Fic: Crossing the Equator (9/?)
Chapter Nine: Terra Incognita
Disclaimer: Not my characters; just my mischief.
“Anybody home?”
Chris sticks his head inside the door and looks around. The living room is a shambles of wrapping paper and boxes thrown about in apparent haste, some on the floor, others heaped on the sofa.
“Can I come in?” he calls, walking forward and shutting the door behind him. In the distance he hears a soft thump-a door closing, someone unsettling a chair. He can’t tell.
Then the steady tattoo of footsteps, muffled slightly by carpet, and Natalie is suddenly at the top of the stairs. Her face is in shadow but Chris can see her smile.
“When did you get here?”
“I’ve been yelling forever,” he says, shrugging and tucking his hands into his pockets. A nervous gesture-he knows that-but he does it anyway. “I was getting ready to leave.”
“You were not,” Natalie says, reaching the bottom of the stairs. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“One of my many character flaws,” Chris says. He pulls his right hand out and waves it around the room. “What’s up with this? I thought you were a neat freak.”
Natalie laughs and sweeps forward, gathering up the paper and boxes from the sofa and motioning for Chris to sit.
“I am a neat freak,” she says. “This is Eric’s mess.”
“Hmm,” Chris says, sitting. “Where is he?”
“At the store. We ran out of butter.”
Natalie deposits the armload of boxes on the sideboard and returns to sit at the other end of the sofa. She’s wearing jeans and a loose shirt-clothes far more casual than she usually wears. The effect is disconcerting, as if he is seeing something private. He clears his throat.
“Thirsty?” she says, and he shakes his head.
“Not really,” he says, glancing at her. He can see her poised on the edge of the sofa, ready to hop up and fetch him a bourbon, a scotch. Before he came he decided he wouldn’t drink today. No use taking a chance on getting loose-lipped, not now, not when things are starting to be tolerable.
“You sure?”
Her voice betrays more skepticism than surprise. He looks her in the eye and nods.
“Yep,” he says, and she says, “Yep you want a drink or yep you’re sure you don’t want a drink?”
“Goddam it, Natalie,” he says, leaning away and crossing his arms. “Stop making everything so hard.”
From the corner of his eye he sees her flinch and he’s instantly sorry. He tells her so.
“I just meant,” he says slowly, “that I’m okay. I don’t need anything.”
It’s the truth, or a version of it.
What’s wrong with him these days that every conversation is layered with double entendres? He’s never been one for using symbol to convey meaning, for speaking in metaphors. Say what you mean and mean what you say-that’s been his motto.
It’s always been a good one. Until now.
Looking around the room, he lets his gaze end up on her, on the way springs of her hair have come untucked from behind her ears. As if she feels his scrutiny, she slips her hand to her face and neatens her bob.
“Eric should be back soon,” she says, looking over Chris’ head toward the door. He follows her movement and then turns back to her.
“This is probably a bad idea.”
“He won’t be gone long,” Natalie protests, and Chris hurries to add, “I mean, it looks like I caught you…guys…off guard.”
At that Natalie gives a short laugh.
“No, don’t be silly,” she says. “You know Eric. He always has several things going at once. He put the turkey on and then decided he needed to wrap a few gifts.”
She folds her hands on her lap and for a few moments the only sound in the room is the anachronistic ticking of an antique clock on the mantel over the stone fireplace. Chris clears his throat again and Natalie says, “Sure you don’t want something to drink? Tea, maybe?”
He shakes his head again and searches for something to say in the awkward silence. How odd, he thinks, that when they are on duty together-indeed, when they are at headquarters together-they slip easily into conversations ranging far and wide. Now, however-
“How’s your sister?” he asks abruptly, and Natalie purses her lips.
“Not good,” she says. “That’s why Eric’s wrapping these gifts. We’re going to see her tomorrow.”
Chris has never asked for the details but knows that Natalie’s sister suffered a recent miscarriage. He feels a wave of guilt for not sending her a note, for not acknowledging a loss Natalie says has shaken her in more ways than one.
As Natalie speaks, he conjures up an image of Susannah the first time he saw her, on the public dock at Starbase 11, while the Tiberius was undergoing repairs after striking the gravitic mine.
“We’re just so glad you are alive!” she said, rushing into Natalie’s arms, voicing the reason so many family members of crew personnel had traveled by spaceliner to the remote starbase. She couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17 at the time, a bouncy teenager who spent the week being ushered out of restricted areas by security officers.
“Can’t you keep your sister under control?” Chris had asked the third time Susannah had to be vouched for, and Natalie had shrugged.
“You know how it is,” she said. “Younger sibs don’t always listen.”
“Maybe not to you,” Chris retorted, “but you don’t see my brother getting into trouble.”
“He’s an adult!” Natalie protested. “Susannah’s still a kid!”
“I was on my own when I was her age,” Chris said, and Natalie raised one eyebrow. He was exaggerating, but not by much. After the fire that killed his parents, he had deferred his acceptance into Starfleet and had taken a job making deliveries for a parcel service. It hadn’t been all bad-he could set his own hours and flying the delivery flitter as fast as he liked through the remote California mountains near his parents’ ranch had been a rush.
But he had struggled not to show his brother how much he resented it-resented him-for the sacrifice Chris was making by delaying his entry into the Academy. The dinners he cobbled together for the two of them were silent. When they met on the stairs or passed each other in the hall, they nodded and went about their business like indifferent roommates.
So Chris was surprised when his brother showed up in the wave of family members who came to Starbase 11 to check on the survivors. Surprised, and touched.
Family matters.
“Tell her I said hello,” Chris says, and Natalie starts to say something but is stopped by a jangling at the door.
“He’s here!”
With a bound, Natalie leaps up and is across the room as Eric opens the door. Not as tall as Chris but leaner, Eric smiles first at Natalie and then at Chris, who stands up and holds out his hand. Eric laughs softly as he grasps Chris’ hand and then he holds out a small paper bag to Natalie.
“The butter,” he says. It is a simple declaration, but to Chris it sounds both intimate and triumphant, as if he has returned from a mythical quest. Chris averts his eyes as Natalie takes the bag and rewards Eric with a kiss on the cheek.
“Back in a minute,” she says, moving quickly to the kitchen. She calls over her shoulder, “Eric, get him something to drink.”
“Do you-“ Eric begins, and Chris holds up his hand.
“Nothing for me,” he says. “I was just telling Natalie that I ought to get going.”
“Before dinner?”
Chris hazards a glance at Eric and sees him frowning. Because Chris is here, or because he is leaving? It doesn’t matter. He’s so uncomfortable that he doesn’t care.
“Yeah, listen. Tell Nat I had to run. That something came up at HQ. I’ll see her later.”
He meets Eric’s gaze briefly-enough to know that Eric sees through the sham. Bobbing his head once, he turns and opens the front door. As he swivels to close it behind him he catches a glimpse of Eric standing in the center of the room, the frown still on his face, his right hand lifted, palm up, as if he is going to beckon to Chris to stay.
But he can’t stay. He was stupid to even try.
Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets against the chill, Chris makes his way down the walkway to where he has parked his personal flitter. He tries not to think of so many things-of what is probably unfolding behind him inside the house, Natalie returning from the kitchen, stunned and stung and looking as she does when she’s hurt, flushed and stiff.
And Eric stepping up to her and sliding his arms around her.
And later, the smell of the turkey wafting from the oven, potatoes peeled and mashed and piled into a bowl, the stick of butter unwrapped and set on a small white porcelain dish.
A life he has not chosen and she has. Decisions made. Journeys started.
Secrets kept.
Yes, secrets, he thinks, remembering her fingers on the buttons of his shirt, her brow sweaty, almost fevered, as she lowered herself into his bunk and lifted her hand to his face.
Her question much later-did we?-and what he said.
Or didn’t say.
Continues not to say. Will not say.
When he slides into the flitter and starts the ignition he looks in the mirror quickly, but no one has come out of the house or down the walkway.
He shouldn’t have left. Natalie will be upset, of course, and Eric, too. Somehow he’ll make it up to them. Make it like nothing ever happened, like there are no secrets to keep.
X X X X X X X X
“You got anything for insomnia?”
Natalie didn’t wait for an answer but lowered herself into a chair just inside the door of sickbay. Both Sarah April and her new assistant, Stephen Puri, looked up in unison.
“You look pale,” Dr. April said, moving toward her. “What else is going on?”
If anyone looked pale it was Dr. April, Natalie thought. Since her husband’s death she’d lost so much weight that she was haggard. She was as neat and dignified as ever, but her shoulders sagged slightly and there was a ghost of sadness in her features. She insisted on finishing her tour of duty-though Starfleet offered her the option of rotating off the Tiberius.
“Nothing that I know of,” Natalie said, and Dr. Puri piped up from across the room.
“You’re the fifth person this morning complaining of insomnia. Something must be going on.”
For the first time since the Tiberius left Starbase 11 after repairs, Natalie took the time to look closely at Stephen Puri. Tall and dark and classically handsome, he spoke with a tiny lilt in his voice that suggested he had been raised on the Indian subcontinent. In two months he would head up sickbay when Dr. April’s tour was over.
The end of Dr. April’s tour coincided with her own re-enlistment deadline, and that, Natalie knew, was one reason for her insomnia. She had left a routine job planetside for what had turned out to be a routine job punctuated with moments of terror in space. Exciting, yes. Stimulating, certainly.
But was it what she wanted for another three years?
And then there was the problem of the dreams.
She hadn’t had them for months, but now, while the Tiberius was in a parking orbit around a seemingly dead planet, they’d started again, shattering her sleep, making her uneasy during her waking hours.
She’d told no one about them, not just because she scoffed at attributing too much to dreams, but because they all involved her relationship with Chris.
Captain Pike, she corrected herself. She had to stop thinking of him in more familiar terms.
“It could be some kind of space sickness,” Dr. April said, waving her medical scanner over Natalie. “Something in this part of space we’re investigating. It wouldn’t be unheard of.”
“I’ll be glad when we leave,” Natalie said, her voice sounding oddly vehement even to her. Dr. April paused and shot her a glance.
“Because?”
Instantly Natalie was sorry she had spoken. Almost a week ago the communications officer of the Tiberius had alerted Captain Pike that she had picked up an unidentified hailing signal. It appeared to originate from DL109, a long-dead planet already catalogued by earlier ships.
However, the signal degraded before it could be sourced and Chris-Captain Pike-had kept the ship nearby to see if it recurred.
“If it did come from the planet,” he told Natalie, “I want to be the one to find out.”
“Why so competitive?” Natalie teased, but Chris had simply glared at her and gotten a second cup of coffee.
His foul mood that day had continued-and indeed, if she was honest, the rest of the crew was cranky as well. Searching for a needle in a haystack wasn’t fun-or fulfilling. After four fruitless days, Natalie had suggested that they move on.
“It could have been a random signal from a passing freighter,” she said, though both she and Chris knew that wasn’t likely.
“We won’t know,” he said, frowning, “unless we stay here long enough to find out.”
When his heels were dug in this way, nothing could move Chris. Natalie stopped trying.
“This…signal…we’re tracking down is playing hard to get,” Natalie said to Dr. April. “It’s starting to get on my- on everyone’s-nerves.”
Dr. Puri chuckled softly. Natalie gave him a glare.
“One of the hazards of this job,” Dr. April said, taking Natalie’s wrist in her hand. “One of the things I won’t miss.”
At this Natalie was surprised. She had assumed that Dr. April would take a post on another ship.
“You’re going to work on Earth?”
“I’m not going to work at all. Time for me to retire.”
Letting go of Natalie’s wrist, Dr. April pulled out a small PADD from her pocket and tapped on it.
“Your blood pressure’s fine,” she said, “and your heart’s beating like it should. But you can’t get to sleep?”
Squirming, Natalie considered how much to tell the doctor. As if he sensed her uneasiness, Dr. Puri excused himself, saying he had to check something in the lab.
Natalie sent him another look, this time of gratitude.
“No,” she hedged, “I get to sleep okay. It’s just that these dreams keep waking me up.”
“Dreams?”
“Yeah, the same ones, over and over. They’re so real, like I’m really there.”
Squinting, Dr. April said, “So these nightmares-“
“No,” Natalie interrupted. “They’re not…nightmares. Some of them are just a repeat of things that happened earlier in the day-you know, conversations with people, meals in the mess hall.”
“But they wake you up?”
Again Natalie squirmed.
“Some of them do. Some of the more…intimate…ones.”
From the corner of her eye, Natalie saw a smile flutter across Dr. April’s expression.
“They’re very disturbing, even if they aren’t nightmares,” Natalie said, a note of defensiveness in her voice.
“I’m sure,” Dr. April said, her face serious again. “You know, now that you mention it, I think I’ve had more dreams lately, too. Dreams about Robert, mostly, but they don’t wake me up. They make me feel…happier, like I’ve had a chance to be with him again.”
“I’m sorry,” Natalie said, watching Dr. April’s vision grow cloudy. “I didn’t mean to upset you-“
“That’s the nature of dreams, isn’t it? Sometimes they show us what we’ve been doing, and sometimes they show us what we wish we were doing.”
And sometimes, Natalie thought, they showed us what we aren’t sure we’ve done. Her dream, the one where she was in bed with Chris, in his cabin-each time the same, as if it was a memory and not a creation.
Or maybe Dr. April was right, that the dream was what she wished she could do. That was a disturbing thought as well. Chris was her commanding officer-her friend, her drinking buddy. What he wanted was clear. To be the captain of his own ship. To lead a group of people through uncharted territory, making significant discoveries, testing the waters, looking for unknown equators to cross.
What she wanted was not so clear.
Sometimes when they sat across from each other in Chris’ office after duty, sipping a drink, she thought she saw something in his expression, heard something in his tone, that meant he was questioning his resolve, was, in fact, thinking of a different future altogether.
A future that could include her as something other than his XO.
But the moment always passed unremarked on, and now here she was, sleepless, uncertain which direction she should go.
“I can give you something,” Dr. April said, “to help you sleep. Or you can increase your exercise regimen-that often improves sleep patterns. Or,” Dr. April added, “you can stop worrying about it and just enjoy your dreams.”
Something in Dr. April’s tone made Natalie pause. Although on one level the erotic dreams about Chris were pleasurable, they were upsetting, too-so realistic in detail that they left her gasping when she woke. Seeing him later, in her waking life, she felt uneasy around him in a way that was new, as if she were hiding some secret from him.
Working became a chore. Socializing became something she tried to avoid.
“Like I said,” she told the doctor who handed her a small container of pills, “I’ll be glad when we leave here.”
Standing up, Natalie continued.
“I’m sorry you’re leaving the ship. But I guess I understand why.”
Dr. April sighed and looked down.
“Yes, I was lucky all those years to be able to serve with Robert. Without him-well, it’s not the ship I was in love with, after all. I’ll be okay,” she said, looking up. “I have two granddaughters I’m looking forward to spending time with. It’s good to have family at a time like this.”
The rest of the evening Dr. April’s expression kept coming back to Natalie-wistful but determinedly cheerful, as if being with her granddaughters was adequate compensation for the life she was giving up.
Perhaps it was. Natalie began to mull over the idea.
Two days later Chris finally called off the search for the errant signal and the Tiberius moved on to chart a nebula near the Mutara Sector. The dreams stopped at once.
The uneasiness Natalie had begun to feel around Chris did not. Was it her imagination, or was he as tentative with her as she felt around him? More than once she looked up from something-a computer console, a meal tray-and caught him staring at her, a frown creasing his brow. Their late night talks over bourbon in Chris’ cabin slowed and then stopped.
When she told him that she had taken a ground assignment he didn’t seem disappointed or even all that surprised.
“Here’s my brother’s comm number,” he said. “He recently moved to San Francisco, too.”
If she was ambivalent about leaving the Tiberius, about leaving Chris, her new assignment as the head of the procurement office at headquarters kept her too busy to think about it. For the first six months she struggled to keep her head up, to learn the job and her staff. The second six months she began to introduce changes in her department-not all of them easy to implement-and before she knew it her assistant was handing her a card celebrating a year on the job.
During that year she heard from Chris only once-a quick call late one night when the Tiberius was in Spacedock. When she answered her comm and heard his voice, she felt both glad to hear from him and angry that he hadn’t called earlier. The ship had been docked for over a week.
He had been drinking, too, she was sure of it. Not that he was drunk or even noticeably slurry, but his affect was off, as if he couldn’t quite articulate what he was trying to say. When they hung up, she was relieved.
Months after that when the Tiberius pulled into Spacedock for good to be decommissioned, she saw him at last. From the end of the transport station she could make out his lanky figure, duffel in hand, walking from the shuttle that had ferried him from Spacedock to Earth. She stood motionless and watched him making his way forward, his eyes scanning the crowd. When he saw her, he blinked and smiled and shifted his duffel to his other hand.
“Jolsen!” he said, grinning, and she impulsively threw her arms around his neck.
Whatever awkwardness had been between them was gone.
“You’re home!” she said, stepping back and eyeing him. His hair was shorter and grayer than she remembered; his eyes were still as intense, and she reached forward and hugged him again.
“What are you doing here?” he said, but before she could answer, he said, “Are you meeting someone?”
“I’m meeting you,” she said, and he laughed.
“Can you go for a drink?” he said. “My brother’s picking me up but I’m sure he won’t mind. I need to talk to you. You’ve heard the Tiberius is being decommissioned-“
“I did,” Natalie said as she and Chris started moving forward again, dodging the crowd. “What does that mean for you?”
“For us,” Chris said. “It hasn’t been announced yet, but it will be soon. The flagship being assembled at Riverside? She’s mine, Natalie. I’m going to consult while she’s being built and then take her out when she’s finished. I want you there when I do.”
“Chris, I-“
“I know you have a life here-a job, friends. But this would be a chance of a lifetime. This ship will have a crew complement three times larger than the Tiberius. Be able to go places we couldn’t even consider before. Do research we could only dream about. You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he said, shifting his duffel as they made their way through the front doors of the terminal. “We’re at least two years from launch. You could work as my adjunct until then, helping me with the run-up. No sudden moves while you decide if you want to go back into space.”
Outside the wind was uncomfortably chilly and Natalie pulled the collar of her heavy coat up around her ears while Chris set his duffel against the side of the building.
“Don’t say anything until you’ve heard all the details,” he said. His eyes were bright and he was more animated than she could remember ever seeing him. This new ship, then-pulling him forward like a magnet, deliberate and devoted, committed, single-minded. Had he always been this focused, this driven? His appreciation of her just that-an appreciation for her as a member of his crew, oblivious to any personal feelings she might have harbored-might still harbor?
Of course.
She felt something switch off inside her, like a light going out. For a moment she let herself feel an odd emotion-sadness, relief?-that she couldn’t name, and then she took a breath and said, “Okay.”
“I don’t know where Eric is,” Chris said, craning his neck toward the ongoing traffic.
“I wasn’t joking when I said I was meeting you,” Natalie said. “He asked me to pick you up.”
“You? Where is he?”
“He’s at work,” Natalie said, touching Chris lightly on the arm and motioning him forward. “He’ll be home by the time we get there. He’s really glad you’re here. We both are.”
Leaning down to pick up his duffel, Chris said, “What are you talking about?”
And then Natalie saw a shadow flicker across Chris’ expression and he stood upright.
For months she had tried to imagine this moment-how she would feel, what Chris would do. For so long they had been out of touch-hardly a word shared between them-until she convinced herself that the dreams that had driven her away were silly fabrications-the artifacts of unreciprocated longing on her part.
His love for his ship-for heading off into terra incognita-settled her now and made what she had to say unencumbered by emotion…or at least as straightforward as she could make it.
“Eric,” Natalie said, “and I are getting married.”
X X X X X X X
The temblor is so slight that most people can’t feel it. Spock, however, is awake at once.
Checking his computer, he confirms what he already knows, that the quake registered between 2.8 and 2.9 on the old Richter scale.
Briefly he weighs the benefits of resuming his rest against the productivity he can add to his day if he gets up now. Productivity, then. He has lots to do.
Although the semester is officially over, three of his students applied for and were granted a deadline waiver for a joint project. Normally Spock takes a jaundiced view about requests to miss deadlines, but these students have legitimate reasons for not finishing their research on time. Access to the long-range sensors has been limited as the technicians try to track down an intermittent signal anomaly. That would have been problem enough, but the Academy mainframe underwent a software microfit two weeks ago that slowed the upload speed-an issue finally resolved yesterday.
When he checks his mail inbox, Spock sees that the students’ project is there at last, waiting to be graded. After a meal and some light exercise, he will get to it.
Or at least, that is his intention. To his surprise, instead of heading to the kitchen to prepare a morning meal, he finds himself calling Nyota.
Not so illogical, considering the time difference between San Francisco and Nairobi. If he calls now, the odds are high that she will be awake and alert.
She answers immediately, and suddenly he is tongue-tied. If she is startled that he is calling hours before their agreed on time, she doesn’t sound it. Indeed, her voice is warm and tender and he feels a spike of irritation that he called on his comm instead of using the videophone where he could see her while they talked.
Impatience leading him to make poor choices-he makes a mental note to contemplate that more fully when he meditates.
She’s been away only 49 hours, 17 minutes, and 23 seconds-barely more than two days--but for the first time, Spock understands what his mother means when she insists that time is a subjective experience.
Nyota has been away forever.
When she first arrived at her parents’ house she called to let him know she was safe-and he embarked on what has turned out to be a series of surprises-first, that he worried about her routine flight home. Another surprise was at how much pleasure hearing her voice accorded him.
And unwelcome surprises, too, such as his annoyance when she ended their call quickly yesterday-“My aunt is here! I have to go!”-and the uneasiness he feels now about the background noise behind her, sounds of laughter and music.
“You are not alone,” he says, and she tells him that she is at a party of a friend.
“I can’t hear you very well,” she says. “Can I call you back?”
“There was an earthquake this morning,” he says, uncertain why he suddenly needs to tell her this.
“Are you okay!” she asks, a note of alarm in her voice, and he feels a satisfaction that appalls him. So this is why he told her about the quake-shameless pandering for an emotional response.
He adds it to his list of things to contemplate during meditation.
They hang up after she promises to call again soon, and at once he is at loose ends. The Academy gym stays open all night and is a short walk away. A brisk workout might be in order.
Or perhaps some fresh berries from the farmers market would give him the energy to begin the day in earnest.
Walking into the kitchen, he fills the kettle, plugs it in, but then doesn’t turn it on. A cup of tea?
As he stands at the kitchen window, his hand on the kettle switch, he notices the faint light of morning beginning to lighten the sky-streaks of purple and gray, and as he watches, a small patch of red over the horizon.
Perhaps, he thinks, his odd mood is the result of his conversation with his mother before he went to sleep. She was unhappy with him and let him know it.
Ever since he was a child Spock has found his mother’s anger hard to bear. Not that Sarek was the easier parent, or even the less temperamental one. But his mother’s anger was always swift and sharp and direct.
And loud. He had to turn down the volume on the subspace transceiver during their call.
“But we haven’t seen you in months,” she complained when he resisted her invitation to visit over the holiday break. “And your father is leaving soon for Altair. It may be months before he returns. We’d like to see you before then.”
“My teaching responsibilities leave little time for travel,” he said. “Not to mention my duties for the Enterprise.” In spite of the grainy resolution of the subspace monitor, Spock could see that his mother wasn’t convinced.
“I thought the school term was over.”
“Officially, yes, though I have students who are finishing up their work past deadline. And while my assistant is away visiting her family, I agreed to manage the language lab for her.”
“I thought she wasn’t your assistant any more,” Amanda said, and Spock tried not to sigh.
“Also officially correct,” he said, “but I told her supervisor that I would assist with the lab during the break.”
“I just hate thinking of you all alone in that apartment,” his mother said, shaking her head, and Spock was relieved that she no longer sounded angry with him.
“Mother,” he said, “I will be fine. I have much to do to keep me occupied until the next term begins and the students return.”
And then, because his mother looked dubious, he said, “It may be possible for me to come to Vulcan during the spring break.”
As he hoped, his mother perked up immediately.
“Well, that’s something.”
But the conversation had left him unaccountably restless. Falling asleep had been more difficult than usual.
Leaving the kitchen, he returns to his bedroom and lights his asenoi, settling cross-legged in front of it. As soon as he slips into the first level of awareness, his attention is jostled by the chiming of his comm.
Nyota.
The voice on the other end is not Nyota’s at all, but deep and masculine.
“Spock? Are you okay?”
His cousin Chris Thomasson-and instantly Spock understands.
“My mother.”
“Yeah,” Chris says, “she called. She’s worried about you.”
This time Spock does sigh. Standing up, he leans over and snuffs out his asenoi.
“Her worry is unfounded,” he says. “I told her as much.”
Chris’s laugh is like a bark.
“Mothers,” he says. Spock says nothing to disagree.
“Actually,” Chris says, “I was going to call you anyway. What are you doing for the holidays?”
“As I told my mother, I have a great deal of work to do.”
“Every single day? I don’t believe that.”
“Nevertheless-“ Spock begins, but Chris continues.
“Listen,” he says, “I was having some people over for a big meal tomorrow and they canceled on me. Now I’m stuck with all this food. What say you hop a ride up here and spend the night? We haven’t had time to talk since-“
Chris doesn’t finish his sentence and Spock thinks about the last time he saw him, after Rachel’s hurtful outburst.
“Bring Cadet Uhura,” Chris says. “It would be nice to see her again, too.”
“She is with her family,” Spock says. And then, perhaps because his mother is foremost in his thoughts, he makes an effort at the sort of social nicety she tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to instill in him.
“But thank you,” he says, and Chris replies, “Sure. If you change your mind, I’ll be here.”
When he hangs up Spock heads back to the kitchen. Not at all hungry, he nevertheless decides to eat. As he bends forward to open the cooling unit, he hears his comm chime again. Glancing down, he sees Chris’ name. Perhaps he’s forgotten something?
But this time the caller is Nyota-using the comm Chris set up so that she and Spock could call without raising any suspicions.
“Now tell me about that earthquake,” she says, and he hurries to dismiss her concerns.
“It was nothing,” he says. “I should not have mentioned it.”
She tells him about the party-about seeing friends she had fallen out of contact with, of catching up with a favorite cousin. As she speaks he conjures up her image, the way she punctuates her words with gestures of her hands, her fingers flying across the air when she is excited or happy, her voice bubbling, alive.
She’s having a good time.
Another surprise-and he realizes that he had expected something else-for her to pine for him, to resent the time spent apart, to express her longing to be together. That she has done none of this is the third thing he puts on his list for meditation.
She ends the conversation with another promise to call tomorrow.
“I’m sending you some pictures,” she says, and before he knows it, he’s on the sofa, thumbing through them, mining them for details.
Here she is in a decorative caftan, her hair in an unusual updo, her arms draped around two other women standing in front of a low house.
And another, a close-up of her and a young man Spock recognizes as her older brother. Both are smiling broadly at the camera, the bright sunlight making them squint.
He deletes each one after he studies it, though he mentally carries the images with him as he showers and pulls out his duffel from his closet.
As he folds his clothes and packs his kit, he discovers the final surprise of the day, that he’s glad Nyota is not here-or rather, he’s glad that she’s where she is, with people she cares about, who care about her. If being lonely-if missing her for a few days is the price for her enjoyment, then so be it.
“Hey!” Chris says when Spock calls him back. “I’ll pick you up at the Seattle transport station. I’m glad you changed your mind.”
A/N: I’m ducking for cover! If you are like me, you enjoy a story that pulls the rug from under you now and then, forcing you to re-examine what you thought you knew about the characters. If you aren’t like me, you probably hate this story now. Or me.
I promise-when I started this story I didn’t know Eric was Chris Pike’s younger brother, but a few chapters in, I realized he had to be. Chris’ behavior makes more sense-and is more poignant-now that we know that.
Love it or hate it, I hope you stick with this story for the last few chapters left. Thanks to everyone who reads and double thanks to everyone who takes the time to leave a review. You are gold.
This chapter refers to events that happen in other stories. Captain Kirk, Nyota, and Spock solve the mystery of the planet of dreams in a story I wrote for Trekreversebang, “Dreamweaver.” Rachel Thomasson and Spock get crossways in Chapter 8 of “People Will Say.”
Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her continued support. Her T’Spock and Noyoto story, “The Appearance of Impropriety,” is winding down beautifully. You can find it and many of her other stories in my faves.
Disclaimer: Not my characters; just my mischief.
“Anybody home?”
Chris sticks his head inside the door and looks around. The living room is a shambles of wrapping paper and boxes thrown about in apparent haste, some on the floor, others heaped on the sofa.
“Can I come in?” he calls, walking forward and shutting the door behind him. In the distance he hears a soft thump-a door closing, someone unsettling a chair. He can’t tell.
Then the steady tattoo of footsteps, muffled slightly by carpet, and Natalie is suddenly at the top of the stairs. Her face is in shadow but Chris can see her smile.
“When did you get here?”
“I’ve been yelling forever,” he says, shrugging and tucking his hands into his pockets. A nervous gesture-he knows that-but he does it anyway. “I was getting ready to leave.”
“You were not,” Natalie says, reaching the bottom of the stairs. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“One of my many character flaws,” Chris says. He pulls his right hand out and waves it around the room. “What’s up with this? I thought you were a neat freak.”
Natalie laughs and sweeps forward, gathering up the paper and boxes from the sofa and motioning for Chris to sit.
“I am a neat freak,” she says. “This is Eric’s mess.”
“Hmm,” Chris says, sitting. “Where is he?”
“At the store. We ran out of butter.”
Natalie deposits the armload of boxes on the sideboard and returns to sit at the other end of the sofa. She’s wearing jeans and a loose shirt-clothes far more casual than she usually wears. The effect is disconcerting, as if he is seeing something private. He clears his throat.
“Thirsty?” she says, and he shakes his head.
“Not really,” he says, glancing at her. He can see her poised on the edge of the sofa, ready to hop up and fetch him a bourbon, a scotch. Before he came he decided he wouldn’t drink today. No use taking a chance on getting loose-lipped, not now, not when things are starting to be tolerable.
“You sure?”
Her voice betrays more skepticism than surprise. He looks her in the eye and nods.
“Yep,” he says, and she says, “Yep you want a drink or yep you’re sure you don’t want a drink?”
“Goddam it, Natalie,” he says, leaning away and crossing his arms. “Stop making everything so hard.”
From the corner of his eye he sees her flinch and he’s instantly sorry. He tells her so.
“I just meant,” he says slowly, “that I’m okay. I don’t need anything.”
It’s the truth, or a version of it.
What’s wrong with him these days that every conversation is layered with double entendres? He’s never been one for using symbol to convey meaning, for speaking in metaphors. Say what you mean and mean what you say-that’s been his motto.
It’s always been a good one. Until now.
Looking around the room, he lets his gaze end up on her, on the way springs of her hair have come untucked from behind her ears. As if she feels his scrutiny, she slips her hand to her face and neatens her bob.
“Eric should be back soon,” she says, looking over Chris’ head toward the door. He follows her movement and then turns back to her.
“This is probably a bad idea.”
“He won’t be gone long,” Natalie protests, and Chris hurries to add, “I mean, it looks like I caught you…guys…off guard.”
At that Natalie gives a short laugh.
“No, don’t be silly,” she says. “You know Eric. He always has several things going at once. He put the turkey on and then decided he needed to wrap a few gifts.”
She folds her hands on her lap and for a few moments the only sound in the room is the anachronistic ticking of an antique clock on the mantel over the stone fireplace. Chris clears his throat again and Natalie says, “Sure you don’t want something to drink? Tea, maybe?”
He shakes his head again and searches for something to say in the awkward silence. How odd, he thinks, that when they are on duty together-indeed, when they are at headquarters together-they slip easily into conversations ranging far and wide. Now, however-
“How’s your sister?” he asks abruptly, and Natalie purses her lips.
“Not good,” she says. “That’s why Eric’s wrapping these gifts. We’re going to see her tomorrow.”
Chris has never asked for the details but knows that Natalie’s sister suffered a recent miscarriage. He feels a wave of guilt for not sending her a note, for not acknowledging a loss Natalie says has shaken her in more ways than one.
As Natalie speaks, he conjures up an image of Susannah the first time he saw her, on the public dock at Starbase 11, while the Tiberius was undergoing repairs after striking the gravitic mine.
“We’re just so glad you are alive!” she said, rushing into Natalie’s arms, voicing the reason so many family members of crew personnel had traveled by spaceliner to the remote starbase. She couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17 at the time, a bouncy teenager who spent the week being ushered out of restricted areas by security officers.
“Can’t you keep your sister under control?” Chris had asked the third time Susannah had to be vouched for, and Natalie had shrugged.
“You know how it is,” she said. “Younger sibs don’t always listen.”
“Maybe not to you,” Chris retorted, “but you don’t see my brother getting into trouble.”
“He’s an adult!” Natalie protested. “Susannah’s still a kid!”
“I was on my own when I was her age,” Chris said, and Natalie raised one eyebrow. He was exaggerating, but not by much. After the fire that killed his parents, he had deferred his acceptance into Starfleet and had taken a job making deliveries for a parcel service. It hadn’t been all bad-he could set his own hours and flying the delivery flitter as fast as he liked through the remote California mountains near his parents’ ranch had been a rush.
But he had struggled not to show his brother how much he resented it-resented him-for the sacrifice Chris was making by delaying his entry into the Academy. The dinners he cobbled together for the two of them were silent. When they met on the stairs or passed each other in the hall, they nodded and went about their business like indifferent roommates.
So Chris was surprised when his brother showed up in the wave of family members who came to Starbase 11 to check on the survivors. Surprised, and touched.
Family matters.
“Tell her I said hello,” Chris says, and Natalie starts to say something but is stopped by a jangling at the door.
“He’s here!”
With a bound, Natalie leaps up and is across the room as Eric opens the door. Not as tall as Chris but leaner, Eric smiles first at Natalie and then at Chris, who stands up and holds out his hand. Eric laughs softly as he grasps Chris’ hand and then he holds out a small paper bag to Natalie.
“The butter,” he says. It is a simple declaration, but to Chris it sounds both intimate and triumphant, as if he has returned from a mythical quest. Chris averts his eyes as Natalie takes the bag and rewards Eric with a kiss on the cheek.
“Back in a minute,” she says, moving quickly to the kitchen. She calls over her shoulder, “Eric, get him something to drink.”
“Do you-“ Eric begins, and Chris holds up his hand.
“Nothing for me,” he says. “I was just telling Natalie that I ought to get going.”
“Before dinner?”
Chris hazards a glance at Eric and sees him frowning. Because Chris is here, or because he is leaving? It doesn’t matter. He’s so uncomfortable that he doesn’t care.
“Yeah, listen. Tell Nat I had to run. That something came up at HQ. I’ll see her later.”
He meets Eric’s gaze briefly-enough to know that Eric sees through the sham. Bobbing his head once, he turns and opens the front door. As he swivels to close it behind him he catches a glimpse of Eric standing in the center of the room, the frown still on his face, his right hand lifted, palm up, as if he is going to beckon to Chris to stay.
But he can’t stay. He was stupid to even try.
Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets against the chill, Chris makes his way down the walkway to where he has parked his personal flitter. He tries not to think of so many things-of what is probably unfolding behind him inside the house, Natalie returning from the kitchen, stunned and stung and looking as she does when she’s hurt, flushed and stiff.
And Eric stepping up to her and sliding his arms around her.
And later, the smell of the turkey wafting from the oven, potatoes peeled and mashed and piled into a bowl, the stick of butter unwrapped and set on a small white porcelain dish.
A life he has not chosen and she has. Decisions made. Journeys started.
Secrets kept.
Yes, secrets, he thinks, remembering her fingers on the buttons of his shirt, her brow sweaty, almost fevered, as she lowered herself into his bunk and lifted her hand to his face.
Her question much later-did we?-and what he said.
Or didn’t say.
Continues not to say. Will not say.
When he slides into the flitter and starts the ignition he looks in the mirror quickly, but no one has come out of the house or down the walkway.
He shouldn’t have left. Natalie will be upset, of course, and Eric, too. Somehow he’ll make it up to them. Make it like nothing ever happened, like there are no secrets to keep.
X X X X X X X X
“You got anything for insomnia?”
Natalie didn’t wait for an answer but lowered herself into a chair just inside the door of sickbay. Both Sarah April and her new assistant, Stephen Puri, looked up in unison.
“You look pale,” Dr. April said, moving toward her. “What else is going on?”
If anyone looked pale it was Dr. April, Natalie thought. Since her husband’s death she’d lost so much weight that she was haggard. She was as neat and dignified as ever, but her shoulders sagged slightly and there was a ghost of sadness in her features. She insisted on finishing her tour of duty-though Starfleet offered her the option of rotating off the Tiberius.
“Nothing that I know of,” Natalie said, and Dr. Puri piped up from across the room.
“You’re the fifth person this morning complaining of insomnia. Something must be going on.”
For the first time since the Tiberius left Starbase 11 after repairs, Natalie took the time to look closely at Stephen Puri. Tall and dark and classically handsome, he spoke with a tiny lilt in his voice that suggested he had been raised on the Indian subcontinent. In two months he would head up sickbay when Dr. April’s tour was over.
The end of Dr. April’s tour coincided with her own re-enlistment deadline, and that, Natalie knew, was one reason for her insomnia. She had left a routine job planetside for what had turned out to be a routine job punctuated with moments of terror in space. Exciting, yes. Stimulating, certainly.
But was it what she wanted for another three years?
And then there was the problem of the dreams.
She hadn’t had them for months, but now, while the Tiberius was in a parking orbit around a seemingly dead planet, they’d started again, shattering her sleep, making her uneasy during her waking hours.
She’d told no one about them, not just because she scoffed at attributing too much to dreams, but because they all involved her relationship with Chris.
Captain Pike, she corrected herself. She had to stop thinking of him in more familiar terms.
“It could be some kind of space sickness,” Dr. April said, waving her medical scanner over Natalie. “Something in this part of space we’re investigating. It wouldn’t be unheard of.”
“I’ll be glad when we leave,” Natalie said, her voice sounding oddly vehement even to her. Dr. April paused and shot her a glance.
“Because?”
Instantly Natalie was sorry she had spoken. Almost a week ago the communications officer of the Tiberius had alerted Captain Pike that she had picked up an unidentified hailing signal. It appeared to originate from DL109, a long-dead planet already catalogued by earlier ships.
However, the signal degraded before it could be sourced and Chris-Captain Pike-had kept the ship nearby to see if it recurred.
“If it did come from the planet,” he told Natalie, “I want to be the one to find out.”
“Why so competitive?” Natalie teased, but Chris had simply glared at her and gotten a second cup of coffee.
His foul mood that day had continued-and indeed, if she was honest, the rest of the crew was cranky as well. Searching for a needle in a haystack wasn’t fun-or fulfilling. After four fruitless days, Natalie had suggested that they move on.
“It could have been a random signal from a passing freighter,” she said, though both she and Chris knew that wasn’t likely.
“We won’t know,” he said, frowning, “unless we stay here long enough to find out.”
When his heels were dug in this way, nothing could move Chris. Natalie stopped trying.
“This…signal…we’re tracking down is playing hard to get,” Natalie said to Dr. April. “It’s starting to get on my- on everyone’s-nerves.”
Dr. Puri chuckled softly. Natalie gave him a glare.
“One of the hazards of this job,” Dr. April said, taking Natalie’s wrist in her hand. “One of the things I won’t miss.”
At this Natalie was surprised. She had assumed that Dr. April would take a post on another ship.
“You’re going to work on Earth?”
“I’m not going to work at all. Time for me to retire.”
Letting go of Natalie’s wrist, Dr. April pulled out a small PADD from her pocket and tapped on it.
“Your blood pressure’s fine,” she said, “and your heart’s beating like it should. But you can’t get to sleep?”
Squirming, Natalie considered how much to tell the doctor. As if he sensed her uneasiness, Dr. Puri excused himself, saying he had to check something in the lab.
Natalie sent him another look, this time of gratitude.
“No,” she hedged, “I get to sleep okay. It’s just that these dreams keep waking me up.”
“Dreams?”
“Yeah, the same ones, over and over. They’re so real, like I’m really there.”
Squinting, Dr. April said, “So these nightmares-“
“No,” Natalie interrupted. “They’re not…nightmares. Some of them are just a repeat of things that happened earlier in the day-you know, conversations with people, meals in the mess hall.”
“But they wake you up?”
Again Natalie squirmed.
“Some of them do. Some of the more…intimate…ones.”
From the corner of her eye, Natalie saw a smile flutter across Dr. April’s expression.
“They’re very disturbing, even if they aren’t nightmares,” Natalie said, a note of defensiveness in her voice.
“I’m sure,” Dr. April said, her face serious again. “You know, now that you mention it, I think I’ve had more dreams lately, too. Dreams about Robert, mostly, but they don’t wake me up. They make me feel…happier, like I’ve had a chance to be with him again.”
“I’m sorry,” Natalie said, watching Dr. April’s vision grow cloudy. “I didn’t mean to upset you-“
“That’s the nature of dreams, isn’t it? Sometimes they show us what we’ve been doing, and sometimes they show us what we wish we were doing.”
And sometimes, Natalie thought, they showed us what we aren’t sure we’ve done. Her dream, the one where she was in bed with Chris, in his cabin-each time the same, as if it was a memory and not a creation.
Or maybe Dr. April was right, that the dream was what she wished she could do. That was a disturbing thought as well. Chris was her commanding officer-her friend, her drinking buddy. What he wanted was clear. To be the captain of his own ship. To lead a group of people through uncharted territory, making significant discoveries, testing the waters, looking for unknown equators to cross.
What she wanted was not so clear.
Sometimes when they sat across from each other in Chris’ office after duty, sipping a drink, she thought she saw something in his expression, heard something in his tone, that meant he was questioning his resolve, was, in fact, thinking of a different future altogether.
A future that could include her as something other than his XO.
But the moment always passed unremarked on, and now here she was, sleepless, uncertain which direction she should go.
“I can give you something,” Dr. April said, “to help you sleep. Or you can increase your exercise regimen-that often improves sleep patterns. Or,” Dr. April added, “you can stop worrying about it and just enjoy your dreams.”
Something in Dr. April’s tone made Natalie pause. Although on one level the erotic dreams about Chris were pleasurable, they were upsetting, too-so realistic in detail that they left her gasping when she woke. Seeing him later, in her waking life, she felt uneasy around him in a way that was new, as if she were hiding some secret from him.
Working became a chore. Socializing became something she tried to avoid.
“Like I said,” she told the doctor who handed her a small container of pills, “I’ll be glad when we leave here.”
Standing up, Natalie continued.
“I’m sorry you’re leaving the ship. But I guess I understand why.”
Dr. April sighed and looked down.
“Yes, I was lucky all those years to be able to serve with Robert. Without him-well, it’s not the ship I was in love with, after all. I’ll be okay,” she said, looking up. “I have two granddaughters I’m looking forward to spending time with. It’s good to have family at a time like this.”
The rest of the evening Dr. April’s expression kept coming back to Natalie-wistful but determinedly cheerful, as if being with her granddaughters was adequate compensation for the life she was giving up.
Perhaps it was. Natalie began to mull over the idea.
Two days later Chris finally called off the search for the errant signal and the Tiberius moved on to chart a nebula near the Mutara Sector. The dreams stopped at once.
The uneasiness Natalie had begun to feel around Chris did not. Was it her imagination, or was he as tentative with her as she felt around him? More than once she looked up from something-a computer console, a meal tray-and caught him staring at her, a frown creasing his brow. Their late night talks over bourbon in Chris’ cabin slowed and then stopped.
When she told him that she had taken a ground assignment he didn’t seem disappointed or even all that surprised.
“Here’s my brother’s comm number,” he said. “He recently moved to San Francisco, too.”
If she was ambivalent about leaving the Tiberius, about leaving Chris, her new assignment as the head of the procurement office at headquarters kept her too busy to think about it. For the first six months she struggled to keep her head up, to learn the job and her staff. The second six months she began to introduce changes in her department-not all of them easy to implement-and before she knew it her assistant was handing her a card celebrating a year on the job.
During that year she heard from Chris only once-a quick call late one night when the Tiberius was in Spacedock. When she answered her comm and heard his voice, she felt both glad to hear from him and angry that he hadn’t called earlier. The ship had been docked for over a week.
He had been drinking, too, she was sure of it. Not that he was drunk or even noticeably slurry, but his affect was off, as if he couldn’t quite articulate what he was trying to say. When they hung up, she was relieved.
Months after that when the Tiberius pulled into Spacedock for good to be decommissioned, she saw him at last. From the end of the transport station she could make out his lanky figure, duffel in hand, walking from the shuttle that had ferried him from Spacedock to Earth. She stood motionless and watched him making his way forward, his eyes scanning the crowd. When he saw her, he blinked and smiled and shifted his duffel to his other hand.
“Jolsen!” he said, grinning, and she impulsively threw her arms around his neck.
Whatever awkwardness had been between them was gone.
“You’re home!” she said, stepping back and eyeing him. His hair was shorter and grayer than she remembered; his eyes were still as intense, and she reached forward and hugged him again.
“What are you doing here?” he said, but before she could answer, he said, “Are you meeting someone?”
“I’m meeting you,” she said, and he laughed.
“Can you go for a drink?” he said. “My brother’s picking me up but I’m sure he won’t mind. I need to talk to you. You’ve heard the Tiberius is being decommissioned-“
“I did,” Natalie said as she and Chris started moving forward again, dodging the crowd. “What does that mean for you?”
“For us,” Chris said. “It hasn’t been announced yet, but it will be soon. The flagship being assembled at Riverside? She’s mine, Natalie. I’m going to consult while she’s being built and then take her out when she’s finished. I want you there when I do.”
“Chris, I-“
“I know you have a life here-a job, friends. But this would be a chance of a lifetime. This ship will have a crew complement three times larger than the Tiberius. Be able to go places we couldn’t even consider before. Do research we could only dream about. You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he said, shifting his duffel as they made their way through the front doors of the terminal. “We’re at least two years from launch. You could work as my adjunct until then, helping me with the run-up. No sudden moves while you decide if you want to go back into space.”
Outside the wind was uncomfortably chilly and Natalie pulled the collar of her heavy coat up around her ears while Chris set his duffel against the side of the building.
“Don’t say anything until you’ve heard all the details,” he said. His eyes were bright and he was more animated than she could remember ever seeing him. This new ship, then-pulling him forward like a magnet, deliberate and devoted, committed, single-minded. Had he always been this focused, this driven? His appreciation of her just that-an appreciation for her as a member of his crew, oblivious to any personal feelings she might have harbored-might still harbor?
Of course.
She felt something switch off inside her, like a light going out. For a moment she let herself feel an odd emotion-sadness, relief?-that she couldn’t name, and then she took a breath and said, “Okay.”
“I don’t know where Eric is,” Chris said, craning his neck toward the ongoing traffic.
“I wasn’t joking when I said I was meeting you,” Natalie said. “He asked me to pick you up.”
“You? Where is he?”
“He’s at work,” Natalie said, touching Chris lightly on the arm and motioning him forward. “He’ll be home by the time we get there. He’s really glad you’re here. We both are.”
Leaning down to pick up his duffel, Chris said, “What are you talking about?”
And then Natalie saw a shadow flicker across Chris’ expression and he stood upright.
For months she had tried to imagine this moment-how she would feel, what Chris would do. For so long they had been out of touch-hardly a word shared between them-until she convinced herself that the dreams that had driven her away were silly fabrications-the artifacts of unreciprocated longing on her part.
His love for his ship-for heading off into terra incognita-settled her now and made what she had to say unencumbered by emotion…or at least as straightforward as she could make it.
“Eric,” Natalie said, “and I are getting married.”
X X X X X X X
The temblor is so slight that most people can’t feel it. Spock, however, is awake at once.
Checking his computer, he confirms what he already knows, that the quake registered between 2.8 and 2.9 on the old Richter scale.
Briefly he weighs the benefits of resuming his rest against the productivity he can add to his day if he gets up now. Productivity, then. He has lots to do.
Although the semester is officially over, three of his students applied for and were granted a deadline waiver for a joint project. Normally Spock takes a jaundiced view about requests to miss deadlines, but these students have legitimate reasons for not finishing their research on time. Access to the long-range sensors has been limited as the technicians try to track down an intermittent signal anomaly. That would have been problem enough, but the Academy mainframe underwent a software microfit two weeks ago that slowed the upload speed-an issue finally resolved yesterday.
When he checks his mail inbox, Spock sees that the students’ project is there at last, waiting to be graded. After a meal and some light exercise, he will get to it.
Or at least, that is his intention. To his surprise, instead of heading to the kitchen to prepare a morning meal, he finds himself calling Nyota.
Not so illogical, considering the time difference between San Francisco and Nairobi. If he calls now, the odds are high that she will be awake and alert.
She answers immediately, and suddenly he is tongue-tied. If she is startled that he is calling hours before their agreed on time, she doesn’t sound it. Indeed, her voice is warm and tender and he feels a spike of irritation that he called on his comm instead of using the videophone where he could see her while they talked.
Impatience leading him to make poor choices-he makes a mental note to contemplate that more fully when he meditates.
She’s been away only 49 hours, 17 minutes, and 23 seconds-barely more than two days--but for the first time, Spock understands what his mother means when she insists that time is a subjective experience.
Nyota has been away forever.
When she first arrived at her parents’ house she called to let him know she was safe-and he embarked on what has turned out to be a series of surprises-first, that he worried about her routine flight home. Another surprise was at how much pleasure hearing her voice accorded him.
And unwelcome surprises, too, such as his annoyance when she ended their call quickly yesterday-“My aunt is here! I have to go!”-and the uneasiness he feels now about the background noise behind her, sounds of laughter and music.
“You are not alone,” he says, and she tells him that she is at a party of a friend.
“I can’t hear you very well,” she says. “Can I call you back?”
“There was an earthquake this morning,” he says, uncertain why he suddenly needs to tell her this.
“Are you okay!” she asks, a note of alarm in her voice, and he feels a satisfaction that appalls him. So this is why he told her about the quake-shameless pandering for an emotional response.
He adds it to his list of things to contemplate during meditation.
They hang up after she promises to call again soon, and at once he is at loose ends. The Academy gym stays open all night and is a short walk away. A brisk workout might be in order.
Or perhaps some fresh berries from the farmers market would give him the energy to begin the day in earnest.
Walking into the kitchen, he fills the kettle, plugs it in, but then doesn’t turn it on. A cup of tea?
As he stands at the kitchen window, his hand on the kettle switch, he notices the faint light of morning beginning to lighten the sky-streaks of purple and gray, and as he watches, a small patch of red over the horizon.
Perhaps, he thinks, his odd mood is the result of his conversation with his mother before he went to sleep. She was unhappy with him and let him know it.
Ever since he was a child Spock has found his mother’s anger hard to bear. Not that Sarek was the easier parent, or even the less temperamental one. But his mother’s anger was always swift and sharp and direct.
And loud. He had to turn down the volume on the subspace transceiver during their call.
“But we haven’t seen you in months,” she complained when he resisted her invitation to visit over the holiday break. “And your father is leaving soon for Altair. It may be months before he returns. We’d like to see you before then.”
“My teaching responsibilities leave little time for travel,” he said. “Not to mention my duties for the Enterprise.” In spite of the grainy resolution of the subspace monitor, Spock could see that his mother wasn’t convinced.
“I thought the school term was over.”
“Officially, yes, though I have students who are finishing up their work past deadline. And while my assistant is away visiting her family, I agreed to manage the language lab for her.”
“I thought she wasn’t your assistant any more,” Amanda said, and Spock tried not to sigh.
“Also officially correct,” he said, “but I told her supervisor that I would assist with the lab during the break.”
“I just hate thinking of you all alone in that apartment,” his mother said, shaking her head, and Spock was relieved that she no longer sounded angry with him.
“Mother,” he said, “I will be fine. I have much to do to keep me occupied until the next term begins and the students return.”
And then, because his mother looked dubious, he said, “It may be possible for me to come to Vulcan during the spring break.”
As he hoped, his mother perked up immediately.
“Well, that’s something.”
But the conversation had left him unaccountably restless. Falling asleep had been more difficult than usual.
Leaving the kitchen, he returns to his bedroom and lights his asenoi, settling cross-legged in front of it. As soon as he slips into the first level of awareness, his attention is jostled by the chiming of his comm.
Nyota.
The voice on the other end is not Nyota’s at all, but deep and masculine.
“Spock? Are you okay?”
His cousin Chris Thomasson-and instantly Spock understands.
“My mother.”
“Yeah,” Chris says, “she called. She’s worried about you.”
This time Spock does sigh. Standing up, he leans over and snuffs out his asenoi.
“Her worry is unfounded,” he says. “I told her as much.”
Chris’s laugh is like a bark.
“Mothers,” he says. Spock says nothing to disagree.
“Actually,” Chris says, “I was going to call you anyway. What are you doing for the holidays?”
“As I told my mother, I have a great deal of work to do.”
“Every single day? I don’t believe that.”
“Nevertheless-“ Spock begins, but Chris continues.
“Listen,” he says, “I was having some people over for a big meal tomorrow and they canceled on me. Now I’m stuck with all this food. What say you hop a ride up here and spend the night? We haven’t had time to talk since-“
Chris doesn’t finish his sentence and Spock thinks about the last time he saw him, after Rachel’s hurtful outburst.
“Bring Cadet Uhura,” Chris says. “It would be nice to see her again, too.”
“She is with her family,” Spock says. And then, perhaps because his mother is foremost in his thoughts, he makes an effort at the sort of social nicety she tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to instill in him.
“But thank you,” he says, and Chris replies, “Sure. If you change your mind, I’ll be here.”
When he hangs up Spock heads back to the kitchen. Not at all hungry, he nevertheless decides to eat. As he bends forward to open the cooling unit, he hears his comm chime again. Glancing down, he sees Chris’ name. Perhaps he’s forgotten something?
But this time the caller is Nyota-using the comm Chris set up so that she and Spock could call without raising any suspicions.
“Now tell me about that earthquake,” she says, and he hurries to dismiss her concerns.
“It was nothing,” he says. “I should not have mentioned it.”
She tells him about the party-about seeing friends she had fallen out of contact with, of catching up with a favorite cousin. As she speaks he conjures up her image, the way she punctuates her words with gestures of her hands, her fingers flying across the air when she is excited or happy, her voice bubbling, alive.
She’s having a good time.
Another surprise-and he realizes that he had expected something else-for her to pine for him, to resent the time spent apart, to express her longing to be together. That she has done none of this is the third thing he puts on his list for meditation.
She ends the conversation with another promise to call tomorrow.
“I’m sending you some pictures,” she says, and before he knows it, he’s on the sofa, thumbing through them, mining them for details.
Here she is in a decorative caftan, her hair in an unusual updo, her arms draped around two other women standing in front of a low house.
And another, a close-up of her and a young man Spock recognizes as her older brother. Both are smiling broadly at the camera, the bright sunlight making them squint.
He deletes each one after he studies it, though he mentally carries the images with him as he showers and pulls out his duffel from his closet.
As he folds his clothes and packs his kit, he discovers the final surprise of the day, that he’s glad Nyota is not here-or rather, he’s glad that she’s where she is, with people she cares about, who care about her. If being lonely-if missing her for a few days is the price for her enjoyment, then so be it.
“Hey!” Chris says when Spock calls him back. “I’ll pick you up at the Seattle transport station. I’m glad you changed your mind.”
A/N: I’m ducking for cover! If you are like me, you enjoy a story that pulls the rug from under you now and then, forcing you to re-examine what you thought you knew about the characters. If you aren’t like me, you probably hate this story now. Or me.
I promise-when I started this story I didn’t know Eric was Chris Pike’s younger brother, but a few chapters in, I realized he had to be. Chris’ behavior makes more sense-and is more poignant-now that we know that.
Love it or hate it, I hope you stick with this story for the last few chapters left. Thanks to everyone who reads and double thanks to everyone who takes the time to leave a review. You are gold.
This chapter refers to events that happen in other stories. Captain Kirk, Nyota, and Spock solve the mystery of the planet of dreams in a story I wrote for Trekreversebang, “Dreamweaver.” Rachel Thomasson and Spock get crossways in Chapter 8 of “People Will Say.”
Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her continued support. Her T’Spock and Noyoto story, “The Appearance of Impropriety,” is winding down beautifully. You can find it and many of her other stories in my faves.