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Spock clicked the transmit icon and leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that had been building between them. His mid-term report for advanced astrophysics was complete, signed and transmitted.
He paused a moment to glance outside his dormitory window, at the blue sky punctuated by the frail white clouds of water vapor, framed below by vivid green foliage and brightly colored flowers in neatly tended beds. In the distance, he could see a portion of the massive bridge that spanned the harbor. So much moisture in the air still made him uncomfortable, but he was gradually acclimating to the alien biosphere. Still, he found this foreign landscape so jarring … he found sometimes that he really did miss the soothing heat and comfortable dryness of the Vulcan winter. Spring on Earth was more challenging that he’d expected.
And there were other challenges to be addressed, and it was time to address details that were less amenable than a contemplation of an alien climate..
A brief missive to his mother was drafted and ready to send by subspace; it sat in the queue waiting for transmission clearance. She would be pleased to hear from him, he knew. He had been careful to keep the letter informative, possibly even entertaining. He could genuinely claim that the classes at Starfleet were interesting, and he was doing well. He had no doubt that some of them, like advanced astrophysics, might have been more challenging at the Vulcan Science Academy, but they would have lacked the viewpoints of the many species who attended Starfleet Academy. And he had come to believe more strongly that before that it was important to understand the varying perspectives of different species regarding space, territories and boundaries. His mother would be pleased that he was benefitting from the collection of races that made up Starfleet Academy. He would not guess at his father’s reaction.
What she would not be pleased about was something he’d elected not to tell her. It was simply not logical to upset her when there was nothing she could do. Her family here on Earth had invited him to their home for their holidays, but he’d interpreted the tight politeness and rigid courtesy of their invitation as a tacit plea to refuse. He was used to rigid courtesy, as he was accustomed to veiled disrespect. He could credit his human relatives with being polite yet disinterested, rather than polite and disappointed, at least. So refuse he had, acquiescing to their unspoken subtext. He would remain on campus at the Academy during the human holidays, holidays that he did not celebrate nor understand, although on occasion during his youth, his mother had attempted to introduce some of those customs. They had not fit into a Vulcan life, and he knew that she’d been disappointed in that, but never in him. There was no logic to ruining his human relatives’ holidays by pointlessly including him in their celebrations.
He would not be the only cadet not leaving campus over those holidays, since he was not alone in not celebrating them. With so many species represented at Starfleet Academy, and within those species, so many faiths, there was a broad spectrum of holidays and holy days for the cadets to observe or not. Not that it would matter, since he elected to keep himself apart from his classmates outside of classes. He often thought of his sojourn at Starfleet as mirroring the ancient monks in their pursuit of knowledge and understanding of the teachings of Surak. The Academy was his monastery. The thought almost made him smile, but he halted the impulse before it reached his lips.
What his mother didn’t know didn’t have to inconvenience him or worry her. Spock was used to being on his own. In fact, he had more sentient companionship here at the Academy than he’d ever had back home on Vulcan. It was quite logical that the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth took an interest in the first and only Vulcan student at Starfleet Academy. Soval had in fact provided the recommendation that had enabled Spock to qualify for the Academy. But the regularly scheduled meetings with the Ambassador felt less like formal progress reviews and more familial in nature. It was odd, but it would please his mother.
He watched as the letter left his queue and made its way onto the subspace transmission array. His mother would receive the video file in a few days if all went well. And then he could look forward to a response from her, hushed tones as she moved into the library to ensure his father did not hear. Worried glances toward the closed door. Strain behind her smile.
He shook his head slightly. It was not logical to dwell on his father’s displeasure. He was at Starfleet, where he would remain. That was the logical course of action.
Course work complete and filial obligations met, Spock picked up his Vulcan lute and ran his fingers lightly over the strings. He frowned. The instrument was slightly out of tune. He did not play frequently enough to hold the strings in tune. He tapped the string several more times while he nudged the tuning key a fraction. There, it was in harmony with itself. If only he could mirror its logical perfection.
And there was the real thing he had not shared with his mother. Not the coursework, stimulating though it was. He was confident in his decision to enter Starfleet Academy. Not the disconnect with his human relatives. He knew they wanted as little to do with him as he did with them, but some part of him appreciated the gesture. Not the surprising attention of one of the most famous living Vulcans. He understood Soval’s investment in the integration of Vulcans into Starfleet.
No, the thing he had not shared with his mother, the thing that denied him the logical perfection, the internal harmony he sought, was the simple fact that the future was not only unwritten, it was frighteningly blank. And he had no idea how he fit into that wide open future. The thought was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
He closed his eyes and let his fingers drift across the lute strings, feeling his way through the melody. The mathematical complexity of the lute music forming under his fingers soothed away the uncertainty, leaving only the numbers and the notes. He leaned his head to one side listening to individual notes and the patterns they formed in the air, hanging suspended for a moment before they dissipated like mist. In his mind’s eye, he could picture ordered rows of numbers, equations dancing on the trembling air like the fairies in the picture books his mother had read to him when he’d been very young …
“Ah, I knew it.”
Spock’s eyes snapped open and he found himself looking up at the bright blue eyes and impossibly wide smile of Phlobin, the Denobulan resident advisor on his floor of the Academy dormitory. His facial ridges shown bright red in the waning sunlight filtering through his window.
“Mr. Spock, you’ve been holding out on us,” Phlobin chastised gently with a wave of his hand. “Do, please, continue.”
Spock’s eyes strayed to the door to his dormitory room, which was still unhelpfully closed. Phlobin glanced over his shoulder toward the door, and if possible, his grin grew wider. “You were so involved in your music, you didn’t hear me knock. Twice. So I let myself in.” He held up his card key and waggled it. “You were quite lost in the moment, I fear. You play quite beautifully, Mr. Spock.”
“It is not beauty. It is mathematics.”
“Ah yes. I understand. There has long been a corollary between music and mathematics. That does not diminish the fact that the sounds you make with your, um, Vulcan lute, is it?” Phlobin nodded toward the lute cradled in Spock’s arms. Spock nodded once, eyebrow raised quizzically. He was still waiting for the point of Phlobin’s visit, but he was beginning to wonder if there actually was one. “Yes, your Vulcan lute. Quite lovely.” The Denobulan clapped his hands, flashing that all-encompassing smile again. “And that gives me an idea,” Phlobin added, pulling the other chair in the room over. He paused, bent over the chair, and looked at Spock again. “May I?”
Spock nodded and set the lute aside, resting it carefully on the floor next to his chair. Phlobin was a puzzle, even more confusing than the humans that challenged Spock’s understanding daily. Denobulans were a much older race, with far greater experience among other species than even the Vulcans. And yet they continually chose to be among the much younger and brasher humans. As the Denobulan plumped down in the chair facing him, Spock found himself becoming intrigued despite himself. Phlobin’s job was to ensure that things ran smoothly on his floor of the dormitory. Cadets often turned to him when the workload proved too heavy, or something in the care package from home escaped, or any number of mundane issues. They often forgot that Phlobin was an accomplished scientist in his own right, a xenobiologist and medical doctor of the first order.
“My uncle-father told me a great deal about your people, Mr. Spock. I’ve very much been looking forward to meeting you. Of course you’ve been here at the Academy for several months, and yet I never see you leave your room except to attend classes.”’
Spock’s eyebrow rose fractionally. “Uncle-father?”
“Yes. I know it’s hard for non-Denobulans to understand – our culture has a very complex filial system. Dr. Phlox –the chief medical officer on the Enterprise, you know, and later the Director of Xenobiology at the Interspecies Medical Exchange – you would have liked him, by the way – was my uncle through my father, and my father through my mother. Not biologically, mind you, but through the marriage connection. Simple, really. But you’re not interested in the complexities of Denobulan marriage rites, are you, now? Of course not. Back to my point – “
“Which is?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Oh, no, I don’t suppose I did – I was so distracted by the music, you see. Hmmm. Yes, well, Ambassador Soval expressed some concern regarding your integration into the student population. As I said, I never see you leave your room except to attend your classes. And the occasional meal, of course.”
“My integration,” Spock repeated cautiously.
“Yes, your integration. Your course work is exemplary. Your dedication is unquestioned. But Ambassador Soval noted that in order for you to be considered for an officer posting, you’ll need to be better … well, shall we say … socialized?”
“Socialized?”
“Yes, socialized. An officer will need to be able to work with people, lead people, inspire them. My uncle-father was quite clear about the dangers of isolation amongst a space-borne crew. It’s a fine line, of course, but if you never have any exposure to people, you won’t be able to lead them. Regardless of their species. So-o-o … you need to sign up for extracurriculars. And before you repeat the word, let me assure you that independent study does not count as an extracurricular activity.”
“Socialization is not a requirement for commission in the Vulcan High Command,” Spock pointed out.
“You’re not going to serve in the Vulcan High Command, Mr. Spock.” Phlobin paused then, cocking his head to one side to study Spock intently for a moment. “Are you?” he asked suddenly. “Then why apply to Starfleet Academy?”
Spock considered the question in silence for a moment, started to answer, thought better of it, and found himself tilting his head at the same degree as the Denobulans’s.
“I see. You hadn’t quite thought that one through, had you?” The smile vanished, leaving an almost stern expression on the Phlobin’s face.
Spock opened his mouth to speak, reflected briefly that perhaps he’d be better off not responding, but decided that silence would not drive Phlobin away, and besides, the conversation had taken an intriguing turn. “I will admit that I have not made the requisite shift,” he finally answered.
“Ah. Yes. It is quite a shift, isn’t it? Had I stayed at home on Denobula V, the expectations would have been quite different. Communication is much simpler when you’re in a single planetary cultural environment, and everyone shares the same thousands of years of history. There is a shared reality, as it were. But here, you can’t rely on everyone having the same understanding, the same history. At least not at first.”
Spock found himself surprised despite himself. His eyebrow rose along with his interest, and Phlobin smiled broadly again.
“A team needs to learn to communicate quickly and clearly, despite cultural divides. You cannot rely on thousands of years of tradition in Starfleet, Mr. Spock. And I’m not talking about simply decoding linguistics via the universal translator. If you hope to be a Starfleet officer, you will need to learn to read your crew quickly, and provide leadership they can understand and follow without hesitation. And to do that,” he emphasized, his facial ridges flaring slightly, “you need to socialize. Now, I have a plan,” Phlobin concluded decisively.
***
“That’s an interesting design, Mr. Spock,” the young woman seated next to Spock said, nodding at the pin on his tunic.
He glanced down at the pin, and nodded. “It is the ‘Kol-Ut-Shan.’ It is an image of great import to Vulcans.”
“’Kol-uh –“
“Kol-Ut-Shan,” he repeated, then paused, frowning. “In English, it would be ‘Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination’,” he concluded, nodding toward her.
“That I can pronounce,” she replied with a shy smile. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means there are infinite possibilities, and all have value. That none should judge the many possible combinations.”
“Sounds like a very evolved philosophy. Does it really work that way on Vulcan?”
“I do not understand the question,” Spock replied, shaking his head slightly.
“Are Vulcans all-accepting? Do they truly embrace all things in all combinations?”
For a moment, he thought of his father and mother, the Vulcan scientist and the human xenolinguist, and he wanted to say yes. Surely they could never have married but for IDIC. But the memory of the Science Academy students and their intolerance of his humanness, the way the Vulcan matriarchs casually negated his mother, even now, even his father’s own reaction to his choice to attend the Starfleet’s Academy rather than the Vulcan Science Academy … no. IDIC was something to aspire to, not something that Vulcan as a culture had succeeded in embracing fully. Great strides had been made, he knew. But the reality was still something to be achieved.
“It is a work in progress,” he finally answered judiciously.
“Rather like this symphony,” she gestured toward the sheet music on the stand before her. “I’m really not sure what Phlobin is getting at with this passage here. What do you think? Allegretto?”
Spock followed her finger and studied the line of music on propped on the music stand. “Allegro,” he corrected.
‘’Allegro then,” she agreed, picking up the Thalassan flute and raising it to her lips. The complex wind instrument was uniquely suited to her six-fingered hands, and she ran a few experimental trills, her long fingers moving rapidly along the stops and holes. Then she launched into the music as written, her eyes locked on the sheet music for a moment, and then her lids drifted shut as she fell into the music. The sound was energetic and sweet. Spock listened a moment, then began to follow her notes with his lute, weaving counterpoint and harmony with the music she created.
“Ah, Mr. Spock, I see you’ve followed my advice,” Phlobin observed suddenly from just behind them. “And Ms. Kh’Shrka, I do believe you’ve improved upon that passage,” he added with a broader than possible smile.
Alanine Kh’Shrka and Spock each lowered their instruments, turning as one to look up into the beaming face of the Denobulan resident advisor. If possible, his smile grew wider.
“It is an example of infinite diversity in infinite combination,” Kh’Shrka said, grinning at Spock. When the Vulcan did not share her amusement, her smile gradually faded to an uncertain frown.
“I believe Ms. Kh’Shrka means that by trying an unusual pairing of instruments, we have achieved an unanticipated result,” Spock noted seriously.
“Yes, who would have thought that a Thalassan flute and a Vulcan lute could make such lovely music together? It’s really quite unexpected, don’t you think? And not at all displeasing. Rather like a Vulcan and a human, and their resulting offspring. Quite extraordinary.”
“Indeed,” Spock replied noncommittally, eyebrow arched and eye slightly narrowed, a hint of suspicion in his expression.
“I liked it,” Kh’Shrka added.
“As did I,” Phlobin agreed decisively, clapping his hands once for emphasis. “Now, how about we bring the entire orchestra in to play, eh? What say you, Mr. Spock?”
Spock was frowning at the sheet music, and was silent for a moment. Finally, he looked up from the music at Phlobin and arched an eyebrow inquisitively. “I do not understand, Phlobin. This symphony is nothing like a typical Denobulan composition.”
“Yes, you are right, Mr. Spock. A true Denobulan symphony would likely result in permanent hearing loss for many of the cadets in this room,” he gestured briefly to the assembled orchestra, nearly 30 cadets from 20 different races. “It would hardly do to cause such widespread damage among this year’s Academy class.”
Kh’Shrka giggled at the Denobulan’s admission, but Spock wasn’t quite satisfied. “Then why write music at all?”
Phlobin’s face grew serious as he cocked his head to look directly into Spock’s eyes. “Mr. Spock, is there any form of IDIC more perfect than the sound of disparate instruments joining to create a single whole?”
“There are many forms which IDIC may take, Phlobin. I do not see –“
“The needs of the many,” Phlobin interrupted suddenly. “The needs of the many, Mr. Spock.”
“Outweigh the needs of the few,” Spock finished the quotation softly. “I see.”
“I’m glad. It’s time we made some music,” he replied, grinning widely. Then he leaned in and dropped his voice so only Spock could hear, “And time you made some friends, Mr. Spock. You’ve made a start. Remember, socialize, that you might learn.”
Straightening, Phlobin cleared his throat and announced to the room at large, “Ladies and gentlemen, if you please!”
And the room filled with music, and Spock of Vulcan found himself becoming Spock of the Starfleet Academy Orchestra. And oddly, the empty spot he never spoke of to his mother seemed to recede.
END