FROM A DISTANCE
From a distance, he watches the crowd at play. No, more
precisely, he watches the twins at play--a boy and a girl, fraternal
twins--and he watches their mother watch them.
The girl has her mother's hair, wave after wave of heavy, thick
silk. Last time he saw her, it was a coppery red; today it's
a
perfect jet black. It speaks to the quality of
cosmetic
colorization that he has no sense of what shade it would be naturally.
She wears it pulled up in a ponytail and has drawn it through the back
of a ball-cap. In her uniform, the resemblance to her brother
is
striking. Beneath the cap, he sees the tiny upswept
almost-points
that grace the tops of her ears.
Her body is lithe and lean, a little gawky in its prepubescent
condition. She is taller than her brother is. Her batting
technique is more thoughtful--more logical--too. Her face is
intent; her blue-grey eyes stay with the ball at all times.
She tilts her head. There is no question; she has Amanda's
nose.
Her brother cheers her from behind. He is so unlike
her--passionate and spontaneous, always ready to make everyone laugh,
succeeding more often than not. He is popular; everyone wants
to
play on his team.
His batting statistics are far below hers, but he bubbles with
excitement every time he comes to the plate. Apparently
winning
isn't everything for some.
His hair is also shiny black, but his has always has been. He
assumes that is the color it was at birth. Last time he saw
him,
it was cut in a dome, with pointed sideburns to emphasize the telltale
ears. He wonders if that choice was intentional.
Today his hair is long and undisciplined, past his nape, held
carelessly back with a leather thong. The tie is loose; his
ears
are covered.
He wonders if that choice is intentional too.
The boy has Sarek's eyes. Watching his wide smile,
Spock imagines he has Amanda's contagious laughter as well.
Spock has never heard his grandchildren's voices.
He would like to do so one day.
The girl holds her stance. The first pitch goes by her
calf. Ball one.
Spock has often wondered at their conception. His own took
four
genetic engineers from two planets and more than seventeen attempts to
complete. The physicians had said he was sterile.
None of
this should have happened.
It is one more curiosity he can attribute to the medicinal powers of
the spores. Certainly if life in space has taught him
anything it
is that the term "should" holds little meaning in the face of new
discoveries. The proof of that plays baseball as he speaks.
The second pitch is wide of home plate. She holds her stance;
her
eyes dart right back to the pitcher's glove. Ball two.
He had not seen Leila since Omicron Ceti III. A biologist who
had
known them both on Earth had told him of her recent marriage to
Sandoval and her daughter over a casual dinner aboard ship one
night. The calculations had not been difficult.
He had sent her a stargram with contact information, receipt
confirmed. She had not responded.
The spores had taken some choices from them both, but this one and the
right to make it was hers. He did not send a second message.
Logic dictated that he had done his duty.
He does not know what to call this force that has drawn him so often to
locate her, to watch her and her child, and later on, her child's
children.
In the transporter room he had told her he could only know duty, never
love. With the passing of a few more years at Jim's side, he
had
come to understand that to a man with a peaceful heart, they are both
one and the same.
His first duty was to he captain and his friend.
It is a sad fact of life that even the most recent lessons learned are
not necessarily correct. It was not until he heard that Jim
was
dead and the full impact of the gaping, empty years that lay ahead of
him came crashing over his mind, that he realized that he had been
wrong--horribly, tragically wrong both times. Any
chance he
had had
to comprehend love had been ripped from him by an energy ribbon and now
drifted lifeless between the stars.
He tendered his resignation the next day. Duty and love may
not be the same, but Jim's death left him with neither.
Jim had been his only love, but watching the family--his family--now,
he considers if he must necessarily be his last.
He fingers the coded missive in the pocket of his robe.
Pardek
has sent word for a secret meeting on Jaqivo VII. He reported
that the hour was ripe to influence the senate toward reunification.
There is much discontent with the Emperor.
The good of the many exceeds the good of the one; so many vulcanoid
lives were at stake, and yet he hadn't gone.
It may not be officially his duty, but it is illogical for him not to
go.
The little girl with Amanda's nose hits a ball deep into the
outfield. She takes off and runs like the
wind. In
the stands her mother rises and cheers.
The girl's mother also inherited her own mother's hair, wave after wave
of yellow corn silk falling down around her shoulders. It covers up the
quite unmistakable points of her ears. Every time he has seen
her, she has worn it down in one style or another.
He know that blonde is not its natural hue, but it seems right to him
that she should wear it that color. Among other things, it
flatters her.
She also has Leila's shapely body--wave after wave of bosom and hips.
She is about the age now that Leila was then.
The mother's face turns to follow the daughter as she runs the bases.
When she reaches second, the mother looks ahead toward third.
She
is looking in his direction. Perhaps she sees him this time.
He doubts she would recognize him if she did. He wonders if
she has even been given a name or a picture.
She has her Leila's smile.
The child starts toward third, but changes her mind, goes back and
stops at second. He follows the ball as it is thrown back
in. It arcs up into the sky.
Flimsy wisps of clouds scatter the blue. Cirrus, altocumulus
and
cumulus, they are all conglomerations of water vapor and ice
crystals--nothing more. There are no dragons in the
sky.
Despite his memories, he tells himself there never
were.
None of that was real.
None of it. It was only an illusion of the spores.
The good of the many exceeds the good of the one. He will
tidy his affairs and leave in two days.
The boy with eyebrows comes up to bat. He has Leila's
cheekbones,
arched high and round. Perhaps he was wrong; he sees nothing
of
Sarek in the boy today. Perhaps it was only the haircut after
all.
The boy prepares to bat eyes sparkling with excitement. No,
there
is nothing of Sarek in him, but he is a fine boy in his own
right. His family should be proud.
Spock will tidy his affairs and leave for Jaqivo VII in two
days. But for now, he will watch the remainder of the game.
In the transit lot, Leila stops her aeromobile a discreet distance
away. Her summer blonde is still thick and luxurious, but has
long since turned to shades of silver. She doesn't colorize
it;
she prefers it this way.
In the transit lot, Leila stops her aeromobile a discreet distance
away. Her summer blonde is still thick and luxurious, but has
long since turned to shades of silver. She doesn't colorize
it;
she prefers it this way.
She pulls a pair optifocals from the convenience compartment of the
instrument console. She put them there the second time she
thought she saw him watching. Or perhaps it was the third.
She directs the beam. Yes, it's him. He looks older now--even
older than the last time, and that was barely six months ago.
He
no longer looks like the man she once loved. The man she knew
then had had the feel of such simmering unmapped potential, if only he
would let her show him.
This man looks like a refugee drifting too weary to navigate--simply
hoping to find home
But somewhere in there is the man who told her she was beautiful, and
that he loved her as he had loved no one else before. That
kind
of love doesn't simply die. She knows that for a fact.
She readjusts the optifocals. She thinks she can still see it
a little in his eyes.
She watches for a long moment, then puts the focals away.
Elias
is dead; sometimes she thinks it would be nice to try again, but there
is more than herself to consider these days. Although her
descendents do not share Elias's genes, they have all been blessed with
the gentle compassion and the heartfelt love of all things living that
Elias had
given to them.
He may not have given them life, but he gave them the capacity to love
life, and that is the greater of the two.
They knew the facts of course, but the cold hard fact was that in every
way that mattered, chromosomes excluded, Elias was their sire, and the
best one any child could want.
To meet a father--a grandfather, no, a semen donor--who could not love
them back, would be beyond their happy understanding. After
thirty-five years, Leila is just beginning to understand and to
forgive. She would not wish that anguish one
anyone--certainly not her dearest, and so she drives off.
There
will be other games for her
to watch.
A mother's foremost duty is ever to her young.