VULCAN, SEPTEMBER, 2285

PERSONAL JOURNAL, SAREK SRE SKONN, SKONN SRE T'PAU

My grandaughter, who I may never publicly name as such, glares at me. Her beloved, her thy'la, her Rock, lies in a broken heap. He will recover. But the meld I swore I would never ask of Peter again had to be forced, in this case. My illness is become too grave. Emotional control has left me in waves, of late. For one last time, I must needs be Sarek of Vulcan. The needs of Peter Kirk, and of our precious Saavik come after the need for me to persuade my fellow diplomats.

Such a simple thing, a speech. But it will alter the history of the universe, in this case. Through those I have known, jibed, argued, and parried with for all these long decades, regular channels may be bypassed, and the dread message spread before The Order has a chance to rise up. Ghidorah is coming. The 2230 Treaty that placed all known species within the redefined borders of The Alpha Quadrant nearly caused all-out war, as insipid as that sounds. Yet even that war, had it occurred, would have paled compared to what is to follow. What I do when I speak next will determine whether we are civilized creatures dealing with a great crisis, or provincial savages, yielding to The Madness of Surak's Prophecy as we make every possible mistake.

Peter moans as he recovers, or perhaps it is because of Saavik's more intimate ministrations. Though I love them well and dearly, they may not and must not be my concern. Every word of this speech is oxygen to the lungs of creation. But I write mechanically. Has melding with the boy robbed me of some of my art? It matters not. These words will not rouse the slothful. I have violated a boy who is like Spock to me, and for no gain at all. As I lay my weary head down, I dimly remember Amanda voicing a threat to abandon me, should I again abuse Peter's ability to recharge my fading faculties. Then of course, there is the savage fact that attempting to contain my own rampant emotions once led the children to commit non-consensual sexual assault upon one another.

I must be as Peter's father, James. Only the mission. Only the mission matters. The mission is breath. It is who I am. It is all I am.

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When I awaken, the air is much less dry. The sun is cooler, and looks a shade of crimson. T'Kuht is nowhere to be seen. I am not on Vulcan, despite all logic and common sense.

A man, tall like Tasorel, Peter's Rihannsu grandfather known only as the Terran Thomas Sorel, even to him, gestures at me. I cannot discern his speech. He points to a projecting beam-spreader, of some kind.

After an hour, through patient repeating of gestures and sounds, I realize that this spreader of his pulled me to this other place, somehow. He seems enormously relieved when a woman I take to be his wife brings in a small console. After much fine-tuning, he speaks at me, through this crude translator.

*I am called ( Comfort-Giver ). This place is called ( Gas? ). I apologize for your discomfort. I had not meant to draw anyone here. My ( Spirit-Form Realm ) Spreader was designed as a means of escape, though its main use now is disciplinary.*

Extreme difficulty with specific names of any given object. My appreciation grows for Peter's adoptive mother, Nyota Uhura. Persons such as herself make the task seem so simple.

*I am called ( Gift Of The Stars ). I am a diplomat on my native world, ( Hephauesteus? Fireheat? Wheel-forging? ). I must be returned, immediately. I must deliver a speech of extraordinary magnitude, very soon.*

*What does this speech concern?*

*The Ancient Destroyer Of Worlds*

We are both of us stunned. The device needed no effort to make my words plain. He nods, and his wife holds back tears.

*We understand. Will you follow us? We must do something important, before you are sent back.*

Seeking to expedite even the possibility of my quick return, I do as they bid. His wife picks up a toddling child, and asks silently that I hold him. The child smiles, and grabs at my ears. I wonder. Was Peter ever this happy? I fear I know better than to ask that question about Spock. The baby is then taken from me, and placed into an odd bed-chamber. Before I fully take in what it truly is, the capsule and the rocket attached to it are airborne. Ominous rumblings strike at the world around us. I feel nauseous as I observe the rocket explode well above us, its innocent passenger gone forever.

Why do the parents not cry out? Even Vulcan elders, observing such a loss, would do so at least audibly. Yet they are not upset at all. Then, I see. The baby is back in his mother's arms. Without any translator, the man now speaks to me.

"We live on here, in Peter's powerful mind. I, too, once thought that only the mission mattered. Yet had I allowed my emotions to rise, I would have made that rocket more secure. I attended to my futile persuasion efforts towards blind fools, rather than to the life of my own son."

In the skies above us, the beast arrives, and another planet dies, in a cosmic replay made all the more hideous for how soon we will all be facing its reality. I nod to one who has shown me that this mission is far more than mere persuasion.

"I thank you. You have given me much. Yet, sir, I do not have your name."

The spirit whose anger I unleashed by hurting its host says a name I do not know, and yet I feel that I should, somehow.

"My name, Sarek Of Vulcan? My name is Jor-El."

When the new day came, no one heard my words for all the shouting they elicited. I continued to make plans, and used my new lessons well. Yet the far past words of my new friend yet haunt me, and I hear them even as I sleep.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of The Science Council, Krypton Is Doomed!"

In the present, I fear it shall soon have company.