolts from bed and a new future spins forth.

---

 

Silence is sacred. 

“Silence”, for a Vulcan, is not simply an absence of physical soundwaves. It is liberation from perception, the gift of time, freedom to choose to act without the influence of an observer. Births, children, households, one’s thoughts, faith, solitude, bonds, and deaths– all are to be given the greatest respect through silence. The shared silence that exists between bondmates, between parents and children, between friends– these are most precious of all and are kept farther still from public knowledge. 

It is entirely possible, however, that Spock – and, he reminds himself logically, their parents whose primary role is to mediate disputes between siblings– allows Michael the solitude of her own thoughts for far too long.

Chapter 2: Kaiidth

In the way of oldest siblings the galaxy over, Sybok is often assigned the vital task of watching over his younger siblings.

In the way of oldest siblings the galaxy over, Sybox resents and shirks this duty as often as he is able despite the fact that, objectively-speaking, his younger siblings are two of the most-boring nerds to grace Vulcan’s surface. It’s not what a human might call “a big lift” to keep them out of trouble.

He gives only a cursory knock before leaning to Michael’s room. It’s spartan, even for a Vulcan house, the only concession to the fact that a teenager occupies it being the built-in shelves stacked full with books and PADDs, and a nightstand cluttered with tea cups. Michael sits enthroned on her bed, school supplies stacked around her with little care for the order in which she might need them.

Sybok ignores her answering glare when he leans in to inform her: “I’m going up the mountain with my research cohort tonight. Don’t do anything dangerous like smile while I’m gone.” 

In a transparent, and frankly embarrassing, attempt to pressure him into behaving she asks, “Should you not focus on your thesis, given that you are expected to present it next month?” 

“Innar and Kalos only align once every three hundred years and Edith has a new telescope.” Edith also makes killer hot chocolate and is willing to use her ample allowance to spring for the cohort to have an end-of-year camping trip together that will be the sort of thing future cohorts tell legends about. She’s bringing her stereo and a collection of old Earth films. Sybok wouldn’t miss it for the world. “I’m not giving up a chance to see a once-in-a-lifetime stellar event, Michael.” He hopes, vainly, that his sister will learn by example. “The meta-analysis of topics in parasocial cognitive dispersion among telepathic species will still be here tomorrow. Innar and Kalos won’t be.” 

“Your father will not be pleased by your disregard for your studies.” 

He raises an eyebrow at her, “He’s your father, too. Are you gonna rat me out?” 

She weighs her options. The stack of texts at her elbow and the sprawl of her annotated bibliography suggest that she’s neck-deep in a new research topic herself. Loathe as she would be to admit it, Michael likes learning new things. If Sybok were to guess, he would bet money that she wasn’t even required to learn about starship nacelle design for a class– this was just her idea of a fun night in. 

She decides: “I do not have the time to parent you.” 

Sybok gives a blithe sigh, “Kaiidth , then, little sister,” because he knows it irritates her to be reminded of the fact that they are, technically-speaking, related. He leaves the door wide open and makes his way down the hall – he almost laughs out loud when he hears Michael’s door shut harder than strictly necessary.

---

 

Spock and T’Pring sit scandalously close over the low table in the solarium. There’s a large slab of slate resting across the table’s mosaic top, and it’s a good thing, too. Both of them are goggled, smocked, and gloved up in the depths a chemistry experiment. In a basket at the far end of the table are bottles of replicated bovine milk and saccharum sap and several, unlabeled brown bottles of flavoring agents.

Sybok watches them industrious work at producing theobromine solids for several minutes then loudly asks, “Should you be breathing that precipitate? I know we have respirators somewhere in the house.” 

To his eternal disappointment, they’re both far too well-trained to startle and risk upsetting their delicate glassware.

“This reaction produces only hydrogen and oxygen gas,” T’Pring informs him primly as Spock says, “It is harmless.” 

“Right . Whatever you say. Listen, I’m going up the mountain and I won’t be back until morning so get the fire extinguisher out anyway and try not to inhale anything that’ll give you cancer while I’m gone.” 

They both stare at him as if he can be willed into going away faster if they don’t blink or move.

He resists the urge to snap his fingers at them– a gesture he knows he’s picked up from Edith, who picked it up from Callum early on in their cohort’s studies together. In most Federation species, mimicry is done to solidify social bonds.

He tells the obnoxiously-bonded teens sat before him, louder and with more emphasis, “Fire. Extinguisher. ” 

It’s an uncomfortable display of emotionality, even without the finger snapping. T’Pring relents and gets up to retrieve the extinguisher from the kitchen.

Sybok eyes their work. “Don’t think I don’t know what the chemical makeup of that Terran cellulite-vanishing lotion is– and I know that you’re two miscalculations away from making something that’ll melt your face off instead of making stable theobromine solids.” 

T’Pring is quick to Spock’s defense, “Was it not Surak himself who advised that no learning is ever wasted? We are merely curious.” 

“Yeah, that’s why you’ve got aluminum paper, milk, and sugar. To package and distribute the synthetic chocolate you’re producing for your classmates out of pure curiosity .” Sybok rolls his eyes. He doesn’t actually care– he’s done worse himself– it’s just the death song of his sense of fraternal duty that makes him say it. “Eridani have mercy, can’t you two do normal teenager shit like holding hands under the table and sneaking out at night?” 

Spock and T’Pring are both too proper to pull exaggerated faces like his human colleagues might, but they both, in tandem, wrinkle their noses ever-so-slightly.

“You are hardly an example of lawful behavior,” Spock says, “You have no less than twelve ounces of hayarit wing and a large collection of pipes with which to smoke it in the false drawer built into your nightstand.” 

“That makes you a hypocrite, little brother.” Sybok resists the urge to put his hands on his hips– he’s becoming his step-mother. There are worse people to mimic. “Just don’t die while I’m gone or your mom will kill me, okay?”  

“Mother would do no such thing.” Spock very nearly shouts it after him.

Sybok calls over his shoulder, “See you in the morning!” 

---

 

The main floor of the house is quiet, dark, and cool well into the evening. Faint strains of music filter up through the air vents from the basement, soft conversation, and occasionally waves of laughter hidden behind sleeves and echoing into mugs. The basement door is outlined with the glow of lights changing colors on an infinitesimally slow cycle across the light spectrum. The line of golden yellow light bleeds into a wide triangle, then back into a line once more as the basement door opens and shuts behind T’Pring.

It’s not long after midnight when she knocks on Michael’s door. After waiting 30 seconds, she knocks again. Another 30 seconds pass. When she raises her hand to knock a third time, the door snaps open just wide enough for Michael to peer out. Her bonnet is crooked and she has the rumpled look of restless tossing and turning. “ Yes ?” 

“You are invited to join our festivities.” 

“Why?” 

“Spock would like to engage with you in the ritual of illicitly hosting a social gathering in your parents’ absence; he believes you deserve to share the social currency among our peers such activities bring, but he is too proud to acknowledge that out loud himself.” 

“So you’re here to make me feel included?” 

“I am here to invite you to join our festivities.” 

“I am not going to get in trouble just because Spock wanted to have a party and get drunk.”

“We will only be disciplined if we are caught doing something illicit.” T’Pring informs her with the weight of scientific fact, her hands folded neatly behind her back, “We will not get caught.” 

“Let me guess: you’re going to make sure of it?” 

“Hardly. Our peers have agreed, as a group, that we will all share the burden of secrecy, including: cleaning in the morning, preparing a late breakfast for everyone including your parents when they return tomorrow, and corroborating an alibi that accommodates these activities.” 

It’s enough to pique Michael’s curiosity. “What alibi?” 

“Spock intended to host a viewing of the alignment of Innar and Kalos; this was done impulsively, but out of the desire to observe a rare astronomical event. However, we have realized that the cloud cover is too low in this region. We cannot see the stars. While it would please our parents best for us to disperse, it would be dangerous for any member of the group to travel home alone on so dark a night. Undertaking danger when shelter is readily available is illogical. Rather, we are waiting here until daylight. We are even sleeping in a common area of the house as a group for propriety’s sake.” 

Michael stares at her for so long T’Pring is worried she fell asleep with her eyes open. “You’re really using Sybok’s excuse?” 

“Sybok will be at an altitude that will not impede his viewing of the event. He has made no excuse; he is legitimately stargazing.” She pauses, “Besides, one need not reinvent the wheel when there is no flaw with the wheel one has.”

“We don’t have permission from our parents to do any stargazing, either.” 

“No, but they will look more favorably on an academic motivation and focus for our illicit gathering than a purely social one.” 

“Chocolate is illegal for minors to possess or consume on T’Khasi.” 

“We have no chocolate.” 

“Synthetic theobromine, then.” 

“They will not know it exists if they do not ask about it. They will have no reason to ask unless they are given one.” 

Michael’s eyes narrow. “You know, there are some people who would suggest you’re a bad influence on my brother.”

T’Pring is adrift for a moment, uncertain where this animosity comes from, but she recovers quickly. “Some people would suggest that I am the mitigating influence between your brother and his peers who would otherwise continue to reject him for his human parentage.” 

“So, what, you think I need mitigating, too?” 

“I think you are looking for conflict where none exists as an excuse not to engage in socializing with us. It would be more efficient to tell me no. Perhaps this antagonism is because you truly would prefer to join us but, like your brother, are too proud to accept that we want your company?” 

Michael holds her gaze for another moment so long that T’Pring can feel the probability of Michael accepting her invitation rising.

Then Michael closes the door in her face.

T’Pring closes her eyes and exhales a long breath through her nose. 

Downstairs, the lights have finally shifted from warm gold to a deep red. The music that plays is a soothing drone of bass and some kind of Andorian wind instrument. 

She finds Spock sitting on a low sofa and sits beside him, closer than she might sit to one of her friends. She tells him, “Michael did not wish to interrupt her sleep further. She will not be joining us.” 

Spock accepts the half-truth of it without question and turns back to Stonn to resume their debate on the merits of violin plots in data visualization.

Notes:

It is Spock's opinion that violin plots are the worst statistical monstrosity that humanity has ever devised.

Notes:

I have no excuses or explanation for this but you're enthusiastically encouraged to leave me comments about it.

Marked complete because I have no idea when I’ll add to this character study.