Holography 1: The Catalyst


Pat Foley


Across the Federation, Spock Xtmprszqzntwlfb curled up for warmth under a thermal blanket. His Vulcan status had granted him a single dorm cubicle, which he could at least partly adapt to Vulcan conditions, at least in the sense of adding some heat, but nothing could dissipate the humidity, the yellow lights, or the unshielded pulse of other's minds. He had not slept in the days traveling in double accommodations to Earth, nor had he eaten much either. But now, with the yellow lights dimmed, and the quiet that descended even into the telepathic band after lights out, and the warmth he'd increased in the cubicle and under the thermal blanket, he finally slept, exhausted but content, a great weight lifted from his slender shoulders. The cube was bare of anything personal but a carrybag, a Vulcan musical instrument, and a few Vulcan clothes. And a holograph, eyes meeting in silent communion. And next to the holograph the son of that union slept, alone, seeking a place of his own in the universe.

It was not the best of times. It was not the worst of times. But for the present, it would have to serve.

This story is continued in Holography 2 The Wedding Present or The Starling's Lament.