Star Trek: Film Tie-in Novelization - Brossura

The star was a supergiant and very old. Over billions of years the forces that had powered it throughout its long life had finally exhausted themselves. Now it was falling in upon itself. The cataclysmic gravitational collapse triggered the spectacular explosion known as a supernova. What was left at the core of the supergiant was a neutron star, cold and dense and dead. Everything else was blown outward, creating a brilliantly glowing shock wave traveling at nearly a tenth the speed of light that swept up everything in its path. For a day or two this supernova remnant would shine more brightly than any other corner of the galaxy. A star had died.

Elsewhere in the cosmos, in an unremarkable corner of one galactic arm, a child was born. Such is the balance of existence.

Though his arrival was considerably less dramatic than the passing of the supergiant, it was in its own way no less remarkable. As some stars have unusual origins, so too did the squalling infant. At the moment this was not a concern of the pair of medical specialists who were attending the delivery. Reflecting as well as honoring their own ancient culture, the actual birthing was a combination of the traditional and the ultramodern. The former ensured that the occasion would be memorable for the mother while the latter precluded any possibility of miscarriage. Though they had overseen hundreds of birthings, the medical team in attendance was especially focused on the one that was taking place this morning. This was not because the father happened to be of high status and held various important positions within the government.

It was because the mother -- was different.

As she cleaned the newborn, the older of the two specialists noted the infant's steady breathing as well as the force with which he kicked. His occasional squalling rose above the soft traditional music that filled the room.

"He is strong, this one."

Carefully she passed it to the mother. As she took her offspring in her arms, tears appeared at the corners of her eyes and began to trickle down her smooth cheeks.

"Hello," she whispered to her child.

Taking her superior aside, the younger specialist murmured softly as she studied the tender bonding -- and the peculiar weeping.

"The baby is healthy. Why does she cry?"

The older woman replied, as if it explained everything, "She is human."

It did explain everything.

A distant buzz caused both of them to turn. "Sarek arrives," the senior of the two specialists observed.

His breathing was labored from the haste with which he had traveled, but Sarek remained completely under control. In other words, for a new Vulcan father, he was normal. Though he regarded the exhausted mother of their child without smiling, the pride and affection he felt shone clearly in his face.

Though they betrayed no emotion, all the attendants in the room strained for a better look. Details of the pregnancy and subsequent delivery were hardly conventional and the attendants' curiosity was understandable.

As her respiration returned to normal, Amanda Grayson regarded her newborn proudly. Though she was the only human in the delivery chamber, she did not feel isolated or alone. It was a state of affairs to which she had grown accustomed and one that she had willingly embraced. Besides, she was hardly alone. Sarek was there. Her husband was there.

And about time, too.

Pushing back his hood, Sarek approached the bed and knelt beside it. Having completed her duties, the medical specialist stepped back to allow the parents their first moment together as a complete family. Like her companions, the specialist said nothing. It was not her job to comment on the singular circumstances of the birth and certainly not the time to do so. Her task and those of her associates was to bring newborns safely into the world. This they had done, with skill and precision and caring. Any personal opinions they might hold they kept entirely private. To do otherwise would have been...impolitic.

Sarek knelt beside the bed. Beside his wife and child.

"Well done."

Through the joy and pain she still managed a sardonic reply.

"Thanks."

The awkwardness of the moment caused him to momentarily look away.

"Your tone suggests disappointment. I fully understand. To be absent at the critical moment was not my wish. The Science Council required my presence for a session regarding..."

She interrupted him. " Don't do that. You knew I wanted you here."

Catching the two birthing specialists exchanging a look, Sarek threw them one of his own that caused both of them to hurriedly excuse themselves. Reaching across to a small touchpad, he slid one finger across the pressure-sensitive surface. The music that had filled the birthing chamber ceased.

"As you are aware, the Vulcan male is traditionally not present at the moment of delivery."

She was not mollified. "Well, traditionally I'm the one giving birth. I moved here, to another planet, to be with you. I need you to be with me today. Holding my hand and telling me I'm doing great, even when I'm just -- breathing the best I can."

For a long moment it was silent in the chamber save for the baby's burbling and soft crying. Then Sarek moved as close to the bed as possible, as close to his wife as possible, and lowered his voice.

"You are correct. Our love has already proven itself stronger than tradition. I should have been here. I am sorry."

The smile that broke out on her face was radiant. Using her free hand she pulled him to her, and they kissed. Together, they contemplated the wonder they had brought into the world.

"Look -- look at our boy. He's so beautiful...."

"I had a thought," Sarek began.

"You often do." Her smile widened.

Even for a human, she was incorrigible, he thought fondly. "I thought we might name the child after one of our respected early society-builders. His name was Spock."

Regarding her striking newborn, Amanda pondered the suggestion until Sarek began to stir uneasily.

"Your silence does not suggest overwhelming enthusiasm."

"No..." She hesitated a moment longer and then her smile returned. Reaching out, she lightly touched the baby's nose. "Spock. It's fine. It's a good name. 'Spock.' "

"The child has your eyes," her husband murmured lovingly.

Reaching over, she carefully pulled aside the upper swaddling. One forefinger pushed gently at a still-curled ear until it unfurled like a tiny flower -- a flower that was pink and pointed.

"And your ears," she added affectionately.

The U.S.S. Kelvin was not alone. That bothered Captain Pierre Robau almost as much as the fact that it was presently sharing this part of Federation space with an as-yet-unidentified intruder. Judging by his expression, Lieutenant Pitts was even more troubled; the other officer was clearly unsettled. Whether by something that was thus far inexplicable or something else, Robau could not tell.

Well, they should have some answers soon enough.

Even though Pitts had little of substance to say, he couldn't stop talking. Robau chose not to upbraid his subordinate. When excitement slammed up against concern, it was best whenever possible to allow those submerged in the resultant mix the opportunity to vent. That way when an actual crisis did manifest itself, reason would have a better chance of supplanting emotion.

"...We don't know why our sensors didn't detect the anomaly earlier. It doesn't make any sense, since its gravitational reading's off the charts. We should have picked it up at much greater range than we did. Our people are going crazy trying to classify it, an..."

Pitts's exposition continued as the lift doors parted to admit both men to the Kelvin's bridge. No one there was taking their ease. Some were moving quickly from one station to another to check readouts or confer with their colleagues. Everywhere, hands and eyes were in constant motion. Old reports were being processed and new queries initiated.

One day, Robau told himself, we'll be able to do away completely with the primitive inputting of information via repeated digital impression and just talk to a ship's central data processing system about everything. But not yet. Voice recognition technology was fine for handling basic ship operations, but not for handling the immense complexities involved in directing the more intricate activities of a starship. A command wrongly interpreted by a toaster might result in burnt toast. A command wrongly interpreted by a starship as powerful as the Kelvin might result in consequences rather more serious. Starfleet was working on the problem, he knew, and such technology was improving by the day. For example, there was a new ship under construction that...

It wasn't his ship, he reminded himself as he approached the Kelvin's first officer. Whatever they were facing, they would have to make do with existing technology.

"Report."

"Readings show gravitational distortions on an astronomic scale, Captain, but we can't localize the source. I know that's contradictory, but the anomaly is irregular and -- I don't know how else to say it -- all over the place. We're still trying to identify a nexus and -- " He broke off as his instruments demanded his attention. "Sir, new contact, bearing zero-three- four."

An alarm began to sound throughout the bridge and the rest of the ship. Proximity warning, Robau knew. But proximate to what? How could the Kelvin's sensors be overwhelmed by a gravitational distortion they couldn't pinpoint?

Glancing in Robau's direction, the helmsman imparted information that was also an opinion. "Captain, we're a full light-year outside the Klingon Neutral Zone. Unless this is another of their probes or provocations, it doesn't seem reasonable the distortion would have anything to do with the Empire."

Approaching the helm, Robau directed his attention to the screen that showed the...