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Row, row,row you boat
gently down the stream,
merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
life is but a dream.
(Ancient Earth 'sing along'.)
Because every time you see them happy you remember how sad they're going to be.
And it breaks your heart. Because what's the point in them being happy now if they're going to be sad later?
The answer is, of course, because they are going to be sad later.
(11th Doctor)
*A couple of decades after the destruction of Vulcan.*
The doors of a flyer gently hummed and let out a slender dark-skinned young man with a big old-fashioned messenger bag, peculiar round spectacles and a cloud of fluffy hair.
He looked around, pitched the bridge of his spectacles and, with a nervous yet content smile, shoot out to the big glass doors of New Vulcan's Prime Memorial Hospital.
In the hall the uptight vulcan woman of unidentifiable age was already waiting for him, arms crossed, with a somewhat disapproving expression. But then again, almost all the vulcans seemed disapproving to him.
“Mr. Whitney, you are late.” The woman greeted him. “We were expecting you half an hour ago.”
Young man seemed embarrassed. “I'm sorry, miss. There was a problem with my shuttle; we couldn't leave immediately, and..”
“It is no matter, now that you are here. If you are determined to proceed with your interview, I suggest you get on with it. For..” She seemed to have dropped her strict tone for a moment. “The ambassador does not have much time left.”
“I understand. I'll try not to tire him too much. Now, is there...as I understand, you are his personal assistant, miss, so, is there any..topic, anything you advise me not to mention?”
She shot a mildly surprised glance at him “I had the impression that it is every journalists' job to pry into every matter, especially the unwanted one.”
“It is. But he is not just any man, not even just any hero, if you will. And, although his time travel is an extraordinary thing indeed, and I'm not gonna deny that this is the main reason he is interesting to the broad audience..” The man hesitated. “Well, there's just something more, something about him, miss. So I promise to be gentle and if there's anything that could distress him , I will certainly..”
“That's very kind of you, Mr. Whitney,” said the woman with a strange expression that almost resembled a faint smile. “Mr. Spock is quite capable of handling the past. Who knows, he might even enjoy your company. He occupies the whole top floor, so I guess you will find you own way.”
She turned on her heels and left. Mr. Whitney, the junior employee of “New London's Weekly”, took a deep breath, clutched his messenger ever tighter and stepped into the turbolift.
**
The lift stopped at the top floor, and the opening doors revealed the glistening corridor with shining door panels and a number of doors. The young man stepped forward, uneasy, and noticed the door directly ahead of him being slightly open. As the lift doors closed behind him, he took a couple more steps to that door, still hesitant.
“Come in, Mr. Whitney. Right through.” he heard a voice utter through the intercom on the wall. The voice seemed cracked and quiet, but there was some calm determination in it which did not seem to belong to a man who was about to die.
The journalist walked up to the door and entered the room, quite big even for the Memorial Hospital. At first he was almost blinded by the direct sunlight which was shining through the transparent dome-like roof of the building. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a hospital bed hovering at the far side of the room, near the also transparent wall – or window – which opened a panoramic view on the city below.
On the bed, clad in plush grey cloth, sat an old vulcan, his back prepped by pillows, his legs carefully tucked in under a blanket.
The old man fixed his sharp, heavily wrinkled eyes on the reporter for a second, and smiled: “Over here, sir.”
The young man approached the bed and stoop near it, trying to appear calm. He extended his hand in a vulcan greeting.
“My name is Whitney, sir, as you already know. I am so thankful that you've agreed to meet me.”
“The pleasure is all mine, young man.” Spock answered. “T'haak described you as a very smart man, and I was always able to trust her judgement. Take a chair and sit.
“You must excuse the luxuries.” He continued, waving about the room. “It is partly an old man's whim, and partly my inability to withstand the local weather. The climate at New Vulcan is somewhat cooler than that of the original, and in my last years I've became extremely sensitive to cold and the lack of natural sunlight.”
“It's beautiful here, sir.” said the man, looking around the room.
“It is. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, sir, I'm alright.”
“Good. Now, before we begin our interview I have to tell you – yet again, seeing as T'haak surely has told you before, - that I cannot discuss with you any specifics of the future I came from. It's true, the fabric of time has already been changed, and the lives of..people I knew in my time may take another turn in this one, but I have no desire to add any of my own prophesies.”
“I understand, sir,” young man responded quickly. “And, as I told your assistant, I think we can avoid any significant events. I'm more interested in...” he stopped mid sentence, confused.
The old vulcan pitched a brow at him. “Yes?”
“Well..I'm sorry, sir. I've just realised that, being a vulcan, you might find my request offensive.”
“Seeing that you are already here, let's hear it anyway, mr. Whitney.”
“If you say so, sir. It's just that I was going to suggest that you avoid the event of the future and speak about you...emotions, you impressions of it instead. Draw a picture not in the number of flight hours, but in the faces of people who were close to you, and so on. But, as I said, I've never thought of the fact that the personal feelings and emotions in general are considered...”
“As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Whitney, I am half human.” Spock gently interrupted the man. “Besides, I am very old. Very old indeed...” He looked up to the shining sky the colour of bright forget-me-nots, already darkening on the horizon. “I am no longer afraid or ashamed of the emotional, human part of me. Both because I have finally embraced it and because, at this point, it can do no real harm, either way you look at it. And here..I mean, in this time, it is good to remember. Feels a bit like all that happened with somebody else, and yet at the same time sometimes the current events seem to be happening with somebody other that me. I feel a certain..fictionness,if you will.”
“Well, you are real to me, sir, real and fascinating.”
Spock broke out into a creaked and squeaky laughter. As he picked up his cup from a coffee table and took a sip, he muttered something under his breath, but it was too faint for the reporter to catch.
“Ask your questions, Mr. Whitney.”
“I will, sir. And, it's James, if you please, sir.” The young man dived into his bag, searching for the recorder.
“James?..”
He looked up from his things and saw a bewildered expression on the face of the old vulcan. The narrow cracks of his wrinkled eyes seemed to light with some new glow, and instead of just surveying the present they seemed to be looking back. Far back into the past.
“Yes, sir.” the reporter answered, not entirely sure what caused the old man's sudden reaction.
“Well...” he paused to gather his thoughts yet again, “ I guess what I personally wish to know most is – how did it feel to travel through time? And, more importantly, how did it feel to be embarking on such a mission. I mean, I don't doubt your courage, sir. But it was not just risking a life, was it? You did not only agreed to a journey from which you couldn't possibly return, but also to change the entire course of history..”
“You seem to have your facts mixed up...young man.” Spock scolded him gently. “Which does you no credit as a professional, if I might point out. But then again, I can still recall the almost paranoid secrecy which was employed at Starfleet at this time. It's a wonder you've come to know anything at all about my travels.
As to corrections, I had no intention to travel through time. I was merely trying to deliver the red matter to the exploding star to prevent the annihilation of the entire quadrant. Was it dangerous and almost definitely fatal? It was. But you must understand that decades of service in Starfleet make you less sensitive to such things. It is not courage, exactly. It's not that I was not considering the possibility of my death, and, although the human fear of death is not such a compelling feeling to a vulcan, I too indisputably felt the regret andapprehension about dying and wherefore not fulfilling all my potential as a person.
But after risking your life a dozen times a year you become somewhat used to a feeling that the present moment is all you have right now, and the next moment the circumstances may demand of you to cease to exist. And that it is, in your human terms, all right.”
“So are you saying it was, in essence, just another mission, dangerous as it may have been?” the young reporter pitched a brow in disbelief.
“I didn't say that, exactly. Despite the inaccuracy of your question, you were right.” The old vulcan took a minute as to decide something.
“Not about the danger itself, but it was, as you presumed, my final voyage. You see...Even before my time travel, I deemed myself to have live a long and, all in all, prosperous life. I felt that I have fulfilled if not all possible, than the most of my potential. And at that point...I wonder if you would understand.”
“I'll try to, sir.”
“I know, young man. And it was not my intention to offend you.” he added with a gentle smile.
“You see, I was, for the most time in my life, handling the loneliness quite well. At first, according to my vulcan heritage and upbringing, I practiced the belief that for one to exist in harmony there is no need for another person, but only an understanding and achieving peace with oneself.
It worked for me for many years, and yet my constant living among human and my own human part did at some point present me with this virtue being not sufficient.
After quite a painful struggle I eventually embraced the fact that, as I am partly human, I do need and derive emotional comfort from the presence and affection of others. It was...quite a revelation.” he smiled nostalgically.
“But having admitted this to myself, I found that the simple acknowledgement of my feelings is enough. I was quite content with being alone, as long as I knew that somewhere in this wide galaxy people I grew to care about are living their lives, peaceful, safe. Working, perfecting this world in their own small and great ways – just as I strived to. Even my dear friend, the man I come to care most about – even his absence was not much upsetting to me, - although I did occasionally miss the 'good old times'. But it was these times, and the memories of them, together with assurance about these people's well-being, that gave me all the satisfaction I needed. So, all in all, being lonely was not a problem for a long time.”
He sighed, and his eyes followed the silver curve of a shuttle passing by the window. When he turned back to the young man, he seemed to have slightly shrunk, his upright posture now melting into the crumpled features of an old and tired man.
“But than they started dying” he continued, looking up to the transparent selling.
“One by one. Human lifespan. Quite logical, too. The good doctor was the first. His death hit Jim hard, but even more I was surprised at my own grief. I realized then how much I cherished his... aggressive humanity, his uncompromising passion and highest regard for life and mercy. I missed and still miss our talks,” he chuckled “and our fights, of course. Oh, there were many, indeed...And then the others followed. Scotty, with his humor and brilliance, his almost emphatic connection with the ship and all her functions. Gone. Christine, gentle and kind, gentle especially to me, all that tenderness and kindness – gone. And then...” He trailed off, and his eyes glistened in the light of the setting sun.
“I guess he always brought up the most human in me. The worst fear, the brightest joy, the most illogical and human dreams about how it would all end. And when it did end – suddenly, foolishly, - the most intolerable grief and emptiness. When I think of that time now, and when I dive deeper into the memories, I sometimes feel like a touch of grief I felt at his death was always present, sitting somewhere in the back of my mind since the day I first called him a friend in my thoughts.”
The young reporter was gazing at Spock, spellbound by the old man's words, asking himself if a vulcan mind meld felt a little like this – a total immersion into another's feeling and thoughts. The sunlight behind him was getting redder, and violet shadows creeped onto the face of the vulcan. With a visible strain, he spoke again, his voice thin and soft, fading away.
“The funny thing is, it's the oldest story in the book. Being left alone. That is – for a human. I, who had discovered the need and joy of others' company so late, was not prepared to that inevitable truth. I'm..sorry, Jim, that your interview is turning out to be a big pile of old man's banalities. All I can say in my defense is that there's some courage in accepting that banalities are often true. And that I am, indeed, very tired.”
The reporter made a move as to leave and call for someone, but Spock interrupted him with a calming gesture. He wearily lifted his hand and took the reporter's, his grasp light and reassuring. “Don't worry, my boy, it's all right. I'm glad you here. I would like to talk a little more, if you don't mind.”
“Long story short, I lost a big part of my life, and I got used to the loss, in a way, and, when a chance to save that empty world of mine presented itself – I leaped to it, wanting maybe also to escape it. And, what do you know, I did. And here, in this new world, all the memories, even of him, sometimes seem like a distant dream, and sometimes this world itself seems feeble and ephemeral, and sometimes, looking at you, this you, different you, Jim, is so painful I can hardly breath. But all in all, it was a great life. I had adventures, I contributed a fair share to this world, I had all of them and, what is most precious to me, I had you. And even if life is indeed but a dream, it was a good one...”
Confused as to whom the old man was talking now, the reporter did not notice right away that the old man's voice gradually fell down to a barely heard whisper, or a chant. “Row, row, row your boat..” was the only thing young man could make out, and a couple of minutes later Spock fell silent completely, his hand releasing the reporter's. He looked asleep, peaceful, and it hit the young man, swimming in his thought, only minutes later. He shot up from his chair and hurried to the doors to call someone, to get help, to do god knows what.
As he got to the lift, disheveled, grieving, agitated, T'haal was waiting for him with a sad and calm look on her face.
“Miss, oh miss, I' m so sorry I didn't call anybody sooner, I don't know if anything can be...done, now, o my god...”
“Mr. Whitney, it is alright.” She interrupted him gently. “Please, calm yourself. Spock was well aware of his condition, as was I. It was his wish not to be aided at this point. It was his wish to go that way. From what I see, he had a good companion to share his last minutes.”
The young man stared at her in disbelief
“But what about his...katra, is it? I've read something about it, the essence of his soul, lost forever..”
“Spock wanted to die as a human, Mr. Whitney. With him being out of his own world, with this world's Vulcan gone, he decided to accept the human ways. Besides,” she smiled at him, with just a tiny visible tear glistening in her eye, “is it truly lost?”