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The psychic shock of all those near-simultaneous deaths had alerted them to something amiss, and they were already en route when the message from Starfleet was dispatched. Spock understood; he himself, on stardate 4309.2 in the previous timeline, had experienced this type of shock, having felt the deaths of the Vulcans aboard the INTREPID, killed by a giant, space-borne single-celled organism. He allowed himself to wonder if, in this altered timeline, the same tragedy might be somehow averted; or if the circumstances which had precipitated it might happen at all.

The INTREPID’s 400-member Vulcan crew had been a welcome addition to the project, indeed. The other, and somewhat more problematical, portion of the endeavor involved maintaining the vestiges of Vulcan’s culture and customs. Though the history of the planet and its people was of course well-documented in Federation archives, it was hoped that sufficient—and sufficiently-talented—educators, artisans, architects, scribes, chefs and the like, could be cobbled together from the remnants of the population, to enable the proper continuing of that world’s cultural traditions. Their spirituality was not in danger, however, as the leaders of Vulcan’s religious faith had been among the first to be spirited off the planet.

Lost forever, sadly, were the katras; the preserved mental energies, the collected wisdom and unique personas of untold generations of Vulcans, able to be psychically communed with, by the living.

All gone for, and to, all history. Nero, unfortunately, had succeeded there, at least.

In his off-hours, Spock had had time to ruminate on this most recent twist in his long, eventful life. He had begun to realize that his existence in this altered timeline was, in a word, superfluous. There was, of course, already a Spock in this timeline; the younger version of himself, at the beginning of his Starfleet career. He also realized to his consternation that he was getting lonely; after some deliberation, he supposed that this was only logical. He was, after all, the only person in this increasingly bizarre spur-line of reality who remembered...well, him, and what he had known. Though the circumstances were obviously wildly different, he understood now, what Dr. McCoy, at 137 years, had meant when he said that "getting old was a lonely business". All of his friends, save Spock, whom he hardly ever saw, were gone, and though he had family, the only family he had, were those born generations after the passing of his own contemporaries. Spock now found himself in a similar situation.

Spock had last seen McCoy in 2363, at the formal banquet shortly before the launch ceremony of the ENTERPRISE-D; Admiral McCoy had been accompanied at the time by Dr. Beverly Crusher, the beautiful, talented young CMO he had recommended for the new, Galaxy-class starship, and her gifted son, Wesley.

Spock remembered the evening as one of quiet enjoyment. 

McCoy and he, as the oldest-living crewmembers of a Starship ENTERPRISE, as well as personal friends of the legendary Captain Kirk, were very nearly guests of honor, in their own right. The original ENTERPRISE had the distinction of having been the only one of the original twelve CONSTITUTION-class starships to complete and successfully return from its five-year mission, having partaken in an unparalleled and almost fabled era of exploration. Their old ship had taken on a near-mythical status. The Crushers had been amused by the good-natured, yet mildly acerbic, verbal sparring of the old friends; what McCoy, with his typical gruff irreverence, had referred to as "busting his Vulcan stones".

It was game with a long history, Spock had explained as McCoy excused himself to go get a bourbon--neat, and, in no uncertain terms, non-syntheholic--or, as McCoy had once called it, "good, old-fashioned booze."

Dr. Crusher had gently cautioned him against such strong drink at his advanced age and precarious physical condition, but the old curmudgeon had brushed her off by tersely--yet somehow tempered with his Old South charm and courtliness--thanking her for her concern and assuring her that, when she had reached the age of 137, he’d be sure to return the favor. He had then turned his back and shuffled off in the direction of the bar.

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