Chapter Text
2249
“It's an illogical way to live,” they mock.
Spock moves through Starfleet Academy on most days like either a shade, or a freak; he causes waves and ripples as people shift around his stride, but others either stare or ignore him. There is no middle-ground.
But in class, when forced to interact, everyone has questions.
“How can a species survive,” they want to know. “It defies common sense to deny emotions. Emotions are the basic motivation behind evolution, growth, exploration. How can Vulcans survive. How can you survive.”
Most days, he has many answers. He gives the rote, verbatim philosophies that have upheld the Vulcan way of life for over two thousand years. He tells people how violence almost destroyed the Vulcan culture; he says that logic does not negate curiosity, or the drive for discovery, until he stops because this response is so often attacked; he says, on difficult days, “I cannot understand your philosophy, either, and yet you have survived.”
Then one day, his philosophy professor asks him this question:
“Why do you want to survive, Cadet Spock?”
And, for some reason, he gives a different answer.
“Because it is my choice,” he says. “And there is nothing in logic which robs one of choice.”
2237
Vulcan's Forge can reach 67 degrees celsius by day and negative 30 in the springtime. Its deadly sand-fire storms can scorch flesh from bone in a matter of minutes, and Spock has not even begun the usual preparatory reading and studying customary for a kas-wan student.
But he is a Vulcan, and above such things as regret. So he continues walking as T'Khut gleams red and angry in the sky, blotting out the stars like a vengeful goddess. It feels like her presence could reach out and strike him down – but this is foolish. Superstitious. He keeps walking.
And he walks, and walks, and walks, as the hot sun bakes the ground and strips the parched air of what moisture the night gave. In the Forge the sands are white, so his second eyelids snap up and he walks more carefully, on sore feet, half-meditating and yet not quite daring to lessen his guard. The kas-wan is a time for reflection, but it is also a test. Not everyone survives.
On the second day he comes across water, and does not, in his foolishness, realize quite how fortunate this makes him. Not until many years later does he learn that most suffer through the entire ten-day period without a single drop. Many more, unable to comprehend that their Vulcan physiology can truly survive the lack, hunt down small animals and drink sustaining life-blood as their ancestors once did. But Spock, without even seeking it, drinks from a cool oasis that night and rests.
It could be considered a blessing. Or a curse, because, after all, other animals need water too.
He sleeps near the oasis that night. Not too near, because even a six year old Vulcan child knows this would be suicidal, but near enough for the wild lematya to catch his scent.
There is a saying among the Vulcans: “Bend before the lematya, and your neck is the price.”
A lematya will take advantage of any weakness. Even among the half-domesticated ones at the Shikahr Preserve, handlers know better than to falter their steps or hunch too low; any weakness excites the creatures' blood-lust. And this, a sleeping child with no defenses, is just too much of a temptation too ignore.
It comes as swift as a sand-storm, blowing from the west and striking its feet over the scrabbling sand. It is this rustling that wakens Spock; it is the scent of blood and the the snarling cry of the lematya, gorged already from a previous kill, that rouses him enough to run.
The lematya runs, too, when it sees its prey escaping. Spock can hear its wild sounds behind him, the shifting flurry of pursuit, and his heart starts to pound wildly against his side.
Something roars.
The sight of I'Chaya bursting from the night is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Spock spins around and watches the fight unfold, each creature accumulating damage in abrupt bursts of violence. Green blood is wasted on the sands. When the dual killing blows are struck, he is grieved; also, somehow not surprised.
The lematya falls back against the ground, its flanks heaving and going still. I'Chaya crawls toward Spock, desperate to the last to be sure that he is well.
And Spock sits on the bloodied sand, twining his hand through his sehlat's fur as he considers his own useless actions. He knows, suddenly, that he has not won anything. He has lost far, far more today.
2249
During his first year at the academy Spock learns that all Starfleet cadets are required to take two diversity courses as part of their pre-reqs. One is a very challenging course that requires in-depth study of major Federation members. It also studies more unusual forms of life that have been discovered. The course as a whole is meant to broaden perspectives and prevent ethnocentric assumptions or decisions. Spock looks forward to this course. The other class, Federation Prejudices, is very much a human-style course. It is meant to be interactive and casual. Or, as most students say -
“A total blow-off,” a mid-shipman assures Cadet Conors, who sits on Spock's right. “Utterly useless, really. I only waited this long to take it because I didn't want a ton of challenging courses my last year, you know?”
Spock does not understand this idea - all of his classes have been ludicrously easy so far - but the upperclassman is not addressing him, so he says nothing.
The professor is not even present on the first day. There is just a TA, which does not seem to bode well for the future tone of the class. Nevertheless, Spock refrains from commenting as the woman takes roll call.
As Starfleet is in large part a military institution, the atmosphere of most classes are fairly strict. He is surprised by the informality of mid-shipman Newberry, who is leading the class.
“Okay,” she starts cheerily, plopping down on the instructor's desk and swinging her legs. “We're starting out with a little game, of sorts.”
Some of the class look pleased; clearly the first lesson, at least, will not be strenuous. But Spock frowns. Vulcans do not play 'games'.
Still, sometimes one must compromise for other cultures; that is the purpose of this course, is it not?
“See, it's easy to talk about prejudice in vague terms,” Newberry explains. “Discussing theory is one thing, but you need to understand that prejudice happens all the time
This is true, Spock supposes, though he does not understand how a 'game' will elucidate matters.
“So, we're going to step into the hallway a moment; it should be empty. And I'm going to read you examples of a stereotype, and you need to take one step back if this has ever been applied to you on the basis of sex, race, or religion. Got it?”
There are murmurs. Spock is dubious, but he lines up with the others.
The first is easy. “Have you ever felt discriminated against on the basis of your sex, race or religion?”
Spock does not approve of using the word 'felt', but he immediately steps back. He is surprised when several members of the twenty-person class do not.
“Has anyone ever addressed you with slurs attacking your sex, race or religion?”
Yes. But only seven others step back; five of them are females, some of whom waver for a moment.
One asks, “Does 'honey' count?”
“If you think it does,” Newberry assures her.
“Have you ever been excluded on the basis of sex, race or religion?”
“Have you ever avoided situations out of fear of discrimination?”
“Have you ever felt unable to leave a bad situation out of fear that others would make prejudiced assumptions?”
“Have you ever desired to be part of another sex, race or religion to avoid prejudice?”
“Have you ever felt unsafe because of your sex, race or religion?”
Back, back, back, on almost every question. Spock begins to take only tiny, shuffling movements backward. The length of a 'step' has not been defined, after all.
There are 'positive' stereotypes, too. They are asked to step forward for 'good' but fallacious assumptions. “Step forward if, on the basis of sex, race or religion you have been thought to be intelligent,” the TA says, and Spock takes a large step forward.
He does the same for the qualities of honesty, loyalty and a willingness to work. But these are qualities that humans, looking only at his superficial appearance, think he possesses. Other Vulcans typically presume the opposite.
Spock has long been a victim of prejudice. He has never quite considered that he can be victimized with double the usual amount of stereotypes, though. The thought makes something heavy settle in his chest.
He mentally schedules meditation for tonight.
He steps forward more than the others, but not enough to make up for the steps back. When they finish, the TA asks the group to look around and see where everyone stands.
Ahead, Cadet Boyes looks around and spots Spock. She giggles. “Lord, Spock, you're almost touching the wall!”
Spock does not understand the humor, but the others look back at him and chuckle, too.
His peers stand scattered within a space of fourteen feet, which is the length that separates the first and second-to-last individual, a stumpy Tellarite.
Between Spock and this Tellarite is eighteen feet.
Also smiling, Newberry waves them forward to talk. “See?” She asks. Spock still does not understand, and the TA elaborates. “Just look at how often you've faced stereotypes in your lives! How did you feel when you had to take a step backwards?”
How do you feel, half-breed?
“It makes me angry,” pipes up an Andorian.
The blue-skinned alien is twenty feet in front of Spock, and the Vulcan stares. The answer surprises him.
Spock is not prone to admitting to emotions. But if he were forced to acknowledge the slow twist of ice that curls in his gut - which he felt as a child only, of course, and certainly is not present now - he would be more likely to call it shame.
“Well, of course it does!” Newberry exclaims, beaming. “Prejudice always makes people angry. It's a natural response. Do you see, now, what I meant when I said you have to see the effects of prejudice?”
The class nods dutifully. Spock looks at them, wondering if their agreement is for the sake of politeness, as is common among other species. But, no; everyone appears quite sincere.
“What about you, Cadet Spock?” The TA asks cheerfully. “You were the farthest back - how did you feel about that?”
“...I am a Vulcan,” is the low response. The expected response. “Nothing.”
The TA grimaces a little, then shrugs and drops the question. Not loosing any cheer, she begins 'lecturing' on prejudice. And Spock, for the first time since coming to the academy, ignores an instructor. He turns his head toward the opposite wall, focuses on his oddly uneven breathing, and slips into the first level of meditation.
Spock breaks from his meditation when he senses movement. He senses that it is two minutes until the official end of the class period, and Newberry has stopped speaking. The others are discussing the initial activity; it is as if no time has elapsed at all.
Catching Spock's eye, one of the cadets makes an attempt to include him. “Damn, Spock,” he says. “You were way at the back!”
“Yes,” he agrees, because the statement is true. Hoping to understand the group's response, he prompts, “I do not comprehend why the situation caused amusement.”
Cadet Travis looks at him a moment. Spock thinks, optimistically, that there is understanding on the others face.
“Well, of course you don't,” Travis says. “Vulcans don't have a sense of humor, right?”
2238
Sybok is very strange.
He is fully Vulcan, this half-brother of Spock's. He is a son of Sarek but not of Amanda, and yet he laughs and walks with a languid stride like the humans Spock sees in holovids. Even Amanda herself, full-human and alien, has more composure than Spock's brother. But Sybok has no shame, and no sense of concern. Spock wishes he could be so confident as Sybok.
Sybok wishes he were half-human.
“It would give me an excuse to act different,” he tells Spock. “You don't even understand that, do you? Yes, little brother, everyone knocks you down – but so what if you were some emotional wreck? You would have the right to be. Me, I'm just a weird Vulcan-Vulcan – that's even worse.”
“But you have a choice,” Spock says.
“Well,” says Sybok.
“You have a choice,” says Spock. “You could fit into Vulcan society if you wanted to. Or you can act like this, and be an outcast. But either way it is your own choice.”
Sybok looks at him a moment. Sharply, the lines in his face hard.
And then, abruptly, he laughs.
Spock doesn't understand.
“Little brother – little brother,” he repeats. “You're too smart for this place. Too smart for your own happiness, sometimes.”
“I am not happy,” Spock denies.
“Yeah,” Sybok says. And Spock wonders why, though Sybok is laughing, he sounds so sad. “I know, kid.”
2250
Humans refer to activities not strictly related to a person's academic and career goals as 'extracurriculars'. Spock finds this strange. There is nothing 'extra' about any of his supplemental activities; he chooses the diversions of his recreational time with great care so that his mind will be stimulated and he will learn new skills in the process. Music is one particular skill-set that he finds particularly beneficial.
No one in the mixed-music group at Starfleet Academy has ever heard of a Vulcan lyre, but they seem enthusiastic about the instrument. They welcome him into the group, but the advisor, Professor Mitt'rel, asks if he is sure he can keep up. “We have open groups on campus, but the music we play here isn't really for amateurs.”
“I am certain my ability is more than amateur.”
“Do you need assistance converting the music we're playing?”
Spock glances down at the piece the instructor holds out. His mother taught him piano years ago, and the Terran script is familiar. “No.”
“Geez,” someone mutters.
It is only due to his Vulcan hearing that he detects a voice say, “God, this is supposed to be fun – I don't want to listen to him go on about pitches and tones, I already have two classes with the guy.”
“Maybe he'll quit.
“Since when do Vulcans quit? Maybe I'll quit.”
Spock takes his place and picks up his lyre. The voices hush altogether as Mitt'rel leads them through the first piece. A discordant symphony rises into the air, struggling to meet in harmony. They need practice. They'll get there, eventually.
2238
On the exact day that Spock turns eight, an elder student, Stevik, approaches him.
“Spock,” he greets. “I have noticed that your logic is more advanced than might be expected.”
Spock presumes this is a compliment to his logic coupled with his extreme youth. He is pleased, but does not betray the feeling. “I am gratified, but I would ask why you would chose to point this out. Compliments are illogical.”
“Correct. I believe that your unexpected grasp of logic may enable you to fully appreciate this.” Stevik hands him a data padd in a quick, graceful movement. “I believe your age-group has a free period for independent study in 2.3 minutes. You may find it useful to peruse this information.”
Spock is intrigued, so he inclines his head in polite agreement. Thanks are not given lightly in Vulcan culture, so he makes no indication of gratitude. Stevik departs.
Spock joins his peers in the general study room, sits far apart from the others - as per usual - and activates the padd. It is set on the first page of an essay.
After reading the first paragraph, Spock excuses himself to go to a small, private meditation cubicle. He sits down and continues to read.
The essay has been authored by Stevik and four of the older boy's peers. A side note says that their genetics instructor has proofread the document. It is forty-three pages long, with numerous citations and annotations. It presents, in neat, clinical terms, the logical argument that Spock's existence is a biological aberration and that he should, in the interest of benefiting society, immediately commit suicide.
He leaves the cubicle. When class commences, Spock takes notes with his usual efficiency. When class ends he sees Stevik standing outside the school's exit, watching him, and he sweeps past the elder student silently.
He is very careful to go through his usual routine at home. But when his typical period for rest comes, Spock stays up to re-read the essay despite his eidetic memory. When he is finished he hides the datapadd and sleeps.
He repeats this ritual the next night. And he keeps the padd as years pass and Stevik changes schools. He keeps the padd when he joins Starfleet, and when he becomes First Officer of the USS Enterprise it remains shelved next to his meditation pot. It never collects dust.
Spock knows every argument and every point by heart. Perhaps it would be easier to abandon the padd if he could craft a reasonable rebuttal.
But Spock does not think this is possible, so he never tries.
2250
“Life – all life – is precious. Some of you probably accept this unquestionably. Some of you are probably calling me an idiot in your heads right now, and you both all think that you're absolutely right, because you're all arrogant, aren't you?”
There are a few snorts. Spock tilts his head. The instructor turns and sees him.
“The Vulcans,” he says, raising his voice enough that heads twist around to look at Spock. “Believe this without exception. Life is precious. There is no reason to destroy a life – there is not even a reason to defend your own life, if it means hurting someone else. A lot of people would call that admirable. Others would call it stupid. Well, that's not for us to decide, but Starfleet policy is pretty clear. You're here to learn how to defend yourselves, because when it comes down to a hot situation, we've decided that your lives are more valuable than that of your enemies. But I'm also here to tell you what it means to fight ethically, to make the hard choices when it's you against someone else, or when you're stuck in a situation with another person's life on the line. You can pray you won't be in that kind of situation, but it might happen and you can't pretend it won't.” The instructor is staring straight at Spock. “None of you.”
Spock returns the look evenly.
“...Let's get started.”
It is blatantly wrong to think that Vulcans wholly disregard the need to take lives. Even within their own society there are cases where Vulcans consider it more merciful to let people die. But to kill in violence is a different thing. Death is never to be an objective, and is always a last resort. The body is nothing, but a mind should not be wasted.
Spock takes to his physical defense classes with a tenacity that surprises his instructor. After a few weeks the man comes up and stands by Spock and his partner during the entire class to watch them work. He leaves briefly a few times to answer a question or yell at someone who is making an error, but he always comes back. At the end, when class is nearly finished, he walks up to Spock.
“It's good to practice, cadet. But I know Vulcans. Would you be able to use any of this in the field?”
Spock has been expecting this question. “I believe I have the right to defend myself,” he says.
“Do you have the right to exist when it means hurting someone else?” is the immediate rebuttal.
And, to this, Spock pauses. Because he does not know what the instructor wants.
The human senses his reluctance. “You should work it out before a situation comes up, is all I'm saying. Because there's nothing worse than freezing in a tough spot. Theory is never the same as practice, but if you can come to terms with what you might have to do, it will help.”
“I do have the right to exist,” Spock says, feeling this needs to be said.
“Yeah. Doesn't everyone?”
2239
What must be understood is that Vulcans are entirely sincere when they claim to control their emotions.
Emotions exist, but they are viewed clinically and made to dissipate in the same instant that they arise. Humans and other species think Vulcans are entirely without emotion, but simultaneously imagine that there is smugness, condescension, or disdain hiding behind some cool Vulcan 'mask'. This is, almost always, untrue.
It is also illogical. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations: Vulcans would no more disdain the humans for their emotionalism than they would mock a snake for its lack of wings, or a bird for its lack of teeth. So they say.
But. Spock.
Vulcans control their emotions, but they do adhere very strongly to their logic. It must be understood, of course, that not every Vulcan comes to the same logical conclusions; a logical path is totally dependent upon the first assumptions with which one begins.
This is why Surak's tenets are so vital, to guide the moral character of the Vulcan people. It is also why Vulcans often appear callous, even cruel to those who follow different assumptions; Vulcans are only flexible within the boundaries of their logic, and these boundaries differ from person to person.
When Spock is ten, a teacher gives the class a lecture on genetics. The man speaks about the frequent flaws that arise from interbreeding, and adds that while some attempts can lead to favorable outcomes, others result in defect-ridden offspring that should, for the protection of the genepool, be sterilized or even euthanized.
“Like your halfling classmate,” the instructor adds.
Of course, the teacher assures, this is a personal conclusion; never let it be said that Vulcan teachers want to bias their students. The instructor asks the class to contemplate the difference between cross-breeding flowers and sullying the noble house of Surak with tvee'okh blood.
“That is obvious,” one peer says. “It would have been a scandal for Ambassador Sarek to marry any Vulcan outside the noble clans, much less a human. And the introduction of outside blood threatens our cultural tenets. With those tenets threatened, so is the peace of Vulcan.”
“There is nothing wrong with humans,” another agrees. “They have their own strengths, even in areas which Vulcan cannot match. But cultural integrity must be maintained.”
The instructor finishes the class by asking students to consider the matter and write a brief paper on their conclusions for the next day. The class is dismissed.
Spock returns home and, when prompted, tells Sarek about the occurrence. Sarek listens, nods, and says, “I would recommend writing about the advantages of hybrids in general, and perhaps statistics indicating that a culturally significant amount of interbreeding is an improbable threat.”
Spock does not tell his mother about the occurrence. On Earth the instructor would be considered a bigot. On Vulcan he is offering an intellectual exercise, and voicing an opinion.
The next day the instructor collects the class's papers. Then he prompts, “Raise your hand if you argued that Vulcan interbreeding with off-worlders is acceptable.”
No hand rises - Vulcan or half-Vulcan.
And class continues.
2264
Captain Pike says Spock is a 'credit to his species'.
“God, if you're any example we should really get more Vulcans in the fleet,” he says.
Spock thinks this is meant as a compliment.
Number One, Pike's first officer, is the closest thing to a companion which he has found. In the typical fashion of her people, however, the Illyrian-born woman is distant and detached. She has a certain loyalty to her superior officer, but no real interest in Spock except for a minor appreciation for his logic on a ship full of energetic humans. Other humans find Vulcans and Illyrians similar; but they, themselves, are able to detect a dramatic divide between their cultures which is just as wide as that of any other Vulcan and human.
At the very least she does not roll her eyes when he asks for clarification about human idioms. She is also an excellent Go player.
They are sitting over this game, in fact, when Number One looks up at him and asks, “Are you planning on leaving the Enterprise when the captain is promoted?”
Spock pauses with his hand hovering over the board. “It was not my intention,” he says.
After his move Number One folds her hands neatly in her chest, observing the board for longer than necessary. Her eyes move with swift, sweeping precision. “ - He thought you might like a posting on the Intrepid. Or a starbase posting, with more scientific opportunities.”
The Intrepid is an all-Vulcan vessel.
“I believe I am content here.”
Number One nods curtly and flips a piece, then says, “I assumed as much. But you have never explained why you came here in the first place.”
“I do not understand.”
“You must have some reason for coming to Starfleet. For leaving Vulcan.”
“Yes.”
Number One waits.
Spock glances up at her. “ - You must have some reason for leaving Illyria,” he says.
...Number One smiles faintly.
She decimates him at Go, of course.
2239
It is dangerous thing when a Vulcan becomes angry.
And it is not always others who are in danger.
Green is a rare color on Vulcan. It flecks the sands and the rust-colored stones of the mountainside when Spock slams his arm against the cir-cen cactus. His legs are trembling; his arms spasm from the shock of the blow. He does not particularly register the reason behind this in any sensible way. He raises his hand again, and more blood falls to the ground.
Somewhere far-off his classmates are staring at him and talking to each other. They are calling him mad. No one makes a move to stop him. Perhaps they know that if they do, he will be inclined to turn these blows on them instead. It is only the needles in his arms, the heat blistering his skin, that reminds him: The spear in the other's heart is the spear in your own. Offer them peace, then you will have peace.
There are spears in his wrists, not his heart. The sky is green and he does not know peace.
He stops eventually. Not from fatigue but futility, and he stops. He slumps down and lowers his arms to his lap, where the needles in his arms prick his legs.
An instructor is finally found and comes to take him away. Another shepherds away the class; this trip is over.
Far off, he hears familiar voices. The same knowing tone from earlier, saying, “Do you see – it is only a trick, his appearance of logic. Deep down he is only a human animal.”
2265
It is Spock's first landing party with Captain Kirk. He would like to observe the man's command-style more, except that of course he is assisting Lieutenant Sulu with sample-collecting. On the ship Sulu frequently fences with crewmen from security, but planet-side he is curiously gentle with anything living. He digs whole plants from the ground, roots and all, and pulls them up with prodding, careful fingers. When this is done he pats the ground loosely in place so the surrounding area isn't disturbed.
Spock prefers cellular work, when he must work in any of the biological sciences – including botany – but he is nevertheless capable at this. There is a strange purple plant not unlike a venus fly-trap that lazily reaches out with tiny, pincer-like leaves to grasp at his questing fingers. Spock tries to dig around it's root, avoiding the slightest contact with the rest of the plant, so he doesn't trigger these leaves and make the plant waste energy trying to hunt him.
After he has placed a few samples in his collection boxes, he looks up to see Sulu watching him.
“May I help you, Lieutenant?”
“Oh – no, Sir, Sorry, it's just – nothing.” Sulu flushes and looks back down.
Spock finishes digging in silence.
Later, when they're looking for the captain – the man has apparently gotten distracted investigating a beautiful cave with shining, reflective rocks, security reports with amusement – Sulu says, “You handle those plants really well – do you like gardening?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Kirk is disappointed that the trip is over; they take several pictures of the cave before beaming back aboard.
2247
When Spock is ready to leave Vulcan, he tries to imagine if there is anything he will miss.
His mother, with her soft smiles and quiet words, comes to mind immediately. Every morning she wakes up the household with quiet music on the piano – or she did, when he was younger. He realizes that this tradition is changing. His mother is getting old, and her hands are weak. Now sometimes she sleeps late, and other days her wrists will ache. Humans have short lives. And Spock is not human.
He does not know that he will miss his father, exactly; or rather of course he will miss his father, but he will not at all miss his father's company, which consists of cold silences and colder conversations in these days. Spock does not know what he has done wrong, sometimes – always – but something is clearly his fault. Perhaps time and distance will mend this rift as an open dialogue has not.
There is nothing else. There are material comforts and shallow things – the heat, the music, the taste of the saavas fruit with his morning breakfast. These are not important, really. Not in comparison to the need to know who he is, and what is that thing called humanity.
He already knows more about the flaws of Vulcan nature than he ever wanted.
2235
“I'm confident you'll be an excellent first officer,” Kirk says.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“I want you to always feel free to voice your opinion. I value your advice, Mr. Spock, and I don't hear it often enough, so don't be concerned about speaking up.”
“I will remember that, Captain.”