COLORS: Achromatic - Part Two
COLORS: Achromatic: Part Two
ARGENT:
White
White is the achromatic color of maximum lightness; it is the presence of the complete color spectrum.
Jim didn’t realize how much he enjoyed color, until it was gone. Well, not gone precisely - he knows enough about spectroscopy and the visible light spectrum to realize that white is not exactly an absence of color, but rather the sum of all colors. So he is, in actuality, enveloped by color. But since his eyes can only perceive his surroundings as achromatically neutral, he doesn’t find it particularly appealing.
In fact, within this current reality, the only thing that has any color, other than white, is himself. His skin, his body, his uniform, all appear normal, if a bit washed out.
But everything else is…
white.
He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t even know where he isn’t. There really isn’t much he knows at all concerning his present situation. He remembers entering one of those odd tubular chambers on the planet with some vague intention of learning more about the mysterious place they were exploring. Then the door had disappeared and there had been lots of sound and lights and the alarming sensation of being taken apart molecule by molecule…
And then he was here…
Wherever here was.
He assumes the chamber had been some sort of transportation device, but he doesn’t have a clue to where he’s been teleported. It appears to be -
nowhere.
There is no up or down. Nothing to provide any spatial orientation. No sensation of movement. No sense of distance. Just blank whiteness everywhere. He tried walking, but gave up since he has no idea if he was actually making any progress. He can feel nothing under his feet, nothing in front of him or behind or above. Nothing to push against. Sitting down. Standing up. It’s all the same. He might well be floating in zero-g or in free fall. It is disorienting.
It occurs to him that maybe he’s stuck in transition between one place and another, like poor Admiral Archer’s dog. It is not a comforting thought.
Nor does he have any idea of how long he has been here. When he first arrived, he’d tried visualizing himself somewhere, just to see if it made any difference. His quarters. In the middle of an Iowa cornfield. Playing chess with Spock. Only once, while imagining himself on the bridge of the Enterprise, had he seen just a suggestion of color and depth glimmering before him. Almost an overlay of the faintest opacity. It had disappeared almost as soon as he noticed it, and he had been unable to recreate the effect.
He’s tried his communicator. Nothing. Tried shouting, but his voice just seemed to echo back at him. He’s stuck in limbo - and it is proving damn tedious.
To add to his difficulties, it seems he is beginning to fade. He swears his shirt is just a shade paler than usual, his pants, more of a charcoal grey than the usual black. His extremities tingle in an unpleasant manner, and the tips of his toes and fingers are nearly transparent. He doesn’t know what this means, but it can’t be good.
He takes out his communicator one more time, flipping it open and rotating the dials. “Spock? Bones? Mister Scott? Can anyone hear me? I don’t know where I am, but I sure would appreciate it if you could come and get …” He trails into stunned silence, as the communicator grows insubstantial and dissolves into nothingness.
He is so screwed.
He is considering the psychological benefits of an old fashioned temper tantrum, when something begins happening to the air around him. He can feel a sensation like static electricity tickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck. In his peripheral vision, he sees a warping effect - and turns. It isn’t really a shimmer, more of a displacement. Like a bubble, it expands outward, taking on color and form, and he finds himself gaping at the figure of Mister Spock standing at perfect parade rest in front of him.
“Spock?”
In that instant, as the Vulcan first catches sight of him - before the stoic mask slips into place - Jim catches a sequence of emotions flickering across Spock’s face. The look of relief is familiar, a slight easing of tension in the angular features, but there is something else. Something bright and unexpected. Kirk is temped to label it ‘joy’, but that would make no sense. This is Spock. It is gone so swiftly Kirk is left wondering if it had been nothing more than a trick of the light.
“Captain,” Spock inclines his head just a fraction. “I must admit, I am… gratified to see you. I was not certain I would be able to establish a link with the (the discordant sound that comes out of Spock’s mouth is not unlike a combination of the shrill screech of metal upon metal and the hacking of a cat spitting up a hairball) technology.”
“The what?”
“The (the jarring racket is repeated) interphase technology.”
Kirk winces and holds up a hand. “Please… don’t make that sound again.”
“That is the name of the previous inhabitants of this planet. I appear to be the only one able to reproduce the required combination of phonemes. I suspect it is unpronounceable by Human vocal cords.”
“Thank God for that.” Jim blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disarray of tufted spikes. “So tell me, what’s going on? Is everyone all right, and where up shit creek are we?”
Spock ponders that a moment, before venturing, “I am not familiar with the reference, but if I understand your meaning, we are, essentially in stasis, a form of safe mode if you will. We currently exist as pure thought within a construct matrix designed to allow for cerebral imprinting by a race of highly mentally evolved beings, the… the beings whose name you do not wish me to enunciate. The remainder of the landing party is currently seeking to facilitate your recovery.”
Kirk looks at him, and nibbles on the corner of his lower lip, wondering not for the first time if Spock gets some kind of personal satisfaction from leaving him in the dust. “Okay. I got about half of that. You’re saying we’re inside some kind of computer?”
Again, that contemplative expression. Probably trying to figure out how to put it all in baby terms, Kirk reflects with a touch of vexation.
“Although the term computer is not entirely accurate, it will suffice for the present. We are inside a device designed to allow the… user, if you will, to create a simulated environment of their choosing, within which they can function.”
“Virtual reality?”
Spock seems pleased with him. “In essence, yes.”
“But…” Kirk turns in a circle, hands spread to indicate their full surroundings. “There’s nothing here!”
“The reality must be created by the mental emanations of the user. The… inhabitants of this planet had cultivated their cerebral abilities to a degree that allowed them to manipulate this environment to their personal designs.”
That stings. “So you’re saying I’m not mentally sophisticated enough to create my own reality?”
“Jim…” and the corner of Spock’s mouth quirks in that tell-tale curl that indicated he is amused. “When I established a link with the construct matrix I was concerned that I would find no trace of your mental signature. The phrenic energy necessary to circumnavigate this environment is considerable. Yet, you have managed to maintain not only your thought processes, but also your bodily integrity. This…” he reaches out and places a hand in the center of Kirk’s chest, “is a construct.”
Kirk looks down at the hand, feeling something stir at the intimacy of the touch. The fingers feel warm. He wonders if that is a creation of his VR or Spock’s. “You mean I’m not really here?”
“No. Your physical body is currently being tended to by Doctor McCoy.”
“And you?”
“I am in a mind-link with you through the matrix device.”
Just when you thought the universe couldn’t get any weirder.
“The matrix device? You mean that chamber thing I stepped into?” He holds up a stilling hand. “And I know, you owe me that whole lecture on the ‘not messing around with alien technology’ thing for like the millionth time, but can we shelve that for the moment?”
Spock takes a deep breath through his nose. “As my previous efforts have proven insufficient, I will require additional time to formulate a more convincing argument. Therefore, I am willing to forgo the obligatory censure till a more suitable occasion.” The narrowed, dark eyes assure Kirk he is not getting a reprieve, merely delaying the inevitable. “And to answer your initial question, no, you are not in the chamber. That was merely the transference booth which allowed your mental self to be separated from your physical body and downloaded into the matrix itself.”
Kirk shifts uncomfortably. “Then where am I, exactly?”
“You are in the black box.”
“The… black box? That thing on the pedestal that Scotty was playing with? That black box?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s so…” Kirk frames the dimensions of the box with his hands, “… small!”
And that was a Vulcan smirk if he ever saw one. “Apparently, despite your expansive… self-regard, your mental capacity is, in actuality, rather limited.”
Vulcans. Why did he ever think he actually liked Vulcans? Someone remind him, please.
Kirk scrubs at the side of his head. “Okay, so how do we get out of here?”
Spock glances around, as though searching for a convenient doorway. “The construct matrix was initially designed as a two-way interphase. I suspect it was utilized for entertainment purposes. Later, it was adapted to permanently house users. However, the primary programming still exists within the facility mainframe. It is our intention to download the original reverse path programming into one of the transfer booth control systems, and run the latter portion of the sequence, thus returning you to your physical body.”
“Sounds like a plan!” Kirk claps his palms together. “So let’s do it!”
“Mister Scott is currently seeking a suitable transfer booth with which to conduct the re-fusion of your mind and body.”
“What’s wrong with the chamber I was using? Can’t it go both ways?”
Again, that pause that could hide a multitude of sins. “It has been… damaged.”
“Damaged…?” Now there was a story he needs to hear… later.
“Jim…” There is a hint of alarm in Spock’s voice as he steps closer, into what Kirk considers his personal space. Warm fingers close around his wrists, and Kirk almost - but not quite - pulls away. As Spock lifts Jim’s hands up between them, Kirk can see his own fingers are going translucent, the baby blue of Spock’s uniform tunic clearly visible through skin and bone.
Oh.
“Yeah. That whole ‘bodily integrity’ thing might not be as stable as you thought.”
Spock’s eyebrows draw together, making him look markedly fierce. “It is unwise to remain in this environment any longer. We cannot arrange for a transfer while we are still held within the safe mode of the system, and Humans are particularly susceptible to the effects of sensory deprivation. You require a more realistic environment to assist you in maintaining your sense of self.”
“That’s very nice, Spock, but you already pointed out I don’t have what it takes to create a VR in here.”
“Indeed, you do not. However, I believe I have more than sufficient mental capacity to create a simulated environment suitable for both of us.”
Jim remembers that they were cautioned in their xenocultural classes not into apply Human norms when interpreting Vulcan factual statements. To do so tends to make the whole Vulcan species come off sounding like arrogant pricks - which, his instructors had assured the cadets, was erroneous. That may be, but Kirk is pretty sure this particular Vulcan is Human enough to enjoy flaunting his superiority on occasion.
Like now.
“Do I get a vote?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows. “Like maybe a visit to Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet?”
“I am unfamiliar with that location.”
Of course.
“Okay, how about that place with the Orion dancing girls. It was fun!”
“Mister Chekov was nearly kidnapped by slavers, as I recall.”
“Well…yeah, but otherwise it was a blast!”
Spock merely gives him that look he has learned to interpret as, ‘Your antics are not nearly as charming as you believe.’
Turning to face the empty white blankness, Spock lets his eyes fall shut. Moments pass, then there is a shimmer. The shimmer spreads and a patch of the white begins to take on depth and form, undertones of cream and slate giving it a deeper richness. Kirk watches in open mouthed amazement as a door solidifies out of the nothingness. It is wooden, heavy, and arched, set with intricate inlays of stone, metal, and glass. A massive door knocker of brass hangs at the center , and beautiful gilded scroll work runs down one side of the ornately carved frame.
“Wow.”
Spock opens his eyes and starts. It is barely perceptible, but Kirk is used to searching for the smallest clues in his first officer. “Fascinating.”
“What is it?”
“It… it is the door to my family estate. On Vulcan.”
He doesn’t need to say which Vulcan.
Kirk let’s out a low whistle. “Some estate!”
“My father was the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth; as such he entertained numerous distinguished visitors. It was considered prudent that they be greeted by an impressive façade”
“I’ll say! Was the rest of the estate this… impressive?”
“The house and grounds themselves were relatively modest. My mother did not believe in… ‘putting on airs’, as she termed it.”
Kirk steps closer to the door, and reaches out to grasp the ornamental handle. It feels reassuringly solid under his touch. “Shall we?”
Spock hesitates just a moment, then moves to stand beside Kirk. “Captain. I do not know what we will find on the other side. Perhaps you should let me enter first.”
“Oh come on, Spock. You wouldn’t dream up something that could hurt me. It’s your childhood home!” He begins to tug on the handle.
“On the contrary, if you enter unannounced and encounter I-Chaya, I cannot vouch for your safety.”
Okay, so maybe a bit of caution is in order. Kirk ceases his efforts to open the door. “Who?”
“I-Chaya, my sehlat. He guarded the family home.”
“Like a pet dog?”
Spock cocks his head thoughtfully. “More akin to a cross between your Ursus arctos and the Smilodon.”
Kirk grimaces, wishing Spock would not pull these obscure references out of his ass. “The urs-a-what and smil-a-what?”
Spock reaches past him and takes hold of the handle. “Your terran brown bear and extinct saber-toothed cat.” Oh, Jim knows that look too. It is the, ‘I am disappointed in you’ expression. “I would think you would be better versed in the species native to your own planet.”
“Sorry,” Jim shrugs, refusing to feel like the bad student. “One’s extinct and one is only found in wildlife parks. I have plenty of other species I actually have to worry about. You know, like Romulans, and Klingons, and the Zennonites… oh, and those things we found on M-164 that spit acid… and those brain-sucking zombie creatures on Menalus… and the fire-breathing, flying dragons of Bezaleous… and those giant ants that chased us all over M-221… ”
Spock opens the door.
It isn’t the interior of a house, as Kirk expected, but it is, no doubt, Vulcan - the Vulcan that Kirk had never had the chance to visit - the Vulcan that Nero had destroyed. A hot wind blows through the door carrying the acrid odor of sulpher, and there is a hissing and burbling sound.
Kirk squints under the threatening glare of a swollen orange sky as they step through the doorway. “I think I would have preferred that little dance club with the Orion girls.” He takes in the hostile landscape stretching away before them. Jagged rock formations claw their way up from the scorched earth, black against the thin veil of clouds. Crevasses filled with fiery, molten rock break apart the land. Scattered crystalline formations spill splashes of brilliant color over the ruined ground, like gems amongst ciders. In the distance, he sees oversize statues of robes figures standing sentinel. The entire region dances and shimmers in the waves of heat rising from the lava fields. “Holy shit! What is this place?”
Spock looks around in wonder. “This is quite extraordinary. It is a perfect re-creation of the Fire Plains of Raal province. I had not thought to ever see this again.”
Kirk ducks as a fountain of lava shoots skyward from a nearby vent. And coughs when he draws in a breath of fumes. “Nice. Really. Great picnic spot.”
Spock turns to him, expression shaken. “I am sorry. I did not intend to bring you here. It is an inhospitable environment, even for Vulcanians.”
Kirk shakes his head. “Not your fault… I actually always wanted to see the Fire Plains. Big on the… galactic tour… circuit.” He coughs again, and sways, feeling lightheaded. And then Spock is right there, with fingers of steel gripping his arm.
“Vulcan has a lower oxygen content than Earth, and the air in the Fire Plains contains many noxious gases. I need to get you some place you can better tolerate.”
The landscape wavers in and out of focus, and at first Jim thinks he must be loosing consciousness. Then he realizes that his surroundings actually are fluctuating. The angry lava fields melt away, to be replaced by a shaded garden enclosed by a waist-high rock wall. Bursts of bright color flourish in well-tended flower beds.
Spock drops Kirk onto a bench situated beneath a gnarled, ancient tree, taking a seat beside him. “Captain? Are you well?”
Kirk draws in a few deep breaths, trying to clear the fumes from his lungs. “Ah…yeah. Just give me a minute.” He glances around curiously. “Where are we now?”
Spock’s voice is uncharacteristically subdued. “This is my mother’s rose garden behind our estate. It is a place designed to be more conducive to Human physiological needs.”
Kirk takes in the trellises splashed with color, the luxuriant shrubbery sprinkled with blooms of vivid yellows, spicy oranges, delicate pinks, and rich reds. Now that his nose has cleared, he can catch faint hints of fruity, sweet fragrances. “Spock… this is… this is lovely.” He turns to the Vulcan beside him. “Your mother did this?”
“Yes… it was… an indulgence my father allowed her, a concession to her Human heritage. Most of these varieties were specifically bred to survive in desert climates, but they still required special tending and an allotment of water considered excessive on Vulcan.”
Spock is gazing around with a distracted expression, and Kirk sees a faint tremble pass through the fine boned hand where it lies upon the bench. He resists the impulse to reach out and grip those shaking fingers, but he does place a gentle touch to Spock’s wrist. “Thank you. For bringing me here. For letting me see this.”
Spock turns to him, and something seems to soften in his eyes. “Mother found it comforting to come here when the heat became overly incapacitating. I hoped you would find it refreshing as well.”
Kirk grins, “Well, it’s not as refreshing as a dip in a pool, but it will do.” He notes Spock still eyeing him with concern and pats the back of his hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Really.”
Spock relaxes just a fraction, easily slipping into their usual banter. “I have heard you express similar sentiments upon previous occasions, generally shortly before you succumb to blood loss, or a concussion, or a toxin in your system.”
“Well, this time I really am okay, so you can drop the mother hen act. That’s what I have Bones for anyway.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “So what now?”
Spock stands, putting distance between them and reverting to a more professional mode, his hands clasped behind his back. “Now I must return to the outside world and assist Mister Scott in downloading the necessary programming to allow us to reverse this process.”
“But what about me? I mean…” Kirk waves a hand around in a vague manner. “Won’t all this disappear when you’re gone? It’s your VR.”
“The concept matrix is a form of AI. It was designed to be adaptive. Once it has learned the parameters of this environment, it will no longer need my cognitive input to generate this simulation.”
“So I just… wait here?” Kirk is not thrilled with this. He is a man of action. Sitting around Lady Amanda’s rose garden, no matter how delightful, leaves him feeling twitchy.
“Essentially, yes.” Spock’s brow furrows as he considers a possible ramifications. “Though I am uncertain as to whether your perception of time will be distorted in any manner.”
“Will you come back?” Kirk hopes that didn’t sound quite as desperate as he feels. He really does not want to spend eternity in a rose garden.
“It should not be necessary for me to return. You are now within the matrix itself and thus your mental pattern is accessible to the programming. We should be able to initiate a transference using the transfer booth.”
Kirk swipes the tip of his tongue over his lips. “What if it doesn’t work?”
And there is that slight head tilt that had become bewitchingly familiar to Kirk. “I do not have sufficient data to assure definitive reintegration of mind and body, but I can postulate success. I see no reason the system should not work as designed. Although your Human physiology is a variable, the fact that the system was able to transfer you into the concept matrix is evidence that it is not a critical factor.”
Kirk nods, smiling. “That all sounds very promising. Now…” he leans forward on the bench, and raises a hand to emphasize his words, “what if… it… doesn’t… work?”
Spock’s lips tighten just enough to let Kirk know he is perturbed, though none of his agitation reaches his tone. “Then I shall return and attempt… a variation of the Fal-tor-pan.”
“And that is…?”
Spock does not answer immediately. Instead, he lets his hooded gaze pass over the lush garden to the barren desert beyond. “The meaning is shrouded in mystery and time. To discuss it further would require the breaking of a confidence closely guarded by the Vulcan people.” His dark eyes flick back to Kirk and remain, fixed and weighing. “It is not something we speak of with off-worlders. Rarely is it mentioned even amongst our own. Should I choose to share this knowledge…” He pauses, seeming to search for appropriate words. “I trust you will honor our beliefs by remaining… discreet?”
“Of course, Spock!” Kirk is a bit wounded that his First feels the need to ask. He’d thought they’d come farther than that. Or maybe he’d just hoped they had. He spreads his hands in acquiescence. “But look, if it makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to tell me anything.”
Spock looks away, attention returning once more to the desert. “No. Under the circumstances, you have a right to know what may lie ahead. It will give you time to process the information should such a procedure prove necessary.”
When he again turns to Kirk, his countenance is gentle, his eyes warm. “And I do trust you, Jim.”
The offer to discuss enigmatic Vulcan lore is a gift, and Kirk is warmed by the intimacy of the gesture. He smiles his appreciation and hopes Spock understands as he pats the bench in encouragement.
Once more, Spock lowers himself to sit primly beside his captain. “The Fal-tor-pan is Vulcan ritual which seeks to reunite the mind and body. The soul, or katra, is returned to the physical body in which it is meant to reside.”
Kirk pulls a face. “That sounds pretty intense. You guys do this sort of thing often?”
Spock slips easily into what Jim likes to call ‘Vulcan lecture mode,’ which means, if he listens and does not die of boredom, he just might learn something. “On the contrary. It is a very rare ceremony. I have only heard of a full Fal-tor-pan being performed in legend. It is said to have been used to save the katra of Surak, the Father of the Logical Path, one of our most revered figures in history. Stories tell he was killed by Sudoc, a tyrannical Vulcan warlord with unrivaled telepathic abilities whose followers would later form the Romulan Empire.”
“So Nero and his bunch could be traced back to this… Sudoc guy?”
“Nero was from an alternate reality, so I cannot be certain, but there is a high probability that their cultural history is not that divergent from our own, so yes.”
“Well, that might explain a few things.”
“Indeed.” Spock notes, before continuing with his history lesson. “Surak, it is written, was restored to life by the Fal-tor-pan. I personally would not have the necessary skills to accomplish a full refusion as was performed upon Surak. Such a procedure requires one to remove the katra from the intact mind of another sentient being, teasing apart two separate but entwined souls. Only the Adepts of Mount Seleya would attempt such an intricate and potentially dangerous process. It may well be that the knowledge has been completely lost to us with the destruction of Vulcan. However, as your katra is presently self-contained within the matrix device, I do not foresee the same complexities.”
“Piece of cake, right?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Kirk always feels a sense of accomplishment when he manages to evoke that puzzled expression in his first officer. “You think you can do it.”
“I estimate the probability of my success as point seven two.”
“Seventy-two percent?” He’d prefer something a bit closer to a shoo-in. “That’s a bit iffy, don’t you think?”
Spock looks slightly apologetic. “It is… an indeterminate contingency.”
“And if the Fal-tor-pan thing doesn’t work? What then?”
“Then you will have to remain immersed within the construct matrix until such time as an alternative viable solution can be found.”
Okay. That kind of sucked. I mean, Kirk liked a good VR game as much as the next guy, but permanently? Not so much.
Spock stands once more, and Kirk holds up a stilling hand. “Wait. One more question before you leave.” He gazes up at the Vulcan, a shadowed silhouette against the brooding red sky. “You said I was in one of those black boxes, right? Spock, there were billions of those things stored in that facility.”
“Two billion, five hundred ninety-nine million, six hundred fifty-nine thousand, thirty-six.”
“Whatever,” he shakes his head dismissively. “The point is, what was that place? The largest gaming facility in the cosmos, or something else? Do those boxes all contain a mental imprint, like mine?”
Spock’s reaction is one Jim rarely sees from the Vulcan, an almost pained look. “From the data we could retrieve from the main frame, it is our conclusion that the boxes did, at one time, contain individual mental signatures.”
Kirk’s eyes narrow as he notes the subtle dissemblance. “At one time?”
“All the ones we were able to access have… ceased function.”
Which is Vulcan speak for… “They died?”
“Their mental emanations have terminated, yes.”
Jim thinks of those stacks and stacks and stacks of boxes, all neatly arranged in tidy rows. All dead. “All two billion plus?”
“That is difficult to determine without accessing each individual device, but I suspect that to be the case.”
“Why?” Kirk shakes his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the magnitude of the loss. “What happened?”
“Their records show that the inhabitants of this planet allowed their natural environment to become so desecrated with toxins that it could no longer sustain their organic existence. Their attempts to establish off planet colonies failed. You recall the abandoned sites we detected on the outer moons.
Well, that was one mystery cleared up. “Yes.”
“So they determined to transfer their minds into the matrix receptacles, and live out their lives in perpetual VR.”
“Everyone? The whole population of the planet?”
“Perhaps. What is certain is that anyone who chose to remain in the natural environment would have died due to the high levels of contaminants.”
Kirk was still puzzled. “But the power in the facility is still working, so why are they dead?”
When Spock cocks his head this time, there is something almost indulgent in the gesture. “Jim, a virtual life, no matter how pleasant, is still virtual. On some level the denizens of this planet knew they were living a lie. Psychologically, that could be very detrimental over time.”
“You’re saying they just gave up? Committed virtual suicide of some kind.”
“Suicide is not a concept of which I fully can fully conceive, but that is Doctor McCoy’s assessment.”
“Why didn’t they just return to their bodies… live out what time they could on the planet?”
“That option was… unavailable. According to the programming patterns, the bodies of those who transferred were incinerated following the transference process, most likely to avoid the hazards of pathological waste.”
“Yeah. Two and a half billion people is a lot of dead bodies.” Kirk scrubs at his face. “A whole planet… a whole damn planet.”
“Yes.” And Spock’s gaze is again on the distance.
Kirk winces, the last thing he wanted was to remind Spock of his own loss. He fumbles for something to say. And settles for, “But what about me? How come I wasn’t ‘incinerated’?”
And Jim thinks the heat must be getting to him because he could have sworn Spock just smiled at him.
“Because Mister Scott is an exceptional engineer and Ensign Tevyal a dedicated security officer.”
Kirk lets himself laugh. “The damaged transfer booth, I take it?”
“Precisely.” Spock reaches out, and surprises Kirk by placing a hand on his shoulder. “I must go now.”
It takes him a moment, but he finds his voice. “Yeah. Okay. You sure you don’t want to look around some more? See Vulcan one last time?”
“No.” Spock releases him and steps away. The warmth of his fingers linger. “Much as the (and again comes that grating goulash of sound that sets Kirk’s teeth on edge- but this time he says nothing) did, I find a virtual reality lacking. I prefer my memories.”
“Right then.” Kirk wiggles his fingers in farewell. “See you soon.”
Spock nods, and stands quietly, his hooded gaze lingering on Kirk’s face.
“What?” Kirk quells the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. “What is it? Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”
Spock straightens abruptly, seeming to shake himself out of some reverie. “I apologize, Captain. Recent events have given me… much to consider.” And again, there is a flash of something unusual in his expression, something approachable, yet vulnerable. Kirk has yet to decipher this new aspect of Spock, but it fills him with a giddy sense of hope.
Before he can give voice to any of the questions crowding his mind, Spock closes his eyes and slowly fades, as though being carried off particle by particle on the dry, desert wind.
Kirk fervently hopes that is not the last time he sees the Vulcan or anyone for that matter.
Sighing, he shifts on the bench and lets his eyes stray to the barren landscape beyond the walled garden. This was Spock’s home. For a while, he sits in quiet contemplation and simply allows himself to assimilate Vulcan. Spiked ridges of rock rise from the broken terrain like the teeth of some giant carnivore whose bones are buried beneath the thirsty ground. The sky is oozing yellows and oranges. It looks wounded. Only the hardiest of plants survive here, spindly things that hug the ground, spiked succulents, or dry grasses. It is a harsh place, but there is a certain severe beauty to it. Not unlike Spock himself.
He bites his lip to ground himself as he bitterly concedes the capricious nature of the universe. The inhabitants of a once thriving world had allowed their planet to be poisoned thorough their own folly. And then they had destroyed themselves. The Vulcans, who meticulously prided themselves upon sound environmental practices, had their planet and most of their population stolen away by Nero, a Romulan madman from another reality.
Sometimes life just sucks.
With another heavy exhalation, Kirk levers himself to his feet. He might as well take advantage of his time here. The garden is enchanting, and he wouldn’t mind a stroll around the grounds. After all, Bones is always telling him he should take some time to ‘stop and smell the flowers’.
The nearest bush is covered with lush, dark green foliage. Delicate blossoms flushed with apricot and pink uncurl like a promise. He reaches to run one finger over the velvety tip of a pedal, and laughs at the irony as he feels a tingling displacement suffuse his body. The simulated world around him begins to melt out of existence.
Apparently, he just isn’t destined to stop and smell the flowers.
Glossary: (With thanks to the various internet sources, a bit of artistic license - and a special nod to Lalazee and her lovely hubby Zeb who helped a bit with some Scottish slang questions.)
sc = Scottish slang
v = Vulcan
o = other
ms = made up shit
awfy - (sc) awfully/really
bammed up - (sc) excited/teased
bawbuster - (sc) confusing/difficult
blether - (sc) chatter
boggin - (sc) useless/disgusting
canna - (sc) can’t
chuffed - (sc) pleased with one’s self
dinnae - (sc) don’t
fan-dabby-dozy - (sc) splendid
fash - (sc) upset
geed up - enthusiastic/pumped
go’n like the clappers - (sc) working hard/running hot
goosed - (sc) screwed
Hunting the Gowk - (s) both a playful game and a two day celebration in Scotland - similar to April Fool’s Day
ken - (sc) know
kerfluffle - (sc) commotion
nippin - (sc) nagging
no got a scooby - (sc) haven’t got a clue
numpty - (sc) useless individual
peely-wally - (sc) sick
pu’lah - (vms) sweet pudding favored by Vulcan children
Riemann Hypothesis - (o) first formulated by Bernard Riemann in the year 1859, it is considered by some to be the most important unresolved problem in mathematics
take the one way transport - (ms) to die
ARGENT:
White
White is the achromatic color of maximum lightness; it is the presence of the complete color spectrum.
Jim didn’t realize how much he enjoyed color, until it was gone. Well, not gone precisely - he knows enough about spectroscopy and the visible light spectrum to realize that white is not exactly an absence of color, but rather the sum of all colors. So he is, in actuality, enveloped by color. But since his eyes can only perceive his surroundings as achromatically neutral, he doesn’t find it particularly appealing.
In fact, within this current reality, the only thing that has any color, other than white, is himself. His skin, his body, his uniform, all appear normal, if a bit washed out.
But everything else is…
white.
He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t even know where he isn’t. There really isn’t much he knows at all concerning his present situation. He remembers entering one of those odd tubular chambers on the planet with some vague intention of learning more about the mysterious place they were exploring. Then the door had disappeared and there had been lots of sound and lights and the alarming sensation of being taken apart molecule by molecule…
And then he was here…
Wherever here was.
He assumes the chamber had been some sort of transportation device, but he doesn’t have a clue to where he’s been teleported. It appears to be -
nowhere.
There is no up or down. Nothing to provide any spatial orientation. No sensation of movement. No sense of distance. Just blank whiteness everywhere. He tried walking, but gave up since he has no idea if he was actually making any progress. He can feel nothing under his feet, nothing in front of him or behind or above. Nothing to push against. Sitting down. Standing up. It’s all the same. He might well be floating in zero-g or in free fall. It is disorienting.
It occurs to him that maybe he’s stuck in transition between one place and another, like poor Admiral Archer’s dog. It is not a comforting thought.
Nor does he have any idea of how long he has been here. When he first arrived, he’d tried visualizing himself somewhere, just to see if it made any difference. His quarters. In the middle of an Iowa cornfield. Playing chess with Spock. Only once, while imagining himself on the bridge of the Enterprise, had he seen just a suggestion of color and depth glimmering before him. Almost an overlay of the faintest opacity. It had disappeared almost as soon as he noticed it, and he had been unable to recreate the effect.
He’s tried his communicator. Nothing. Tried shouting, but his voice just seemed to echo back at him. He’s stuck in limbo - and it is proving damn tedious.
To add to his difficulties, it seems he is beginning to fade. He swears his shirt is just a shade paler than usual, his pants, more of a charcoal grey than the usual black. His extremities tingle in an unpleasant manner, and the tips of his toes and fingers are nearly transparent. He doesn’t know what this means, but it can’t be good.
He takes out his communicator one more time, flipping it open and rotating the dials. “Spock? Bones? Mister Scott? Can anyone hear me? I don’t know where I am, but I sure would appreciate it if you could come and get …” He trails into stunned silence, as the communicator grows insubstantial and dissolves into nothingness.
He is so screwed.
He is considering the psychological benefits of an old fashioned temper tantrum, when something begins happening to the air around him. He can feel a sensation like static electricity tickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck. In his peripheral vision, he sees a warping effect - and turns. It isn’t really a shimmer, more of a displacement. Like a bubble, it expands outward, taking on color and form, and he finds himself gaping at the figure of Mister Spock standing at perfect parade rest in front of him.
“Spock?”
In that instant, as the Vulcan first catches sight of him - before the stoic mask slips into place - Jim catches a sequence of emotions flickering across Spock’s face. The look of relief is familiar, a slight easing of tension in the angular features, but there is something else. Something bright and unexpected. Kirk is temped to label it ‘joy’, but that would make no sense. This is Spock. It is gone so swiftly Kirk is left wondering if it had been nothing more than a trick of the light.
“Captain,” Spock inclines his head just a fraction. “I must admit, I am… gratified to see you. I was not certain I would be able to establish a link with the (the discordant sound that comes out of Spock’s mouth is not unlike a combination of the shrill screech of metal upon metal and the hacking of a cat spitting up a hairball) technology.”
“The what?”
“The (the jarring racket is repeated) interphase technology.”
Kirk winces and holds up a hand. “Please… don’t make that sound again.”
“That is the name of the previous inhabitants of this planet. I appear to be the only one able to reproduce the required combination of phonemes. I suspect it is unpronounceable by Human vocal cords.”
“Thank God for that.” Jim blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disarray of tufted spikes. “So tell me, what’s going on? Is everyone all right, and where up shit creek are we?”
Spock ponders that a moment, before venturing, “I am not familiar with the reference, but if I understand your meaning, we are, essentially in stasis, a form of safe mode if you will. We currently exist as pure thought within a construct matrix designed to allow for cerebral imprinting by a race of highly mentally evolved beings, the… the beings whose name you do not wish me to enunciate. The remainder of the landing party is currently seeking to facilitate your recovery.”
Kirk looks at him, and nibbles on the corner of his lower lip, wondering not for the first time if Spock gets some kind of personal satisfaction from leaving him in the dust. “Okay. I got about half of that. You’re saying we’re inside some kind of computer?”
Again, that contemplative expression. Probably trying to figure out how to put it all in baby terms, Kirk reflects with a touch of vexation.
“Although the term computer is not entirely accurate, it will suffice for the present. We are inside a device designed to allow the… user, if you will, to create a simulated environment of their choosing, within which they can function.”
“Virtual reality?”
Spock seems pleased with him. “In essence, yes.”
“But…” Kirk turns in a circle, hands spread to indicate their full surroundings. “There’s nothing here!”
“The reality must be created by the mental emanations of the user. The… inhabitants of this planet had cultivated their cerebral abilities to a degree that allowed them to manipulate this environment to their personal designs.”
That stings. “So you’re saying I’m not mentally sophisticated enough to create my own reality?”
“Jim…” and the corner of Spock’s mouth quirks in that tell-tale curl that indicated he is amused. “When I established a link with the construct matrix I was concerned that I would find no trace of your mental signature. The phrenic energy necessary to circumnavigate this environment is considerable. Yet, you have managed to maintain not only your thought processes, but also your bodily integrity. This…” he reaches out and places a hand in the center of Kirk’s chest, “is a construct.”
Kirk looks down at the hand, feeling something stir at the intimacy of the touch. The fingers feel warm. He wonders if that is a creation of his VR or Spock’s. “You mean I’m not really here?”
“No. Your physical body is currently being tended to by Doctor McCoy.”
“And you?”
“I am in a mind-link with you through the matrix device.”
Just when you thought the universe couldn’t get any weirder.
“The matrix device? You mean that chamber thing I stepped into?” He holds up a stilling hand. “And I know, you owe me that whole lecture on the ‘not messing around with alien technology’ thing for like the millionth time, but can we shelve that for the moment?”
Spock takes a deep breath through his nose. “As my previous efforts have proven insufficient, I will require additional time to formulate a more convincing argument. Therefore, I am willing to forgo the obligatory censure till a more suitable occasion.” The narrowed, dark eyes assure Kirk he is not getting a reprieve, merely delaying the inevitable. “And to answer your initial question, no, you are not in the chamber. That was merely the transference booth which allowed your mental self to be separated from your physical body and downloaded into the matrix itself.”
Kirk shifts uncomfortably. “Then where am I, exactly?”
“You are in the black box.”
“The… black box? That thing on the pedestal that Scotty was playing with? That black box?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s so…” Kirk frames the dimensions of the box with his hands, “… small!”
And that was a Vulcan smirk if he ever saw one. “Apparently, despite your expansive… self-regard, your mental capacity is, in actuality, rather limited.”
Vulcans. Why did he ever think he actually liked Vulcans? Someone remind him, please.
Kirk scrubs at the side of his head. “Okay, so how do we get out of here?”
Spock glances around, as though searching for a convenient doorway. “The construct matrix was initially designed as a two-way interphase. I suspect it was utilized for entertainment purposes. Later, it was adapted to permanently house users. However, the primary programming still exists within the facility mainframe. It is our intention to download the original reverse path programming into one of the transfer booth control systems, and run the latter portion of the sequence, thus returning you to your physical body.”
“Sounds like a plan!” Kirk claps his palms together. “So let’s do it!”
“Mister Scott is currently seeking a suitable transfer booth with which to conduct the re-fusion of your mind and body.”
“What’s wrong with the chamber I was using? Can’t it go both ways?”
Again, that pause that could hide a multitude of sins. “It has been… damaged.”
“Damaged…?” Now there was a story he needs to hear… later.
“Jim…” There is a hint of alarm in Spock’s voice as he steps closer, into what Kirk considers his personal space. Warm fingers close around his wrists, and Kirk almost - but not quite - pulls away. As Spock lifts Jim’s hands up between them, Kirk can see his own fingers are going translucent, the baby blue of Spock’s uniform tunic clearly visible through skin and bone.
Oh.
“Yeah. That whole ‘bodily integrity’ thing might not be as stable as you thought.”
Spock’s eyebrows draw together, making him look markedly fierce. “It is unwise to remain in this environment any longer. We cannot arrange for a transfer while we are still held within the safe mode of the system, and Humans are particularly susceptible to the effects of sensory deprivation. You require a more realistic environment to assist you in maintaining your sense of self.”
“That’s very nice, Spock, but you already pointed out I don’t have what it takes to create a VR in here.”
“Indeed, you do not. However, I believe I have more than sufficient mental capacity to create a simulated environment suitable for both of us.”
Jim remembers that they were cautioned in their xenocultural classes not into apply Human norms when interpreting Vulcan factual statements. To do so tends to make the whole Vulcan species come off sounding like arrogant pricks - which, his instructors had assured the cadets, was erroneous. That may be, but Kirk is pretty sure this particular Vulcan is Human enough to enjoy flaunting his superiority on occasion.
Like now.
“Do I get a vote?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows. “Like maybe a visit to Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet?”
“I am unfamiliar with that location.”
Of course.
“Okay, how about that place with the Orion dancing girls. It was fun!”
“Mister Chekov was nearly kidnapped by slavers, as I recall.”
“Well…yeah, but otherwise it was a blast!”
Spock merely gives him that look he has learned to interpret as, ‘Your antics are not nearly as charming as you believe.’
Turning to face the empty white blankness, Spock lets his eyes fall shut. Moments pass, then there is a shimmer. The shimmer spreads and a patch of the white begins to take on depth and form, undertones of cream and slate giving it a deeper richness. Kirk watches in open mouthed amazement as a door solidifies out of the nothingness. It is wooden, heavy, and arched, set with intricate inlays of stone, metal, and glass. A massive door knocker of brass hangs at the center , and beautiful gilded scroll work runs down one side of the ornately carved frame.
“Wow.”
Spock opens his eyes and starts. It is barely perceptible, but Kirk is used to searching for the smallest clues in his first officer. “Fascinating.”
“What is it?”
“It… it is the door to my family estate. On Vulcan.”
He doesn’t need to say which Vulcan.
Kirk let’s out a low whistle. “Some estate!”
“My father was the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth; as such he entertained numerous distinguished visitors. It was considered prudent that they be greeted by an impressive façade”
“I’ll say! Was the rest of the estate this… impressive?”
“The house and grounds themselves were relatively modest. My mother did not believe in… ‘putting on airs’, as she termed it.”
Kirk steps closer to the door, and reaches out to grasp the ornamental handle. It feels reassuringly solid under his touch. “Shall we?”
Spock hesitates just a moment, then moves to stand beside Kirk. “Captain. I do not know what we will find on the other side. Perhaps you should let me enter first.”
“Oh come on, Spock. You wouldn’t dream up something that could hurt me. It’s your childhood home!” He begins to tug on the handle.
“On the contrary, if you enter unannounced and encounter I-Chaya, I cannot vouch for your safety.”
Okay, so maybe a bit of caution is in order. Kirk ceases his efforts to open the door. “Who?”
“I-Chaya, my sehlat. He guarded the family home.”
“Like a pet dog?”
Spock cocks his head thoughtfully. “More akin to a cross between your Ursus arctos and the Smilodon.”
Kirk grimaces, wishing Spock would not pull these obscure references out of his ass. “The urs-a-what and smil-a-what?”
Spock reaches past him and takes hold of the handle. “Your terran brown bear and extinct saber-toothed cat.” Oh, Jim knows that look too. It is the, ‘I am disappointed in you’ expression. “I would think you would be better versed in the species native to your own planet.”
“Sorry,” Jim shrugs, refusing to feel like the bad student. “One’s extinct and one is only found in wildlife parks. I have plenty of other species I actually have to worry about. You know, like Romulans, and Klingons, and the Zennonites… oh, and those things we found on M-164 that spit acid… and those brain-sucking zombie creatures on Menalus… and the fire-breathing, flying dragons of Bezaleous… and those giant ants that chased us all over M-221… ”
Spock opens the door.
It isn’t the interior of a house, as Kirk expected, but it is, no doubt, Vulcan - the Vulcan that Kirk had never had the chance to visit - the Vulcan that Nero had destroyed. A hot wind blows through the door carrying the acrid odor of sulpher, and there is a hissing and burbling sound.
Kirk squints under the threatening glare of a swollen orange sky as they step through the doorway. “I think I would have preferred that little dance club with the Orion girls.” He takes in the hostile landscape stretching away before them. Jagged rock formations claw their way up from the scorched earth, black against the thin veil of clouds. Crevasses filled with fiery, molten rock break apart the land. Scattered crystalline formations spill splashes of brilliant color over the ruined ground, like gems amongst ciders. In the distance, he sees oversize statues of robes figures standing sentinel. The entire region dances and shimmers in the waves of heat rising from the lava fields. “Holy shit! What is this place?”
Spock looks around in wonder. “This is quite extraordinary. It is a perfect re-creation of the Fire Plains of Raal province. I had not thought to ever see this again.”
Kirk ducks as a fountain of lava shoots skyward from a nearby vent. And coughs when he draws in a breath of fumes. “Nice. Really. Great picnic spot.”
Spock turns to him, expression shaken. “I am sorry. I did not intend to bring you here. It is an inhospitable environment, even for Vulcanians.”
Kirk shakes his head. “Not your fault… I actually always wanted to see the Fire Plains. Big on the… galactic tour… circuit.” He coughs again, and sways, feeling lightheaded. And then Spock is right there, with fingers of steel gripping his arm.
“Vulcan has a lower oxygen content than Earth, and the air in the Fire Plains contains many noxious gases. I need to get you some place you can better tolerate.”
The landscape wavers in and out of focus, and at first Jim thinks he must be loosing consciousness. Then he realizes that his surroundings actually are fluctuating. The angry lava fields melt away, to be replaced by a shaded garden enclosed by a waist-high rock wall. Bursts of bright color flourish in well-tended flower beds.
Spock drops Kirk onto a bench situated beneath a gnarled, ancient tree, taking a seat beside him. “Captain? Are you well?”
Kirk draws in a few deep breaths, trying to clear the fumes from his lungs. “Ah…yeah. Just give me a minute.” He glances around curiously. “Where are we now?”
Spock’s voice is uncharacteristically subdued. “This is my mother’s rose garden behind our estate. It is a place designed to be more conducive to Human physiological needs.”
Kirk takes in the trellises splashed with color, the luxuriant shrubbery sprinkled with blooms of vivid yellows, spicy oranges, delicate pinks, and rich reds. Now that his nose has cleared, he can catch faint hints of fruity, sweet fragrances. “Spock… this is… this is lovely.” He turns to the Vulcan beside him. “Your mother did this?”
“Yes… it was… an indulgence my father allowed her, a concession to her Human heritage. Most of these varieties were specifically bred to survive in desert climates, but they still required special tending and an allotment of water considered excessive on Vulcan.”
Spock is gazing around with a distracted expression, and Kirk sees a faint tremble pass through the fine boned hand where it lies upon the bench. He resists the impulse to reach out and grip those shaking fingers, but he does place a gentle touch to Spock’s wrist. “Thank you. For bringing me here. For letting me see this.”
Spock turns to him, and something seems to soften in his eyes. “Mother found it comforting to come here when the heat became overly incapacitating. I hoped you would find it refreshing as well.”
Kirk grins, “Well, it’s not as refreshing as a dip in a pool, but it will do.” He notes Spock still eyeing him with concern and pats the back of his hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Really.”
Spock relaxes just a fraction, easily slipping into their usual banter. “I have heard you express similar sentiments upon previous occasions, generally shortly before you succumb to blood loss, or a concussion, or a toxin in your system.”
“Well, this time I really am okay, so you can drop the mother hen act. That’s what I have Bones for anyway.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “So what now?”
Spock stands, putting distance between them and reverting to a more professional mode, his hands clasped behind his back. “Now I must return to the outside world and assist Mister Scott in downloading the necessary programming to allow us to reverse this process.”
“But what about me? I mean…” Kirk waves a hand around in a vague manner. “Won’t all this disappear when you’re gone? It’s your VR.”
“The concept matrix is a form of AI. It was designed to be adaptive. Once it has learned the parameters of this environment, it will no longer need my cognitive input to generate this simulation.”
“So I just… wait here?” Kirk is not thrilled with this. He is a man of action. Sitting around Lady Amanda’s rose garden, no matter how delightful, leaves him feeling twitchy.
“Essentially, yes.” Spock’s brow furrows as he considers a possible ramifications. “Though I am uncertain as to whether your perception of time will be distorted in any manner.”
“Will you come back?” Kirk hopes that didn’t sound quite as desperate as he feels. He really does not want to spend eternity in a rose garden.
“It should not be necessary for me to return. You are now within the matrix itself and thus your mental pattern is accessible to the programming. We should be able to initiate a transference using the transfer booth.”
Kirk swipes the tip of his tongue over his lips. “What if it doesn’t work?”
And there is that slight head tilt that had become bewitchingly familiar to Kirk. “I do not have sufficient data to assure definitive reintegration of mind and body, but I can postulate success. I see no reason the system should not work as designed. Although your Human physiology is a variable, the fact that the system was able to transfer you into the concept matrix is evidence that it is not a critical factor.”
Kirk nods, smiling. “That all sounds very promising. Now…” he leans forward on the bench, and raises a hand to emphasize his words, “what if… it… doesn’t… work?”
Spock’s lips tighten just enough to let Kirk know he is perturbed, though none of his agitation reaches his tone. “Then I shall return and attempt… a variation of the Fal-tor-pan.”
“And that is…?”
Spock does not answer immediately. Instead, he lets his hooded gaze pass over the lush garden to the barren desert beyond. “The meaning is shrouded in mystery and time. To discuss it further would require the breaking of a confidence closely guarded by the Vulcan people.” His dark eyes flick back to Kirk and remain, fixed and weighing. “It is not something we speak of with off-worlders. Rarely is it mentioned even amongst our own. Should I choose to share this knowledge…” He pauses, seeming to search for appropriate words. “I trust you will honor our beliefs by remaining… discreet?”
“Of course, Spock!” Kirk is a bit wounded that his First feels the need to ask. He’d thought they’d come farther than that. Or maybe he’d just hoped they had. He spreads his hands in acquiescence. “But look, if it makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to tell me anything.”
Spock looks away, attention returning once more to the desert. “No. Under the circumstances, you have a right to know what may lie ahead. It will give you time to process the information should such a procedure prove necessary.”
When he again turns to Kirk, his countenance is gentle, his eyes warm. “And I do trust you, Jim.”
The offer to discuss enigmatic Vulcan lore is a gift, and Kirk is warmed by the intimacy of the gesture. He smiles his appreciation and hopes Spock understands as he pats the bench in encouragement.
Once more, Spock lowers himself to sit primly beside his captain. “The Fal-tor-pan is Vulcan ritual which seeks to reunite the mind and body. The soul, or katra, is returned to the physical body in which it is meant to reside.”
Kirk pulls a face. “That sounds pretty intense. You guys do this sort of thing often?”
Spock slips easily into what Jim likes to call ‘Vulcan lecture mode,’ which means, if he listens and does not die of boredom, he just might learn something. “On the contrary. It is a very rare ceremony. I have only heard of a full Fal-tor-pan being performed in legend. It is said to have been used to save the katra of Surak, the Father of the Logical Path, one of our most revered figures in history. Stories tell he was killed by Sudoc, a tyrannical Vulcan warlord with unrivaled telepathic abilities whose followers would later form the Romulan Empire.”
“So Nero and his bunch could be traced back to this… Sudoc guy?”
“Nero was from an alternate reality, so I cannot be certain, but there is a high probability that their cultural history is not that divergent from our own, so yes.”
“Well, that might explain a few things.”
“Indeed.” Spock notes, before continuing with his history lesson. “Surak, it is written, was restored to life by the Fal-tor-pan. I personally would not have the necessary skills to accomplish a full refusion as was performed upon Surak. Such a procedure requires one to remove the katra from the intact mind of another sentient being, teasing apart two separate but entwined souls. Only the Adepts of Mount Seleya would attempt such an intricate and potentially dangerous process. It may well be that the knowledge has been completely lost to us with the destruction of Vulcan. However, as your katra is presently self-contained within the matrix device, I do not foresee the same complexities.”
“Piece of cake, right?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Kirk always feels a sense of accomplishment when he manages to evoke that puzzled expression in his first officer. “You think you can do it.”
“I estimate the probability of my success as point seven two.”
“Seventy-two percent?” He’d prefer something a bit closer to a shoo-in. “That’s a bit iffy, don’t you think?”
Spock looks slightly apologetic. “It is… an indeterminate contingency.”
“And if the Fal-tor-pan thing doesn’t work? What then?”
“Then you will have to remain immersed within the construct matrix until such time as an alternative viable solution can be found.”
Okay. That kind of sucked. I mean, Kirk liked a good VR game as much as the next guy, but permanently? Not so much.
Spock stands once more, and Kirk holds up a stilling hand. “Wait. One more question before you leave.” He gazes up at the Vulcan, a shadowed silhouette against the brooding red sky. “You said I was in one of those black boxes, right? Spock, there were billions of those things stored in that facility.”
“Two billion, five hundred ninety-nine million, six hundred fifty-nine thousand, thirty-six.”
“Whatever,” he shakes his head dismissively. “The point is, what was that place? The largest gaming facility in the cosmos, or something else? Do those boxes all contain a mental imprint, like mine?”
Spock’s reaction is one Jim rarely sees from the Vulcan, an almost pained look. “From the data we could retrieve from the main frame, it is our conclusion that the boxes did, at one time, contain individual mental signatures.”
Kirk’s eyes narrow as he notes the subtle dissemblance. “At one time?”
“All the ones we were able to access have… ceased function.”
Which is Vulcan speak for… “They died?”
“Their mental emanations have terminated, yes.”
Jim thinks of those stacks and stacks and stacks of boxes, all neatly arranged in tidy rows. All dead. “All two billion plus?”
“That is difficult to determine without accessing each individual device, but I suspect that to be the case.”
“Why?” Kirk shakes his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the magnitude of the loss. “What happened?”
“Their records show that the inhabitants of this planet allowed their natural environment to become so desecrated with toxins that it could no longer sustain their organic existence. Their attempts to establish off planet colonies failed. You recall the abandoned sites we detected on the outer moons.
Well, that was one mystery cleared up. “Yes.”
“So they determined to transfer their minds into the matrix receptacles, and live out their lives in perpetual VR.”
“Everyone? The whole population of the planet?”
“Perhaps. What is certain is that anyone who chose to remain in the natural environment would have died due to the high levels of contaminants.”
Kirk was still puzzled. “But the power in the facility is still working, so why are they dead?”
When Spock cocks his head this time, there is something almost indulgent in the gesture. “Jim, a virtual life, no matter how pleasant, is still virtual. On some level the denizens of this planet knew they were living a lie. Psychologically, that could be very detrimental over time.”
“You’re saying they just gave up? Committed virtual suicide of some kind.”
“Suicide is not a concept of which I fully can fully conceive, but that is Doctor McCoy’s assessment.”
“Why didn’t they just return to their bodies… live out what time they could on the planet?”
“That option was… unavailable. According to the programming patterns, the bodies of those who transferred were incinerated following the transference process, most likely to avoid the hazards of pathological waste.”
“Yeah. Two and a half billion people is a lot of dead bodies.” Kirk scrubs at his face. “A whole planet… a whole damn planet.”
“Yes.” And Spock’s gaze is again on the distance.
Kirk winces, the last thing he wanted was to remind Spock of his own loss. He fumbles for something to say. And settles for, “But what about me? How come I wasn’t ‘incinerated’?”
And Jim thinks the heat must be getting to him because he could have sworn Spock just smiled at him.
“Because Mister Scott is an exceptional engineer and Ensign Tevyal a dedicated security officer.”
Kirk lets himself laugh. “The damaged transfer booth, I take it?”
“Precisely.” Spock reaches out, and surprises Kirk by placing a hand on his shoulder. “I must go now.”
It takes him a moment, but he finds his voice. “Yeah. Okay. You sure you don’t want to look around some more? See Vulcan one last time?”
“No.” Spock releases him and steps away. The warmth of his fingers linger. “Much as the (and again comes that grating goulash of sound that sets Kirk’s teeth on edge- but this time he says nothing) did, I find a virtual reality lacking. I prefer my memories.”
“Right then.” Kirk wiggles his fingers in farewell. “See you soon.”
Spock nods, and stands quietly, his hooded gaze lingering on Kirk’s face.
“What?” Kirk quells the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. “What is it? Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”
Spock straightens abruptly, seeming to shake himself out of some reverie. “I apologize, Captain. Recent events have given me… much to consider.” And again, there is a flash of something unusual in his expression, something approachable, yet vulnerable. Kirk has yet to decipher this new aspect of Spock, but it fills him with a giddy sense of hope.
Before he can give voice to any of the questions crowding his mind, Spock closes his eyes and slowly fades, as though being carried off particle by particle on the dry, desert wind.
Kirk fervently hopes that is not the last time he sees the Vulcan or anyone for that matter.
Sighing, he shifts on the bench and lets his eyes stray to the barren landscape beyond the walled garden. This was Spock’s home. For a while, he sits in quiet contemplation and simply allows himself to assimilate Vulcan. Spiked ridges of rock rise from the broken terrain like the teeth of some giant carnivore whose bones are buried beneath the thirsty ground. The sky is oozing yellows and oranges. It looks wounded. Only the hardiest of plants survive here, spindly things that hug the ground, spiked succulents, or dry grasses. It is a harsh place, but there is a certain severe beauty to it. Not unlike Spock himself.
He bites his lip to ground himself as he bitterly concedes the capricious nature of the universe. The inhabitants of a once thriving world had allowed their planet to be poisoned thorough their own folly. And then they had destroyed themselves. The Vulcans, who meticulously prided themselves upon sound environmental practices, had their planet and most of their population stolen away by Nero, a Romulan madman from another reality.
Sometimes life just sucks.
With another heavy exhalation, Kirk levers himself to his feet. He might as well take advantage of his time here. The garden is enchanting, and he wouldn’t mind a stroll around the grounds. After all, Bones is always telling him he should take some time to ‘stop and smell the flowers’.
The nearest bush is covered with lush, dark green foliage. Delicate blossoms flushed with apricot and pink uncurl like a promise. He reaches to run one finger over the velvety tip of a pedal, and laughs at the irony as he feels a tingling displacement suffuse his body. The simulated world around him begins to melt out of existence.
Apparently, he just isn’t destined to stop and smell the flowers.
Glossary: (With thanks to the various internet sources, a bit of artistic license - and a special nod to Lalazee and her lovely hubby Zeb who helped a bit with some Scottish slang questions.)
sc = Scottish slang
v = Vulcan
o = other
ms = made up shit
awfy - (sc) awfully/really
bammed up - (sc) excited/teased
bawbuster - (sc) confusing/difficult
blether - (sc) chatter
boggin - (sc) useless/disgusting
canna - (sc) can’t
chuffed - (sc) pleased with one’s self
dinnae - (sc) don’t
fan-dabby-dozy - (sc) splendid
fash - (sc) upset
geed up - enthusiastic/pumped
go’n like the clappers - (sc) working hard/running hot
goosed - (sc) screwed
Hunting the Gowk - (s) both a playful game and a two day celebration in Scotland - similar to April Fool’s Day
ken - (sc) know
kerfluffle - (sc) commotion
nippin - (sc) nagging
no got a scooby - (sc) haven’t got a clue
numpty - (sc) useless individual
peely-wally - (sc) sick
pu’lah - (vms) sweet pudding favored by Vulcan children
Riemann Hypothesis - (o) first formulated by Bernard Riemann in the year 1859, it is considered by some to be the most important unresolved problem in mathematics
take the one way transport - (ms) to die