Moments At Gol by Aconitum-Napellus

Set just after The Search for Spock, a series of vignette of first meetings between Spock and his friends/family. Only the first is Kirk-Spock.

Categories: Fiction Characters: Saavik
Crossover Fandom: ST:TOS Original Universe
Genres: Kirk-Spock Friendship
Other Languages: None
Specific movie: None
Story Type: Character Study
Trope (OPTIONAL): None
Universe: ST:TOS Original Universe
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 4 Completed: No Word count: 5162 Read: 41108 Published: 09/27/2009 Updated: 02/28/2015

1. Moments At Gol: Kirk by Aconitum-Napellus

2. Moments At Gol: Saavik by Aconitum-Napellus

3. Moments At Gol: McCoy by Aconitum-Napellus

4. Moments At Gol: Spock by Aconitum-Napellus

Moments At Gol: Kirk by Aconitum-Napellus

Moments at Gol


Jim was scared to see Spock. He had never been scared to see Spock before. The Vulcan had been apprehensive of facing *him*, perhaps. When he had spoken of Pon Farr so very long ago it seemed, whenever he had some kind of emotional or physical problem that he did not want to admit to. But Jim Kirk had never in his life been afraid to face Spock.

Actually, that was not quite true.

As Spock had turned round to him in the warp chamber. Then he had been afraid. And when he first saw his living body on Genesis, living, but with no mind, or at least none of the warm, intelligent, shrewd Vulcan that Kirk had grown to love. Then he had been afraid.

And this time… This time, when he knew that Spock’s mind and Spock’s body were rejoined, albeit loosely enough for the present. This time, when all of that Vulcan’s thoughts and memories were jostling about in his mind as if a life had been newly formed, in an instant, and injected into his head. This time, what would he find?

He had fought tooth and nail for this meeting. They had tried to stop him. All of those emotionless, tight-faced Vulcan adepts had tried to stop him. But then Sarek, Ambassador of all Vulcan, prime disapprover of Spock’s entry into Starfleet and his long career there, had argued his case – and, as was usual with Sarek, had won.

He did not know what the think when he entered that room. Less of a room, and more of a chamber hollowed from the rock at Gol. There was no more in it than a bed, and the chair that Spock sat in. It was an attempt not to overwhelm him, apparently. But when, Kirk wondered, had a Vulcan last been joined in body and spirit by Fal-Tor-Pan? What precedent was there for how to treat him?

Spock sat on the chair in his all-encompassing white robe. It was perhaps all that he possessed at this moment in time. Kirk did not doubt that certain trinkets and treasured possessions still lingered in his parents’ home. For all the width of the rift between him and his father, Spock still had his childhood room there. But right now, this was all that Spock was. His body, so freshly renewed but looking so old – and this one white robe that covered him to the wrists, to the ankles. It would not have surprised Jim if he was naked underneath it.

‘Spock,’ he said finally.

Spock looked up. He still had that look in his eyes – the confused look, the slightly fearful look of an aged animal. The eyes of one with dementia.

‘Spock, it’s me,’ he said, taking a step forward. Surely the Vulcan had not forgotten him again, so soon? ‘It’s me, - ’

He had not yet begun to form his name, but, ‘Jim,’ Spock said, rising slowly from the chair – rising as if it was not an accustomed action for him.

In some ways, Spock’s life so far had consisted of nothing but crouching on a planet that was tearing itself apart, and of lying as if in trance on a bunk in the Klingon ship. In some ways – but in other ways –


Spock had such a rich and varied life behind him. So many jewels of knowledge and insight had resided in that mind. Was everything lost?

No, not everything. For Spock looked at him again, and said again, ‘You are Jim. I remember this much…’

‘Yes, you do,’ Jim said, coming forward to him with a sudden, rich smile.

Spock flinched a little as Kirk lifted his arms towards him, as if he was not sure what this person was about to do.

‘You remember that much,’ Kirk nodded, putting his hands on Spock’s arms. ‘I’m Jim. Your friend, Jim.’

‘I – communicate – like this,’ Spock said hesitantly, reaching his hand tentatively towards Kirk’s face.

Jim wanted to flinch away. He did not know what to do. Rejecting Spock was unthinkable. But what would the adepts say? He very much doubted that they would approve of Spock melding so soon – and melding, at that, with an emotional human, a human who had just lost his son, who had just regained the best friend he had ever had. Jim was the first to admit that his emotions were uncertain at that moment.

And how much memory did Spock retain of the techniques of melding? He had mentioned often in the past...

*Oh, Spock… Oh, that Spock of the past, how I miss you…*

So often he had said how dangerous melding could be, how joining with an unbalanced mind could upset the balance of one’s one. And they were both unbalanced at the moment. There was no doubt about that.

*Spock, oh, Spock, how I miss you…*

And without conscious impulse he was stepping forward to the Vulcan, and Spock’s oh-so-familiar fingers were touching his face, burning onto his skin with typical Vulcan intensity. And startling, out of the maelstrom of echoes and memories and thoughts that circled in his head, Spock said again, <I communicate like this.>

<Yes, Spock. You communicate like this.>

<And you are my friend.>

<Oh, my friend…>

The urge to weep almost overcame him. This was too much. Too much… The loss of David, the loss of Spock. *My child, my friend…*

<Must I leave?>

He regained control of himself.

<No, Spock. Don’t ever leave again.>

<You – love – me?>

Love. A swirling vortex of undefined emotions. Colours and feelings and scents and memories jostling one another, erasing and effacing one another, confusing the mind.

<Love – is not logical…>

<It is not logical,> Jim agreed. <But it exists. You cannot deny it.>

<And you love me. I am – a friend to you. And you to me. I – also love you.>

It was not quite a question, not quite a statement…

<I hope so, Spock.>

<It is not sexual.>

Images burst in Spock’s mind, blurred and tired. Droxine, Christine, Leila. Other women, that Spock could recognise but Kirk could not. He thought, spontaneously and humour-full, <I didn’t realise you’d had such a varied past, Spock.>

<Nor I myself.>

*Nor I myself.* That last was so *Spock* that Kirk almost cried.

<And no, it is not sexual,> Kirk confirmed. <We love each other, as – >

<Brothers, friends, family, *t’hy’la.*>

The words were like flowers unfolding, like crystals growing in Spock’s mind. Unlocking doors, sparking memories, unfolding the pages of forgotten books.

<Yes, Spock. Brothers, friends, family, *t’hy’la.*> Kirk repeated. <You are mine, and I am yours. I came back for you, because you belong to me, and I need you by my side.>

<And – you are my Jim,> Spock said.

His hand fell from Kirk’s face. He stared at his fingertips, registering tears.

‘Your face is wet,’ he said, and his forehead creased in puzzlement, as if those words had been pulled from a time long passed.

‘Yes, it is, Spock,’ Kirk said without shame. ‘It is wet because I am happy.’

Spock stared at him, still with that haunted, bewildered look in his eyes. And then he said, ‘Humans are illogical.’

‘Indeed we are, Spock,’ Kirk said, with the most illogical smile he had ever worn on his face. ‘Indeed we are.’

Moments At Gol: Saavik by Aconitum-Napellus

Moments At Gol


Saavik hovered outside the chamber, caught in illogical nervousness. How to react as a Vulcan should to this meeting? How to react as a logical being, not as a child torn from an illogical world, as one come late to the mind rules, as one to whom Spock was so – so very vital.

Always, during these dilemmas, she had applied to Spock, and Spock had instructed her. Spock’s steadying influence had calmed her. Spock had teased the tangles from her ill-formed logic and shown her how it should lie in her mind.

And now, what was Spock? She had let him go. She had grieved, and released him, as a Vulcan should. She had accepted his loss, and moved on – and now she was turning back to a shell of what he had been. Everything had changed.

Oh, how everything had changed. She had felt that the first time he had been shaken by his *time* on Genesis, ripped like Adam from his empty innocence. When he had turned to her in naked bewilderment, his body lithe and young, younger even than she remembered him from so long ago, knowing nothing but what biology had urged him to do.

And she had shown him the form and the process. She had given him a careful framework to hold the fever that racked him, and had willingly offered the only logical solution. And she, Saavik of Vulcan, protégé of Spock, had burned in response to those eager hands and that young body that had no mind and only wanted biological satiety.

*Spock, how things have changed.*

She saw him now, and it was like looking back through an album of photographs. She saw the Spock who had rescued her and protected her from the hell of her childhood – as she had rescued and protected him from his childhood on Genesis. She saw the Spock that he had been before she had ever met him – the lanky, teenage Spock, the vital young man. She had seen it all on Genesis. He had grown up before her eyes, and clung to her, and lusted for her, and finally slipped into catatonic silence. And she had seen him anew.

She did not even know if he remembered.

She did not know if he remembered what she had been to him on Genesis. She was uncertain if he even remembered what he had been to her in the past. She had been very important to him for a long time, it was true – but most of her post-rescue years she had spent in the home of his parents, her communication with him only through the filter of subspace transmissions, with none of the bond-building mental familiarity that came with physical proximity. Would he even know who she was?

*Illogical. Illogical,* she told herself fiercely. *Standing out here will not alter Spock’s memory. I must - *

She lifted a hand to the door, and it swung open silently under her touch. He sat there, on the single chair, his hands buried in the sleeves of his robe, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall as if he could learn something from the striations in the rock.

She began to speak, but her voice faltered.

He looked up.

Something lit deep in his bewildered eyes, almost – *almost* – a smile moving onto his face, and then flitting away again. He rose from his chair, one hand extending towards her. Illogical as the thought may be, he seemed to have been struck with sunlight.

‘Saavikam,’ he said, and he took a step closer.

She flinched. How stupid of her to flinch. But – this was Spock anew, Spock with all of his confident wisdom stripped from him. He was a child, seeking out guidance and reassurance. How did she approach this?

She inhaled, calming herself. She gave a small flitting smile to match his, and walked forward. He held a hand out, uncertainly, and then dropped it again, looking away, his gaze seeming to curl in on itself as he scoured his mind.

‘Spock,’ she said, stepped forward again, and holding out her hands to his. Most unVulcan, to touch in this way – but – what was Vulcan about this meeting? What was logical here?

He reached out that tentative, uncertain hand again, and touched hers, bending down two fingers, leaving two extended, stroking haltingly at her own.

‘This – is inappropriate,’ she said with great control.

He looked up at her, startled, his forehead creasing.

‘Yes… It is inappropriate. But – somewhere in my mind…’

She inhaled deeply, and let the breath out slowly. How did she explain what happened on Genesis? He had touched her mind there, even if there had been very little of *his* mind for her to touch.

The truth. Had Spock not always taught her that the truth was paramount?

‘Spock, are you aware of your regeneration on Genesis?’ she asked.

His forehead furrowed again.

‘Accelerated growth,’ he said slowly. ‘Renewal. Years in minutes…’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘And what must come to all Vulcans…’

He looked down, his mind working. Then he looked up at her, startled, stepping back a little.

‘You – became my bond-mate,’ he said cautiously. ‘*You*, Saavikam, became my bond-mate. Is this true?’

She was improperly relieved that *she* had not had to say it.

‘Yes, this is true,’ she nodded.

He looked her up and down, with an appearance of sudden preternatural knowledge in his eyes, as if he was seeing straight through her clothing.

‘Yes,’ he echoed. ‘It is true.’

She nodded, simply.

‘It – may be awkward,’ he said.

Saavik’s eyebrow quirked. ‘Understatement is a very useful facet of language,’ she commented.

‘Yes,’ he said slowly, staring downward again, reading unknown thoughts in his own mind. ‘It may be awkward. But – it is not unacceptable.’

Saavik let tension go suddenly, that she had not realised she had been holding.

‘No,’ she realised, looking straight into those intelligent, bewildered eyes. ‘It is not unacceptable. In fact, it is logical.’

‘Logical, yes…’

He looked about the room, and then back at her face, seeming to be recalling the basics of hospitality. Every shard of knowledge he recaptured seemed to momentarily frighten him, before he processed it and put it in its proper place.

He looked back at the room. There was only one chair. He looked towards his bed, and gestured towards it uncertainly.

‘You must sit,’ he said, and walked with her to the bed, and sat beside her. They both sat, eyes on the wall opposite, reminding Saavik very much of awkward human teenage couples she had seen, or of people waiting for a shuttle.

Finally, Spock looked left, towards her, and she turned her head to meet his eyes.

‘It is not logical to regret a person’s passing,’ she said, never taking her eyes from those eyes that she trusted so deeply. ‘But – I am very glad to have you back.’

Moments At Gol: McCoy by Aconitum-Napellus

Moments at Gol – McCoy   

    The doctor had seen Spock in many guises. He had seen him unconscious, injured, delirious with fever, blind – even insane. But he had no frame of reference for seeing Spock as he was now. He had encountered brain-damaged patients before. Perhaps that was the closest approximation to the way Spock was now. But Spock was not technically brain-damaged. He was not damaged at all, medically. He was like the custodian of a huge library whose keys had been jumbled and mixed until he could open none of the rooms. Everything that made Spock who he was was there, in his head, but by Jim’s account the Vulcan was struggling to access it. He was, in Kirk’s words, like a man searching for himself in a dark room.

    McCoy was struck briefly with the thought that perhaps right now he knew Spock better than Spock knew himself. He had carried Spock’s consciousness in his head. He had felt Spock’s impulses and desires and thought processes, taking over his own. He had been privileged with a deeper insight into Spock’s soul than any person had ever been allowed.

*How ironic,* he thought with a twisted smile. *Spock, my old friend. Spock, my sparring partner. I’ve spent my life fighting you, and now I know what you thought when you looked back at me, better than you do yourself.*

    He steeled himself, finding himself pulling his top straight with his hands, almost laughing aloud when he realised that that very motion was just another echo that Spock had left in his head. If Spock was dark to his light, or rationality to his emotion, or whichever flipside to whichever coin the doctor chose to be, then he could at least have the courage to face him. Perhaps on facing him he could begin to unweave the intimate grasp that the Vulcan’s mind seemed to have on his.

McCoy stepped into the room with apprehension flooding through his veins. Spock was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the opposite wall. He did not even turn his head until he heard the noise of the door closing. Then he regarded McCoy without query or emotion. McCoy had seen prisoners like that, so numbed by their captivity that they had no protest against it. They were always the hardest to bring back.

    Spock continued to stare at him. Finally, the doctor’s impatience broke through.

‘Spock, don’t you recognise me?’ McCoy asked in a rough voice, coming closer. ‘You put your entire psyche in my head, you bastard. Don’t tell me you don’t recognise me.’

    Spock’s eyebrow lifted, just a little, in a heart-breaking echo of his former self.

    ‘I recognise you,’ he said steadily. ‘Better than some. Your mind is – fractured with illogic.’

    The doctor laughed suddenly, and Spock reacted as if he had heard an explosion somewhere far away.

    ‘Spock, you son-of-a-bitch,’ McCoy said, coming over to sit by him on the bed. He brought himself close to Spock’s face, staring into those strange, confused eyes that contained just a glimmer of the Vulcan’s former self. ‘Dammit, you *are* in there, aren’t you? I was afraid they’d left something behind with all that mumbo-jumbo.’

    ‘You are referring to – Fal-Tor-Pan?’ Spock asked him, looking sideways. ‘The reunification of mind and spirit.’

    ‘I’m referring to Fal-Tor-Pan,’ the doctor nodded. ‘Spock, I carried your soul for – God, for far too long. I didn’t even know you were in there at first. I thought I was going mad! Hell, everyone else thought I was going mad!’

    Spock continued to regard him.

‘I don’t remember the thought processes that led me to trust you with my Katra,’ he admitted finally. ‘They must have been – fascinating.’

McCoy snorted, and saw Spock flinch again at the emotional display.

‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘I have no doubt that you would have given it to Jim, if you’d had the chance. But I don’t think you had a choice. You knew what you were going to do, Spock. You knew you were going – to die. I was there, trying to stop you. I was – convenient,’ he finished with a very slight hint of bitterness in his voice.

Spock stared at him, seeming to read memories in the lines of McCoy’s face, his thoughts gradually catching fire and growing with each second.

‘Dr McCoy,’ he said with certainty – and that in itself was a breakthrough, since there was no guarantee that he would remember the doctor’s name. ‘You were – my colleague. And my friend. We served together. You saved my life on many occasions.’

‘Not that time,’ McCoy said bitterly. ‘There you were, and there was nothing I could do…’

‘But I am alive,’ Spock pointed out, with puzzlement in his voice.

‘No thanks to me.’

Spock’s forehead creased in thought.

‘Without you, I – everything that creates what I am – would be lost forever. There would have been no Katra to return. You are a friend, McCoy. I remember that much. You are a very good friend.’

There it was still – the puzzlement in his voice. There was none of the assurance of the Spock that McCoy knew. Everything was a question. He was constantly searching for outside assurance. Again, he reminded McCoy of a prisoner who had been confined and controlled for so long that he could do nothing without permission – even think for himself. The idea of leaving him here to be coaxed out of himself by no one but Vulcans horrified him. Someone would need to coax the human bits back. McCoy renewed his determination to make sure he was able to visit Spock throughout the slow process of regaining himself. He was still, at least, Spock’s physician. Even brief death had not changed that. McCoy had never had the heart to erase the Vulcan from his records.

    ‘Yes, you green-blooded bastard,’ McCoy grinned, realising that Spock was awaiting confirmation of his supposition. ‘I’ve been your friend for a long time.’

Spock stared at him.

‘You are my friend – yet you continue to use profanity in regard to me. The word ‘bastard’ – denotes a child of unmarried parents. I believed that my parents were – ’

    ‘Your parents are *very* married, Spock,’ McCoy assured him.

    ‘Can there be degrees of marriage?’ Spock asked in puzzlement.

    The doctor rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. He and Spock had played this game for many years, but now he suspected that it was no game.

    ‘It’s a figure of speech, Spock,’ he said with an air of great patience. ‘And I use profanity with you because – well – I’m not quite sure why,’ he admitted. ‘It’s – something you expect from me.’

    Spock shook his head. ‘I expect very little of you.’

    McCoy arched an eyebrow. ‘Nothing much has changed then, Spock.’

    ‘A – joke?’

    ‘Perhaps,’ the doctor smiled.

    Spock stared at him.

    ‘I understand very little about you, Doctor. I – have a feeling that that is something that has not changed, either.’

    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ McCoy shrugged. ‘I suspect that we each understand the other better than we’d care to admit. And when we don’t – well, Jim’s there to interpret.’

    ‘Jim,’ Spock said slowly, as if just the word in itself was a security blanket.
    ‘Yes, Spock,’ McCoy said with a grin. ‘Jim. That’s the way it’s always been. You, and Jim, and me, keeping each other alive.’

    ‘Traditions,’ Spock said slowly, ‘are sometimes best kept alive. For the good of the many.’

    ‘And the one,’ McCoy smiled.

    Spock looked at him suddenly as if he had been struck by an inspiration.

    ‘Dumas,’ he said, apparently irrelevantly. ‘The Three Musketeers. All for one and one for all.’

    This time McCoy laughed heartily. Apparently Spock had discovered the key to a very specific chamber in his mind, which held an ancient tome of literature that he had once read. That fact was beautiful to McCoy. In his head he could see a representation of the brain, of synapses firing, forging new paths, recreating *Spock* with every tiny burst of electricity. It was proof that being here and talking to him would help to rebuild him, and it fired his determination to fight tooth and nail with anyone who tried to stop him from being involved in the Vulcan’s recovery.

    ‘That’s it, Spock,’ he nodded, startling the Vulcan yet again as he clapped an arm about his shoulders. You, me and Jim. The Three Musketeers. And nothing’s going to change it.’

Moments At Gol: Spock by Aconitum-Napellus
Author's Notes:

(There are 11 chapters in all now, all posted on ff and AO3, but I don't think they're all appropriate here.)

Moments At Gol – Spock.


I – am.

I am told that there is no one with my experience in living memory. I am told that the process I underwent, the fal-tor-pan, is so rare as to be almost unheard of, and that it took considerable effort on my father’s part to convince the adepts that the procedure should go ahead. It was only the extraordinary circumstances of the situation, most notably the deleterious effect of the katra on Dr McCoy combined with the fortuitous existence of my regenerated body, that convinced them.

I have heard that certain aspersions were cast regarding the question of my father’s emotional control. Nevertheless, he succeeded in his persuasion, and so I am. I exist.

As yet I feel I exist in some species of void, or rather that the void is within my own mind. There are – patches of knowledge, patches of instinct. I have been told that instinct is something of which to be wary, because very often instinct and emotion goes hand in hand, and emotion is undesirable. I confess I am not entirely certain why emotion must be undesirable. It is true that certain memories that surface in my mind are painful, but it is equally true that some are comforting. For instance, I have a strong memory of my head against my mother’s breast. I could not say how old I was at the time but I am aware that she was younger, and so was I. I am aware that the feeling was pleasant and that all felt well with me at that time.

Conversely I have memories of intense anger. I recall pulling my fist back and swinging it forward so as to make contact with the nasal bone of a young boy, and the shock of blood, green as al’hart, suddenly surging down his face. I recall holding an object of some kind, something squat, square, up above a golden-haired head, and being quite ready to slam it down in an act which would have crushed my captain’s skull. Perhaps the adepts are correct about emotion. But is it not possible to control the negative while embracing the positive?

That is not a thought I will express often to my tutors, I think. I do notice a certain degree of wariness on their part, as if they are attempting to ascertain quite how far I am broken and if it is perhaps possible that I cannot be repaired. My mother has told me that one of my defining characteristics is, or was, stubbornness, and I am quite determined to succeed in this attempt to rebuild my mind.

Outside it is very hot, another thing to which I shall have to accustom myself. It is evident that I spent the greater portion of my youth enduring such temperatures, but the initial stages of my regeneration were on a planet which was considerably cooler than this, and on a ship also set to human comfort levels. I must acclimatise to the heat of my native planet, and it is something I attempt each day now. I walk out onto the spreading rocks of the plateau and I feel the heat of the sun through the soles of my feet. The rock is smooth and pleasant against my skin. I am growing to find the stark heat of the sun on my head and shoulders equally pleasant, although to take pleasure in both sensations is, of course, an emotion which I must strive to eliminate. I must think, the rocks against my feet are hot and smooth, not, the smooth, hot rocks against my feet give a pleasant sensation.

As I raise my eyes to the sun I squint. I do not know if others of my race squint when they look at the sun. This simply serves to underline how much I have yet to learn. I am fully cognisant of the scientific principles of space warp, but I do not know if I should squint when I look at the sun. I spent a considerable time in the early days reconciling myself to the fact that when I wish my hand to move, it moves, and when I wish my feet to walk, they walk. I spent time learning that thoughts within my head can be translated to words spoken via my lips and tongue. All of this is progress.

This is all expected and I should not evince surprise. However, I do find this learning process fascinating.

There is some kind of winged creature flying in the thin air. It cuts across the sun, makes a noise like metal streaking across metal, and dives as if to capture prey. I do not know the name of the creature, so I take careful note of its appearance and size so as to consult the computer when I return inside. Now I have been allowed access to the teaching computers I can discover almost anything I want to know, although there are, of course, restrictions.

The material I most desire to access is contraband. The adepts desire that I recover my memory gradually and naturally. I am quite aware that there is a vast bank of logs amassed from my service in Starfleet, both official and personal, but these I have not been permitted to see. I wish to know more about those figures that loom so large in my thoughts and feelings. The Captain – or the Admiral, I should say – who seems very dear to me. Dr McCoy, who provokes emotions both of friendship and irritation. I am – confused – by the way they manifest in my mind. I am not supposed to feel affection, friendship, irritation. Am I to deny myself friendship?

One thing I know I must do. I must go to Earth to stand trial with my shipmates – for the Admiral and Dr McCoy are my shipmates, as are Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, Mr Scott. They risked their all to recover what they thought to be my dead body. They lost a ship. The Admiral lost a son. I am not sure that I totally understand what provoked a sacrifice of this magnitude in order to recover what they believed to be no more than my deceased remains, but nevertheless, they did this. My mother told me, They have sacrificed their futures because they believed that the good of the one – you – was more important to them.

I think my learning curve in the vicinity of human illogic and emotion may grow very steep in the coming weeks.

I have spent enough time in thought. I must speak to my tutors. I must take my leave of my parents and of Saavik, who will not be coming to Earth. I am, at least, spared the task of packing my possessions, since all that I possess is the robe that I stand in. I know that the repairs and modifications to the Klingon bird of prey are almost complete, and as soon as they are complete the Admiral will feel it his duty to leave the planet.

And yet I still find myself in thought. There is a conflict in my mind between what I have been taught over the previous weeks and what my mind attempts to tell me. I recall a moment, what some might call an epiphany – an extraordinary mind-meld between myself and a vast mechanical entity known as V’Ger. I recall that before there was emptiness, and after a kaleidoscope of feeling which I found almost impossible to process. I recall feelings of sadness, love, joy. These are all the things I am told I must eliminate in order to be restored to Vulcan.

Memories rise like bubbles in water. Standing in a briefing room a long, long time ago, with emotion surging through me, I don’t remember why.

Jim, when I feel friendship for you, I’m ashamed.

Lying on a biobed in sickbay, reaching out my hand, the feeling of the Captain’s fingers closing around mine.

Jim, this simple feeling is so far beyond V’Ger’s comprehension.

This simple feeling...

I do not know exactly what else I need to discover. The nature of discovery is such that one’s goals are often obscured. But I know that there is little left for me to discover on Vulcan. I know that half of my journey lies on Earth, and with my flawed, feeling, human friends.



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