Fic: Write What You Know
Title: Write What You Know
Authors: diane_kepler and purplefluffycat
Length: About 6000 wds
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Pairing: principally Kirk/Spock
Genre: Humour, we hope.
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary:
“Anyway, it got me to thinking. Are there any examples of romance novels in Vulcan literature?”
“Most certainly.”
The captain stops his offhand perusal of the ceiling and looks at Spock. “Really?”
“Yes, of course. Fictional accounts of the joining of sentient beings, set during pre-Awakening times, are common on Vulcan. They are, in point of fact, an art form to which I someday hope to aspire.”
Notes: Intended as a sequel to purplefluffycat's story This is Bumbles, although it should also make sense as a stand-alone piece. This grew out of muchly amusing comment-fic, on the premise of 'Vulcan romance novels,' and all they might entail.
Spock is humming to himself as he neatens up Jim's quarters after their most recent bout of hot monkey love. Most likely the tune is some kind of Vulcan folk song, but Jim doesn't ask. He knows the reply would almost certainly involve an eyebrow and the words "Captian. Vulcans do not hum."
Kirk has learned not to interrupt these moments of post-coital tidying because Spock will never cuddle until everything is ship-shape. Also, the process has an advantage. Putting things in their places has a tranquilizing effect on Spock, leaving him more likely to divulge personal details than otherwise.
“So, during your pon farr -” at a pointed look from the first officer, Kirk amends, “I mean, your Time, you, uh, said a lot of really nice things to me.”
“Jim, you are well aware that beyond a memory of our physical joining, I have little recollection of that evening.”
Kirk lets this go. Spock remembers his mushy words all right -- he’d even apologized for saying them -- but it won't do to quibble. “Anyway, it got me to thinking. Are there any examples of romance novels in Vulcan literature?”
“Most certainly.”
The captain stops his offhand perusal of the ceiling and looks at Spock. “Really?”
“Yes, of course. Fictional accounts of the joining of sentient beings, set during pre-Awakening times, are common on Vulcan. They are, in point of fact, an art form to which I someday hope to aspire.”
“You hope to . . . really?”
“Indeed, it is expected of me. My family is well known for its contributions to this genre.”
Kirk leans up on one elbow, equally stunned and fascinated. Somehow he just can't picture eminently logical Sarek penning purple prose.
“Jim, do not lean on Bumbles in that manner, you will crush him.”
“Oops, sorry.” Jim takes their beloved teddy bear out from under his arm and pauses to consider him. “You know, I’m surprised Chekov never asked for the little guy back.”
“Had I not mentioned to you that Ensign Chekov suggested we keep Bumbles? Although I carefully explained how I had washed him after discovering --”
“No,” says Kirk grinning, “No you hadn’t told me that. Very kind of Chekov to give us such a personal gift.”
Spock nods, “I thought so as well. It seems as though the bridge crew are united in their approval of our union.”
Jim considers. Other than Bones replicating lime-flavored popsicles and passing them out in the officer’s lounge a week after the pon farr incident, he supposes that the new relationship has really been met nothing but warm acceptance. Still, he doesn’t think the alpha-shift crew would take to the knowledge of Vulcan bodice-rippers with as little fuss. It's going to take him a while to get over the idea himself.
*****
A few months later, Kirk has cause to regret asking Spock about his literary aspirations. The Federation has sent the Enterprise to Vulcan to assist with analysis and further excavation of an important archaeological find. Since this requires more input from the folks in communications and engineering than in command, Kirk and Spock find themselves with time on their hands.
“So where is this place?”
“Jim,” Spock gives him a look that, for his race, takes the place of a wagging finger. “I shall not spoil the surprise. Now remember my instructions: you must control your physical reactions to this experience.”
They are wearing Vulcan robes with the hoods pulled up, so Kirk doesn’t think that’s going to be much of a problem. Still he’s getting excited. Where is Spock taking him? Are there such things as bathhouses on this planet?
However, their super-secret destination proves to be nothing more than a room full of similarly robed and hooded Vulcans taking in some sort of a lecture. They find seats at the back of the hall and listen.
Jim has his universal translator, but he might as well have left it back on the Enterprise for all the good it’s doing. It spouts nothing but the turgid details of some long-gone historical incident, complete with copious footnotes on the modes of speech employed in the rare bit of dialogue. Jim’s not sure what to make of this reading at all.
But when he looks over at Spock, the first officer is riveted.
Even though nobody could ever call Spock fidgety, Kirk can tell the difference between Spock just listening to something versus being completely absorbed. Plus one of his eyebrows is creeping up so high it seems likely to disappear beneath his hair.
Kirk asks him about it at the break. In fact, what he says is:
“So, uh, what’s this all about?”
Spock looks dismayed. “Jim, this is an author’s retreat. Some of the finest romance novels on the planet are being crafted here. Did you not find it highly stimulating?”
“Oh,” he gushes, backpedaling at warp three, “it was . . . well, I’ve never experienced that before. Such a . . . completely . . . yeah.” He clears his throat, then he tries again. “What I meant to say was, I didn’t know you, uh, read them. I mean, publicly, like this.”
“It is true that this art form is more often enjoyed in private. Yet the reading of these works does convey a certain urgency.”
Jim nods as earnestly as he can.
“Come, I will show you the works in progress.” Spock leads the way into an antechamber where more attendees are gathered, some huddled and speaking in low voices. Around and among them are massive tomes displayed open on stone tables. Some of the furniture looks as if it might collapse, not due to age or shoddy workmanship, but due to the weight of the books themselves.
Right away, Spock falls to perusing the nearest volume.
Jim sighs. He knows there is little else to do except find the earpiece from the translator, wedge it into the appropriate orifice, and start scanning the pages. It looks as if they’ll be here for awhile.
Mere minutes later, however, their reading is interrupted by a voice from within the throng. “Spock, son of Sarek!”
Jim turns to see a short, skinny Vulcan, his fingers split in the widest hand salute he’d ever seen, looking up at his first officer with something akin to awe.
“Please, Director Velann, there is no need --”
“Oh but it is such an honor to have you here. You and your,” and he catches Spock’s gaze and traces it back to Kirk, “th’y’la, yes, he is here also, how very appropriate. Honored, members. Do join me in congratulating Sch’n T’gai Spohkh on his most logical choice of mate.”
“Live long and prosper,” echoes the chorus from all around.
Velann gestures for them they follow him to a dais on which stands another display table. “We would be most appreciative of your opinion on this most recently completed work.”
Spock eyes this volume, the largest of all, judging how long it would take him to read it. “I regret being unable to oblige you. Although we are not on active duty, both the Captain and I may be required to return to the ship at any time. ”
Velann’s reply is immediate. “But I have read it. If we were to meld, you would gain the knowledge instantly.” Eagerly, he proffers his cheek.
With some hesitation, Spock touches his fingers to the meld-points on Velann’s face, whereupon the older man assumes an expression that, to Kirk, looks like a most un-Vulcan display of fanboy fever. They are silent for a time. No one does anything to break the quietude except for Kirk, shuffling his feet. The other attendants stare Jim into stillness.
When Spock takes back his hand and opens his eyes, there is an air of expectation.
“Well?” comes a challenge from one of the hooded figures.
Spock cocks his head and then shakes it once. “I am afraid that I cannot grant my approval. This work is deeply flawed.”
Had they been anywhere but on Vulcan, there would have been a collective gasp. As it is, it still somehow feels to Kirk like someone has sucked a lot of the air out of the room.
“You dare!” comes a shout in that same voice. The Vulcan pulls back his hood. It is Stonn, Spock's old rival from his first pon farr.
Jim's eyes widen. “Uh oh.”
*****
They are back in the captain's quarters and Spock’s fingers are moving across the computer keys faster than Kirk has ever seen. Despite this, the Vulcan seems ill at ease.
“Can I, uh, get you anything? Plomik soup? Tea?”
Spock does not reply.
“Look, why was Stonn all bent out of shape, anyway? I mean, so you didn't like his novel.”
The first officer fixes Kirk with the eyebrow. “Jim. He is an author."
Spock goes back to his typing. “Additionally, there has been some tension between Stonn’s family and mine since the time of the kun-ut kalifi, when T'Pring challenged my right to marry her. ”
Jim was even more confused. “Good lord, why? Stonn ended up with T’Pring.”
“Yes,” Spock said, one eyebrow raised at the computer screen, “and now he has to live with her.”
“Ohhhhhh, “ said Kirk, both eyebrows high and round. He sits still for a while, although it is really just Kirk-still, which, here in his quarters, involves puffing out his cheeks and bumping his heels against the side of the bed.
“So what’s this dunap kalifi?”
Spock keeps up his rapid pace at the keyboard. “The phrase literally means ‘book challenge’. The occurrence was much more common in ancient times, when it was resolved by clan warfare. However, since the time of Surak, the rare dunap kalifi is judged on the merits of the actual literature, presented in an open forum.”
“Which means you’ve got to write a book?”
Spock does his best to avoid being irritated by the constant flow of questions. “It would appear so, yes.”
“So who are they getting to judge it?
“Normally, the judges would all be from my planet, however since my family is so closely tied to the Federation, the panel will most likely be made up of notable critics from several cultures.”
Jim considers, “Well, that shouldn’t be too bad then. How long’ve you got to write it?”
“I have ten standard days.”
*****
Yeoman Janice Rand returns to her quarters to see that the door code has been overridden by a commanding officer in her absence. An excited flush climbs her cheeks and she whips out first a powder compact for last minute adjustments and then her private communicator.
"Rand to Chapel," she hisses into the device.
A bleary voice answers. "What do you want, Jan? We said good bye half an hour ago.... Don't you know what time it is?"
"He's here!" Janice squeaks, "Finally, in my room! He's waiting for me!"
"Huh? Who do you mean?"
"The Captain, of course! After all this time - all these months of flirting and hoping - I was starting to think he wasn't interested. But now -- oh God, I can't wait. Rand out."
Taking a deep breath, and assuming an expression that implies all her shore leave has come at once, Janice keys in the code to her room. The doors swish apart to reveal the striking figure of . . .
. . . Commander Spock, nose deep in her bookshelves.
He sits up. They stare at each other in silence, Rand showing bitter disappointment, followed by indignation at the unfairness of it all, followed by naked curiosity.
"Yeoman, I was under the impression that beta shift finishes at twenty-four hundred hours. As it is currently twenty-three forty-seven, it is illogical for you to be in your quarters at this time." Spock delivers the remonstration in his usual collected manner, unaffected by the clutter of PADDs, print-outs and paper surrounding him.
Rand's entire electronic collection of reading matter has clearly been studied. Some of the PADDs bear copious notes. One screen entitled 'emotionally-centred plot devices' features comments about the popularity of conducting personal business in transport hubs immediately prior to an outgoing flight to be boarded by only one of the protagonists. There are also notes on the apparently mystic symbolism of home-made apple pie, and the perverse decision to kiss outdoors while it is raining. Spock has marked all of these entries, 'highly illogical.' On another screen there is an analysis of professional and personal character traits of dramatis personae, which leads to the conclusion that human males find physical weakness, low-to-moderate intelligence and blonde hair particularly attractive in a mate, whereas female humans prefer needless violence, unfaithfulness and excellent teeth. The display entitled 'pseudonyms for male genitalia' sports an extremely long and carefully-compiled list; the screen entitled 'pseudonyms for female genitalia' is pretty much blank.
Rand takes in the sight, along with the fact that her valuable paper books have been similarly rifled, strewn as they are, half-open upon her desk.
"Well, I'm sorry Commander, I was relieved early," she replies, not a little stridently, "But that doesn't explain why you're in my quarters without my knowledge or consent, though it seems to me that-"
Spock is never to discover how the situation seems to Rand, however.
"Yeoman! Are you all right?!" Kirk and McCoy charge through the open door with phasers aloft. They stare for a moment, taking in both the calm scene and its attendant oddness.
Then they lower their weapons, McCoy looking rather sheepish. "Sorry to barge in and all, but Nurse Chapel saw us near sickbay a minute or so ago, and then screamed that you must have an intruder in your room."
"Well I do have an intruder. Sort of." Rand gestures extravagantly to her study corner, and all eyes turn to Spock -- who is still clutching an extremely valuable Jackie Collins novel that has been lovingly passed down through generations of flossy-headed Rand females.
"Captain. Doctor McCoy," he says, in a tone suggesting that the elegant Vulcan hand clasping that fuchsia and leopard-print cover has, in fact, nothing to do with him.
Another few seconds pass in uncomfortable silence - before Jim explodes into laughter. Great, riotous peals of the stuff, enough to make McCoy and Rand give up chuckles of their own and to earn him a huffily-raised eyebrow from the first officer. “May I inquire, Captain, as to the source of your amusement?”
“Oh Spock . . . it's . . . it's just you”
“I fail to understand your meaning.” The eyebrow climbs to grump-factor two.
Kirk flashes Spock a fond smile. “Well let's just say that when you research something, you go all out.”
Spock returns nothing but a brooding pause.
“Oh, go on, Spock, you have to tell them.”
“I hardly think that appropriate given the personal nature of-”
“Come on, it's only fair. The lady deserves an explanation.”
Spock looks from Kirk to Rand to the pile of papers and PADDs scattered across her desk and then makes the slight exhalation that, coming from a human, would count as a petulant sigh. “I apologize, Yeoman, for accessing your quarters in your absence. Please be assured that no harm was intended; I merely wished to examine your reading material, as the computers informed me that your personal collection of works of fiction is the largest on the ship.”
Rand looks confused and intrigued in equal measure. “Maybe so, Commander, but they couldn't have been any good to you. I only read girly books - you know, the lovey-dovey kind.”
“On the contrary, the material here is well suited to my research requirements.” Spock is stiff and clearly mulish about saying more.
At that, Kirk can't stifle another wave of giggles. “He's writing a romance novel! That's what this is all about.”
Both Rand and McCoy do a double-take. “I don't believe it,” McCoy says, shaking his head and looking a little pale.
“I assure you, Doctor, that the captain has explained the circumstances correctly.”
“You?! Mr.-I-wouldn't-know-a-sentiment-if-it-bit-me-on-the-ass-Spock? Write a romance novel?!”
Spock does not dignify McCoy's outburst with a response. “If you will excuse me gentlemen. Miss Rand.” He sweeps from the room, Jackie Collins in tow.
*****
Jim is circling around Spock at the desk in their bedroom. He's tried massaging shoulders, nibbling eartips and dancing Bumbles in front of the screen, but Spock will neither give in to distraction, nor allow Jim to read his composition thus far.
“Aw, come on, Spock!” cries Jim in frustration, “We might be able to help.”
His mate looks up from his frenetic typing for just long enough to lock Jim with a disbelieving gaze. “None of the crew, as far as I am aware, are at all familiar with Vulcan literature, let alone proficent. Thus it is clearly illogical to expect-”
“Yeah, but the panel is going to be half Vulcan at most. And I'm betting the audience will contain a lot of off-worlders, too. What you need to be going for is cross-species appeal.”
Spock considers for a moment, but then concedes, “I admit that your argument does have some merit.”
“You bet it does! I'll call the others.” Triumphantly, Jim presses the wall-mounted communicator. “Kirk to bridge.”
“Yes, Captain?” answers Uhura.
“At the end of the shift, send the command team to rec room three for pointy-eared robe-ripper: chapter one. Bring your popcorn. Hell, tell Bones to bring some more of those lime popsicles! Kirk out.”
Jim smiles at Spock, who answers with a long-suffering expression, if that slight crease between his eyebrows is anything to go by. “I am not imbued with confidence by your synopsis of my literary endeavours, Captain.”
An impish grin is the only answer Spock gets, as Jim kisses him once tenderly, then again with heat, promise and wandering hands. Spock's breath catches when Jim strokes him through the fabric of his uniform pants, virtually climbing into the desk chair atop him.
“Then how about I imbue you with something else entirely?”
*****
Thirty-five and a half minutes later, a somewhat tousled looking captain and a first officer with a distinctly green glow arrive in the officer's lounge. The bridge crew are already assembled, along with a few medical staff and yeomen who seem to have overheard Jim's summons.
McCoy cracks a smile at Spock that seems a little too wide and friendly. “I must say I'm looking mighty forward to this.”
Spock remains impassive. “Thank you, Doctor. I am hopeful the work will meet your expectations.”
“Oh, zis is wery exciting, Mr. Spock,” agrees an enthusiastic Chekov, “I hev never heard before eh Wulcan piece of creative writing.”
“Uh, well, they really are... something else,” offers Jim, “Now how about you stand over there and read, Spock, and we'll comment as you go along.”
Consternation toys with Spock's features. “I perceive that an attempt to prevent you from commenting would be futile.”
He's just about to start when the door swings open. “Sorry I'm late,” says Uhura, taking an empty seat. “Such a surprise, Mr. Spock - I thought I was the only one around here who wrote things.”
“You write novels, too?” asks Jim.
“Yeah, I've had two published actually, on the Federation Fictionlist.”
“Wow. Maybe you could give Spock a hand, then?” says Jim, jumping at a ray of hope. “You know, a few chapters each way would get it done a lot sooner.”
“I'd be delighted.”
"Excellent. Then we'll --"
“On the contrary, Captain.” There is such ice in Spock's look and tone the whole room goes still. “Such a suggestion is far from excellent. To mar the sacred ritual of the dunap kalifi with such an act of dishonesty is unthinkable.”
“Ah, my bad. Sorry.” Jim flashes what he hopes is his cutest smile to make up. Spock seems at least partially appeased. “Well, how about you take it from the top, then.”
“Thank you. Yes, I shall.” Spock retrieves a lectern from the side of the room and places his hefty print-out upon it. He casts his eyes down and begins to read. “''The Incident of Joining Between Sentient Beings,' 'Chapter One.' The proceedings herein take place on the planet Vulcan in the year one thousand and thirty eight, according to the Old Calendar. The planet is composed chiefly of silica (eighty-three percent) with notable traces of iron, (eleven point five percent), magnesium (three percent), strontium (two percent) and cadmium (zero point five percent). The atmosphere is chiefly nitrogenous (sixty-eight percent) with an oxygen content of thirteen percent and the remainder composed of unreactive gases, in particular argon (five percent) and xenon (three point six percent). Organic life forms are composed predominantly of water (sixty percent to eighty percent, dependent upon species), with structural elements composed of carbon (twelve percent) with several metallic cofactors, principally copper, magnesium, barium and platinum, in varying percentages, dependent upon species. The geological composition of the planet indicates-"
"What the hell is this?" The question comes, predictably, from McCoy.
“I believe the captain has been clear as to the nature and purpose of the excerpt.”
"Yeah, so why the rundown of chemicals?"
Spock's eyebrows climb in a way that suggests danger. "Doctor. I am, I believe the phrase to be, setting the scene. Now, to continue, 'The geological composition of the planet indicates significant igneous activity at a constant rate from three-hundred thousand years since records began, with the incidence of metamorphic inclusions forming over time in a Poisson distribution relative to distance from the relevant igneous deposit. Sedimentary matter-”
“I think that gives us a great taste of the beginning, actually,” says Jim, winning smile still in place. “How about you skip on to where the main characters come in?”
“You wish for me to forgo all of the intermediate material?” asks Spock, somewhat aghast.
“Well . . . just for now, I mean.”
Spock looks doubtful but gives in. “As you wish.”
He pages forward form the beginning - flipping not just pages, but entire chapters. Eventually, he stops. “In that case, I shall continue from page five hundred and seventy-two. A Vulcan female named T'Sine is attracted to a Vulcan male named Sonak. They have conversed on twelve occasions, with a total duration of forty-three standard minutes - six point two three of which were concerned with non-mathematical topics. The occupation of the female is as computational assistant to a regional magistrate, and the occupation of the male is as logistics specialist for a sub-branch of the Office of Agricultural Relations. Such work involves calculation primarily using the antiquated hexidecimal system, which functions as follows.'”
“Can I just stop you there, a second, Mr. Spock?” Uhura asks politely. “That's great as a start, but maybe we could get to know a bit more about T'Sine and Sonak here? Like, what exactly do they have in common? Does she find him handsome? You know, get the reader to empathize a bit more - you need to pull them in with your characters.”
Spock knits his brows at her but keeps his tone level. “Thank you for your suggestions, Lieutenant, but the text seems to me appropriate in its current form. When viewed logically physical appearance is more or less irrelevant in the matter of mate selection and I have clearly implied the topics of the protagonists conversations are principally mathematical in nature.”
“Yes, but...” Seeing the look of challenge on Spock's features, Uhura summons a smile. “Please go on."
A slight nod and then Spock continues to read, “'A radix, or base, of sixteen is used, upon which the symbols zero to nine represent their respective values, and the characters A to F represent the values ten to fifteen. In employment of this system, it was often found that-”
"Okay, enough already!” shouts McCoy. “How about you just skip on to the juicy bits?"
Spock seems surprised. "You wish for me to read the first description of coitus in the work?"
“Aye. We cannae stay here all evening,” Scotty huffs, eyeing the clock on the wall.
The lounge had not been noisy before but it now goes perfectly, deep-space quiet. All eyes are on Spock as he flips to a page near the end of of his gigantic printout. Taking a deep breath, and assuming a dramatic tone he reads. "'The female's respiratory systems were elevated ten percent above resting level and heart rate was within the twelfth upper percentile in the distribution of cardiac activity for individuals of equivalent age, gender and mass undertaking similar or related activity.'”
"Why don't zyou just say she was breathing fest and her heart was pounding?" Chekov interjects.
Again, Spock counters. "Because, Ensign, that would lack the appropriate level of specificity required to make the point clear."
Chekov appears hurt but cheers up again when Sulu squeezes his hand under the table.
Spock continues. “'The male, suffering a disturbance of blood flow, is slightly impaired in cognitive function, but is nonetheless able to achieve required trajectory and oscillation, maintained over a period
considered adequate by societal standards for the accumulation of friction and pendulumic reciprocity in-”
“Dammit Spock! This this a sex scene, not an engineering manual. I'd be just about as likely to read it for kicks as Seventy-one Ways to Unblock Misfiring U-Bend Connectors.” The others nod in agreement, all looking sad, except for Jim who looks protective, and Scotty, who looks guilty.
“Do you not find the passage arousing, Doctor?”
“Hell no. And that cross-species panel of yours won't, either.”
For once, McCoy's griping seems to have gotten to the first officer, who appears diminished somehow. “Thank you all for your candid opinons. Now, if you will excuse me...”
A little panicked, Jim blocks his exit from the rec room. “Hey, Spock, don't take it too hard. I mean, well, it doesn't really matter, does it? There's only the honour of the thing, riding on this, right?”
A frosty pause.
“Not that honour isn't important of course! It's just that -”
“On the contrary Captain, the stakes involved are, in fact, significant. The loser must act as an unpaid squire in the household of the victor for two Vulcan, or one point four six standard years.”
Everyone's eyes widen. The Enterprise without Spock would unlikely make it through one point four six weeks.
“What?,” replies Jim, voicing what they were all thinking. And then: ” But if you win, you wouldn't want Stonn following you around for all that time, would you?”
“In the case of my victory I would waive the prize. However, I believe that Stonn is unlikely to do the same. Especially," he adds cryptically, "considering the content of his novel."
With discomfort now thick in the air, all officers suddenly take interest in their fingernails.
“I must now return to my writing," Spock adds. "Good evening.”
When the doors slide shut behind Spock. everyone bursts into chatter but McCoy, as ever, is the loudest. “Dammit, Jim you've got to do something!”
Jim looks more than a little anxious. “Okay, I'll, uh, ...have a word.”
*****
Kirk looks up at the rows and rows of seats above him, reaching almost to the vaulted ceiling of this enormous room. What a turnout. He didn't think there would be enough interest to fill the famous Hall of the Voice at Shi'Kahr, but the stands are brimming with Vulcans and foreign dignitaries of all kinds.
The panel is sitting at a long table, near the front. The head judge is an Orion clan-mother who, as McCoy takes great pleasure in pointing out, has probably seen and done everything everything under the sun -- and plenty of other stars, too. Kirk just thinks that she's looking hard-pressed to take this contest with the gravity that the Vulcans seem to be giving it. There's also an Andorian with twitchy antennae, a Ferengi, who even now is perusing his copy of Vulcan Love Slave, and four Vulcans who are studiously trying not to let on that the book even exists. Among them is T'Pau.
Sulu elbows Chekov in the ribs. "So this'll be decided by vote then?"
Chekov nods.
A hush descends over the audience as Stonn enters the speaking circle. Behind him, carried by a struggling T'Pring, is the novel itself. She heaves it onto the judges' table, bows to them, and takes her leave.
Another elbow. "Pasha -- Is he gonna read all of that?"
"Commender Spock hes told me they are only doing synopses and excerpts." he looks worried. "I hope he is right."
With a clear, sonorous voice, Stonn begins to explain the particulars of his 3625-page magnum opus. It is, of course, set in the time before Surak and features an amazingly handsome, talented, intelligent, desirable Vulcan prince named Stunn, who is seduced, and then in later chapters, cruelly betrayed, by a maverick half-breed explorer named Spik. It features 97 chapters of blank verse, the political treatises of at least 27 imaginary nations, and 112 sonnets (with suggested harp accompaniments in the appendix). Stonn's chosen excerpt is one such sonnet of a mere 12,000 words, in which Spik compares the beauty of Stunn's visage to a well-wired circuit-board.
As Stonn drones on, and on, and on, Kirk can see all the Vulcans sitting in rapt attention. T'Pau even nods approvingly. But the other judges are not won over; the Ferengi is staring blankly into space, the Andorian gets out what looks like her macramé and the Orion, cougar that she is, seems to have locked eyes with Chekov. A polite round of applause marks the inevitable, although long-delayed end.
Uhura, seated next to Jim, whispers: "It's Spock's turn now,"
There is a great deal of murmuring as Spock takes the stand. The Vulcans in the audience gaze suspiciously at the slim volume he sports. Undeterred, he launches into the synopsis: it is a modern-day romance set on Argo, which details the sexual awakening of an exiled Vulcan at the hands of his close friend, a devilishly attractive human male. The excerpt he begins to read is blisteringly hot: partially-clothed sex inside a nightclub, crossdressing encouraged.
The Ferengi puts down his book. The Andorian's antennae twitch so fast she nearly flies from her seat. The Orion takes out her silver-studded black leather notebook and starts taking notes. All the Vulcan judges are blushing furiously.
Spock is barely into the third page, however, when an objection is raised from the stands: "Plagarism! This is not your own work! A Vulcan could have no basis upon which to write such things."
Unruffled, Spock lifts an eyebrow. "I assure you that every word here is mine. As to basis, I cite personal experience, gathered in the last two point four months."
The buzz in the audience grows to a rumble. The Orion looks at Spock with noticeable interest. The Andorian nearly breaks an antenna in her excitement and the Ferengi has to close his mouth with his own hand. All of the Vulcans on the panel now have green cheeks and ear-tips, T'Pau included.
Spock continues, "Further, I maintain that the only logical outcome of this contest is that my work be voted superior, with reasoning as follows...
McCoy knows this is his cue. He stands, asks permission to approach the circle, and to the sound of a great hubbub from the crowd, pushes over a hospital-grade tricorder on a hoverpad. Smiling broadly, he returns to his seat.
There is continued muttering and a few raised voices as Spock looks carefully over the readouts.
Spock's measured baritone rolls throughout the vast chamber. "In this audience, since my portion of the reading has begun, there have been approximately seventeen hundred erections, twenty eight of them binary, one tri-fold. There have also been over nine thousands gasps, fifty-two hundred and seventy three engorged nipples, and six hundred and fifteen attempts at masturbation, over half of which resulted in orgasm."
There is an alarmed sort of rustle as everyone tries to get a little bit farther away from their neighbors.
"Furthermore there have been seventeen incidents of coitus as well as two successful self-fertilizations."
Spock uses the small device that looks like a salt shaker to scan the council table.
"In addition, the honored council member from Andor's g'niis has inflated, the honored council member from Orion is still taking notes, and . . . " and here he trails off, uncertain for the first time. He swallows once and then continues in Vulcan.
The audience explodes in heated discussion.
Uhura claps both hands to her mouth and doubles over, silently. McCoy leans across Jim, thinking Uhura's had some kind of seizure, but when he sees her eyes, realizes she is just trying to keep from causing a political incident by laughing too hard.
"What did he say?"
"He said," she gasps, her face wreathed with delight. "He said that . . . T'Pau . . .oh God, I can't even --"
"Spit it out, dammit!"
"He said, 'the honored representative from Vulcan has sticky panties'!"
Chekov, on Uhura's other side, suddenly goes as red as Scotty's engineering tunic.
"Order! Order!" The Orion has taken her gavel and is rapping it on the stone table. But since T'Pau has fainted and is being lifted onto a stretcher by several attendants, it is some time before order is restored.
"The assemblage will come to a vote."
Of course, with the statistics from both readings now projected on the walls of the chamber, the judge's vote is almost superfluous. It is abundantly clear the audience has already voted, with its nads, as it were. Vulcans, however, are nothing if not sticklers for the rules. The vote is duly taken and the ballots are counted. Spock's victory is sealed.
Jim is hard pressed to keep his hands to himself as the officers accompany Spock out of the hall. He thinks of maybe holding Spock's hand, but holds back wondering if it would make everyone think Spock is a slut.
They are striding, side by side, into the arid daylight. "Captain, you were correct."
"What's that, Spock?"
"About your advice to, as you said, 'write what I know'. It was indeed the appropriate measure."
Authors: diane_kepler and purplefluffycat
Length: About 6000 wds
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Pairing: principally Kirk/Spock
Genre: Humour, we hope.
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary:
“Anyway, it got me to thinking. Are there any examples of romance novels in Vulcan literature?”
“Most certainly.”
The captain stops his offhand perusal of the ceiling and looks at Spock. “Really?”
“Yes, of course. Fictional accounts of the joining of sentient beings, set during pre-Awakening times, are common on Vulcan. They are, in point of fact, an art form to which I someday hope to aspire.”
Notes: Intended as a sequel to purplefluffycat's story This is Bumbles, although it should also make sense as a stand-alone piece. This grew out of muchly amusing comment-fic, on the premise of 'Vulcan romance novels,' and all they might entail.
Spock is humming to himself as he neatens up Jim's quarters after their most recent bout of hot monkey love. Most likely the tune is some kind of Vulcan folk song, but Jim doesn't ask. He knows the reply would almost certainly involve an eyebrow and the words "Captian. Vulcans do not hum."
Kirk has learned not to interrupt these moments of post-coital tidying because Spock will never cuddle until everything is ship-shape. Also, the process has an advantage. Putting things in their places has a tranquilizing effect on Spock, leaving him more likely to divulge personal details than otherwise.
“So, during your pon farr -” at a pointed look from the first officer, Kirk amends, “I mean, your Time, you, uh, said a lot of really nice things to me.”
“Jim, you are well aware that beyond a memory of our physical joining, I have little recollection of that evening.”
Kirk lets this go. Spock remembers his mushy words all right -- he’d even apologized for saying them -- but it won't do to quibble. “Anyway, it got me to thinking. Are there any examples of romance novels in Vulcan literature?”
“Most certainly.”
The captain stops his offhand perusal of the ceiling and looks at Spock. “Really?”
“Yes, of course. Fictional accounts of the joining of sentient beings, set during pre-Awakening times, are common on Vulcan. They are, in point of fact, an art form to which I someday hope to aspire.”
“You hope to . . . really?”
“Indeed, it is expected of me. My family is well known for its contributions to this genre.”
Kirk leans up on one elbow, equally stunned and fascinated. Somehow he just can't picture eminently logical Sarek penning purple prose.
“Jim, do not lean on Bumbles in that manner, you will crush him.”
“Oops, sorry.” Jim takes their beloved teddy bear out from under his arm and pauses to consider him. “You know, I’m surprised Chekov never asked for the little guy back.”
“Had I not mentioned to you that Ensign Chekov suggested we keep Bumbles? Although I carefully explained how I had washed him after discovering --”
“No,” says Kirk grinning, “No you hadn’t told me that. Very kind of Chekov to give us such a personal gift.”
Spock nods, “I thought so as well. It seems as though the bridge crew are united in their approval of our union.”
Jim considers. Other than Bones replicating lime-flavored popsicles and passing them out in the officer’s lounge a week after the pon farr incident, he supposes that the new relationship has really been met nothing but warm acceptance. Still, he doesn’t think the alpha-shift crew would take to the knowledge of Vulcan bodice-rippers with as little fuss. It's going to take him a while to get over the idea himself.
*****
A few months later, Kirk has cause to regret asking Spock about his literary aspirations. The Federation has sent the Enterprise to Vulcan to assist with analysis and further excavation of an important archaeological find. Since this requires more input from the folks in communications and engineering than in command, Kirk and Spock find themselves with time on their hands.
“So where is this place?”
“Jim,” Spock gives him a look that, for his race, takes the place of a wagging finger. “I shall not spoil the surprise. Now remember my instructions: you must control your physical reactions to this experience.”
They are wearing Vulcan robes with the hoods pulled up, so Kirk doesn’t think that’s going to be much of a problem. Still he’s getting excited. Where is Spock taking him? Are there such things as bathhouses on this planet?
However, their super-secret destination proves to be nothing more than a room full of similarly robed and hooded Vulcans taking in some sort of a lecture. They find seats at the back of the hall and listen.
Jim has his universal translator, but he might as well have left it back on the Enterprise for all the good it’s doing. It spouts nothing but the turgid details of some long-gone historical incident, complete with copious footnotes on the modes of speech employed in the rare bit of dialogue. Jim’s not sure what to make of this reading at all.
But when he looks over at Spock, the first officer is riveted.
Even though nobody could ever call Spock fidgety, Kirk can tell the difference between Spock just listening to something versus being completely absorbed. Plus one of his eyebrows is creeping up so high it seems likely to disappear beneath his hair.
Kirk asks him about it at the break. In fact, what he says is:
“So, uh, what’s this all about?”
Spock looks dismayed. “Jim, this is an author’s retreat. Some of the finest romance novels on the planet are being crafted here. Did you not find it highly stimulating?”
“Oh,” he gushes, backpedaling at warp three, “it was . . . well, I’ve never experienced that before. Such a . . . completely . . . yeah.” He clears his throat, then he tries again. “What I meant to say was, I didn’t know you, uh, read them. I mean, publicly, like this.”
“It is true that this art form is more often enjoyed in private. Yet the reading of these works does convey a certain urgency.”
Jim nods as earnestly as he can.
“Come, I will show you the works in progress.” Spock leads the way into an antechamber where more attendees are gathered, some huddled and speaking in low voices. Around and among them are massive tomes displayed open on stone tables. Some of the furniture looks as if it might collapse, not due to age or shoddy workmanship, but due to the weight of the books themselves.
Right away, Spock falls to perusing the nearest volume.
Jim sighs. He knows there is little else to do except find the earpiece from the translator, wedge it into the appropriate orifice, and start scanning the pages. It looks as if they’ll be here for awhile.
Mere minutes later, however, their reading is interrupted by a voice from within the throng. “Spock, son of Sarek!”
Jim turns to see a short, skinny Vulcan, his fingers split in the widest hand salute he’d ever seen, looking up at his first officer with something akin to awe.
“Please, Director Velann, there is no need --”
“Oh but it is such an honor to have you here. You and your,” and he catches Spock’s gaze and traces it back to Kirk, “th’y’la, yes, he is here also, how very appropriate. Honored, members. Do join me in congratulating Sch’n T’gai Spohkh on his most logical choice of mate.”
“Live long and prosper,” echoes the chorus from all around.
Velann gestures for them they follow him to a dais on which stands another display table. “We would be most appreciative of your opinion on this most recently completed work.”
Spock eyes this volume, the largest of all, judging how long it would take him to read it. “I regret being unable to oblige you. Although we are not on active duty, both the Captain and I may be required to return to the ship at any time. ”
Velann’s reply is immediate. “But I have read it. If we were to meld, you would gain the knowledge instantly.” Eagerly, he proffers his cheek.
With some hesitation, Spock touches his fingers to the meld-points on Velann’s face, whereupon the older man assumes an expression that, to Kirk, looks like a most un-Vulcan display of fanboy fever. They are silent for a time. No one does anything to break the quietude except for Kirk, shuffling his feet. The other attendants stare Jim into stillness.
When Spock takes back his hand and opens his eyes, there is an air of expectation.
“Well?” comes a challenge from one of the hooded figures.
Spock cocks his head and then shakes it once. “I am afraid that I cannot grant my approval. This work is deeply flawed.”
Had they been anywhere but on Vulcan, there would have been a collective gasp. As it is, it still somehow feels to Kirk like someone has sucked a lot of the air out of the room.
“You dare!” comes a shout in that same voice. The Vulcan pulls back his hood. It is Stonn, Spock's old rival from his first pon farr.
Jim's eyes widen. “Uh oh.”
*****
They are back in the captain's quarters and Spock’s fingers are moving across the computer keys faster than Kirk has ever seen. Despite this, the Vulcan seems ill at ease.
“Can I, uh, get you anything? Plomik soup? Tea?”
Spock does not reply.
“Look, why was Stonn all bent out of shape, anyway? I mean, so you didn't like his novel.”
The first officer fixes Kirk with the eyebrow. “Jim. He is an author."
Spock goes back to his typing. “Additionally, there has been some tension between Stonn’s family and mine since the time of the kun-ut kalifi, when T'Pring challenged my right to marry her. ”
Jim was even more confused. “Good lord, why? Stonn ended up with T’Pring.”
“Yes,” Spock said, one eyebrow raised at the computer screen, “and now he has to live with her.”
“Ohhhhhh, “ said Kirk, both eyebrows high and round. He sits still for a while, although it is really just Kirk-still, which, here in his quarters, involves puffing out his cheeks and bumping his heels against the side of the bed.
“So what’s this dunap kalifi?”
Spock keeps up his rapid pace at the keyboard. “The phrase literally means ‘book challenge’. The occurrence was much more common in ancient times, when it was resolved by clan warfare. However, since the time of Surak, the rare dunap kalifi is judged on the merits of the actual literature, presented in an open forum.”
“Which means you’ve got to write a book?”
Spock does his best to avoid being irritated by the constant flow of questions. “It would appear so, yes.”
“So who are they getting to judge it?
“Normally, the judges would all be from my planet, however since my family is so closely tied to the Federation, the panel will most likely be made up of notable critics from several cultures.”
Jim considers, “Well, that shouldn’t be too bad then. How long’ve you got to write it?”
“I have ten standard days.”
*****
Yeoman Janice Rand returns to her quarters to see that the door code has been overridden by a commanding officer in her absence. An excited flush climbs her cheeks and she whips out first a powder compact for last minute adjustments and then her private communicator.
"Rand to Chapel," she hisses into the device.
A bleary voice answers. "What do you want, Jan? We said good bye half an hour ago.... Don't you know what time it is?"
"He's here!" Janice squeaks, "Finally, in my room! He's waiting for me!"
"Huh? Who do you mean?"
"The Captain, of course! After all this time - all these months of flirting and hoping - I was starting to think he wasn't interested. But now -- oh God, I can't wait. Rand out."
Taking a deep breath, and assuming an expression that implies all her shore leave has come at once, Janice keys in the code to her room. The doors swish apart to reveal the striking figure of . . .
. . . Commander Spock, nose deep in her bookshelves.
He sits up. They stare at each other in silence, Rand showing bitter disappointment, followed by indignation at the unfairness of it all, followed by naked curiosity.
"Yeoman, I was under the impression that beta shift finishes at twenty-four hundred hours. As it is currently twenty-three forty-seven, it is illogical for you to be in your quarters at this time." Spock delivers the remonstration in his usual collected manner, unaffected by the clutter of PADDs, print-outs and paper surrounding him.
Rand's entire electronic collection of reading matter has clearly been studied. Some of the PADDs bear copious notes. One screen entitled 'emotionally-centred plot devices' features comments about the popularity of conducting personal business in transport hubs immediately prior to an outgoing flight to be boarded by only one of the protagonists. There are also notes on the apparently mystic symbolism of home-made apple pie, and the perverse decision to kiss outdoors while it is raining. Spock has marked all of these entries, 'highly illogical.' On another screen there is an analysis of professional and personal character traits of dramatis personae, which leads to the conclusion that human males find physical weakness, low-to-moderate intelligence and blonde hair particularly attractive in a mate, whereas female humans prefer needless violence, unfaithfulness and excellent teeth. The display entitled 'pseudonyms for male genitalia' sports an extremely long and carefully-compiled list; the screen entitled 'pseudonyms for female genitalia' is pretty much blank.
Rand takes in the sight, along with the fact that her valuable paper books have been similarly rifled, strewn as they are, half-open upon her desk.
"Well, I'm sorry Commander, I was relieved early," she replies, not a little stridently, "But that doesn't explain why you're in my quarters without my knowledge or consent, though it seems to me that-"
Spock is never to discover how the situation seems to Rand, however.
"Yeoman! Are you all right?!" Kirk and McCoy charge through the open door with phasers aloft. They stare for a moment, taking in both the calm scene and its attendant oddness.
Then they lower their weapons, McCoy looking rather sheepish. "Sorry to barge in and all, but Nurse Chapel saw us near sickbay a minute or so ago, and then screamed that you must have an intruder in your room."
"Well I do have an intruder. Sort of." Rand gestures extravagantly to her study corner, and all eyes turn to Spock -- who is still clutching an extremely valuable Jackie Collins novel that has been lovingly passed down through generations of flossy-headed Rand females.
"Captain. Doctor McCoy," he says, in a tone suggesting that the elegant Vulcan hand clasping that fuchsia and leopard-print cover has, in fact, nothing to do with him.
Another few seconds pass in uncomfortable silence - before Jim explodes into laughter. Great, riotous peals of the stuff, enough to make McCoy and Rand give up chuckles of their own and to earn him a huffily-raised eyebrow from the first officer. “May I inquire, Captain, as to the source of your amusement?”
“Oh Spock . . . it's . . . it's just you”
“I fail to understand your meaning.” The eyebrow climbs to grump-factor two.
Kirk flashes Spock a fond smile. “Well let's just say that when you research something, you go all out.”
Spock returns nothing but a brooding pause.
“Oh, go on, Spock, you have to tell them.”
“I hardly think that appropriate given the personal nature of-”
“Come on, it's only fair. The lady deserves an explanation.”
Spock looks from Kirk to Rand to the pile of papers and PADDs scattered across her desk and then makes the slight exhalation that, coming from a human, would count as a petulant sigh. “I apologize, Yeoman, for accessing your quarters in your absence. Please be assured that no harm was intended; I merely wished to examine your reading material, as the computers informed me that your personal collection of works of fiction is the largest on the ship.”
Rand looks confused and intrigued in equal measure. “Maybe so, Commander, but they couldn't have been any good to you. I only read girly books - you know, the lovey-dovey kind.”
“On the contrary, the material here is well suited to my research requirements.” Spock is stiff and clearly mulish about saying more.
At that, Kirk can't stifle another wave of giggles. “He's writing a romance novel! That's what this is all about.”
Both Rand and McCoy do a double-take. “I don't believe it,” McCoy says, shaking his head and looking a little pale.
“I assure you, Doctor, that the captain has explained the circumstances correctly.”
“You?! Mr.-I-wouldn't-know-a-sentiment-if-it-bit-me-on-the-ass-Spock? Write a romance novel?!”
Spock does not dignify McCoy's outburst with a response. “If you will excuse me gentlemen. Miss Rand.” He sweeps from the room, Jackie Collins in tow.
*****
Jim is circling around Spock at the desk in their bedroom. He's tried massaging shoulders, nibbling eartips and dancing Bumbles in front of the screen, but Spock will neither give in to distraction, nor allow Jim to read his composition thus far.
“Aw, come on, Spock!” cries Jim in frustration, “We might be able to help.”
His mate looks up from his frenetic typing for just long enough to lock Jim with a disbelieving gaze. “None of the crew, as far as I am aware, are at all familiar with Vulcan literature, let alone proficent. Thus it is clearly illogical to expect-”
“Yeah, but the panel is going to be half Vulcan at most. And I'm betting the audience will contain a lot of off-worlders, too. What you need to be going for is cross-species appeal.”
Spock considers for a moment, but then concedes, “I admit that your argument does have some merit.”
“You bet it does! I'll call the others.” Triumphantly, Jim presses the wall-mounted communicator. “Kirk to bridge.”
“Yes, Captain?” answers Uhura.
“At the end of the shift, send the command team to rec room three for pointy-eared robe-ripper: chapter one. Bring your popcorn. Hell, tell Bones to bring some more of those lime popsicles! Kirk out.”
Jim smiles at Spock, who answers with a long-suffering expression, if that slight crease between his eyebrows is anything to go by. “I am not imbued with confidence by your synopsis of my literary endeavours, Captain.”
An impish grin is the only answer Spock gets, as Jim kisses him once tenderly, then again with heat, promise and wandering hands. Spock's breath catches when Jim strokes him through the fabric of his uniform pants, virtually climbing into the desk chair atop him.
“Then how about I imbue you with something else entirely?”
*****
Thirty-five and a half minutes later, a somewhat tousled looking captain and a first officer with a distinctly green glow arrive in the officer's lounge. The bridge crew are already assembled, along with a few medical staff and yeomen who seem to have overheard Jim's summons.
McCoy cracks a smile at Spock that seems a little too wide and friendly. “I must say I'm looking mighty forward to this.”
Spock remains impassive. “Thank you, Doctor. I am hopeful the work will meet your expectations.”
“Oh, zis is wery exciting, Mr. Spock,” agrees an enthusiastic Chekov, “I hev never heard before eh Wulcan piece of creative writing.”
“Uh, well, they really are... something else,” offers Jim, “Now how about you stand over there and read, Spock, and we'll comment as you go along.”
Consternation toys with Spock's features. “I perceive that an attempt to prevent you from commenting would be futile.”
He's just about to start when the door swings open. “Sorry I'm late,” says Uhura, taking an empty seat. “Such a surprise, Mr. Spock - I thought I was the only one around here who wrote things.”
“You write novels, too?” asks Jim.
“Yeah, I've had two published actually, on the Federation Fictionlist.”
“Wow. Maybe you could give Spock a hand, then?” says Jim, jumping at a ray of hope. “You know, a few chapters each way would get it done a lot sooner.”
“I'd be delighted.”
"Excellent. Then we'll --"
“On the contrary, Captain.” There is such ice in Spock's look and tone the whole room goes still. “Such a suggestion is far from excellent. To mar the sacred ritual of the dunap kalifi with such an act of dishonesty is unthinkable.”
“Ah, my bad. Sorry.” Jim flashes what he hopes is his cutest smile to make up. Spock seems at least partially appeased. “Well, how about you take it from the top, then.”
“Thank you. Yes, I shall.” Spock retrieves a lectern from the side of the room and places his hefty print-out upon it. He casts his eyes down and begins to read. “''The Incident of Joining Between Sentient Beings,' 'Chapter One.' The proceedings herein take place on the planet Vulcan in the year one thousand and thirty eight, according to the Old Calendar. The planet is composed chiefly of silica (eighty-three percent) with notable traces of iron, (eleven point five percent), magnesium (three percent), strontium (two percent) and cadmium (zero point five percent). The atmosphere is chiefly nitrogenous (sixty-eight percent) with an oxygen content of thirteen percent and the remainder composed of unreactive gases, in particular argon (five percent) and xenon (three point six percent). Organic life forms are composed predominantly of water (sixty percent to eighty percent, dependent upon species), with structural elements composed of carbon (twelve percent) with several metallic cofactors, principally copper, magnesium, barium and platinum, in varying percentages, dependent upon species. The geological composition of the planet indicates-"
"What the hell is this?" The question comes, predictably, from McCoy.
“I believe the captain has been clear as to the nature and purpose of the excerpt.”
"Yeah, so why the rundown of chemicals?"
Spock's eyebrows climb in a way that suggests danger. "Doctor. I am, I believe the phrase to be, setting the scene. Now, to continue, 'The geological composition of the planet indicates significant igneous activity at a constant rate from three-hundred thousand years since records began, with the incidence of metamorphic inclusions forming over time in a Poisson distribution relative to distance from the relevant igneous deposit. Sedimentary matter-”
“I think that gives us a great taste of the beginning, actually,” says Jim, winning smile still in place. “How about you skip on to where the main characters come in?”
“You wish for me to forgo all of the intermediate material?” asks Spock, somewhat aghast.
“Well . . . just for now, I mean.”
Spock looks doubtful but gives in. “As you wish.”
He pages forward form the beginning - flipping not just pages, but entire chapters. Eventually, he stops. “In that case, I shall continue from page five hundred and seventy-two. A Vulcan female named T'Sine is attracted to a Vulcan male named Sonak. They have conversed on twelve occasions, with a total duration of forty-three standard minutes - six point two three of which were concerned with non-mathematical topics. The occupation of the female is as computational assistant to a regional magistrate, and the occupation of the male is as logistics specialist for a sub-branch of the Office of Agricultural Relations. Such work involves calculation primarily using the antiquated hexidecimal system, which functions as follows.'”
“Can I just stop you there, a second, Mr. Spock?” Uhura asks politely. “That's great as a start, but maybe we could get to know a bit more about T'Sine and Sonak here? Like, what exactly do they have in common? Does she find him handsome? You know, get the reader to empathize a bit more - you need to pull them in with your characters.”
Spock knits his brows at her but keeps his tone level. “Thank you for your suggestions, Lieutenant, but the text seems to me appropriate in its current form. When viewed logically physical appearance is more or less irrelevant in the matter of mate selection and I have clearly implied the topics of the protagonists conversations are principally mathematical in nature.”
“Yes, but...” Seeing the look of challenge on Spock's features, Uhura summons a smile. “Please go on."
A slight nod and then Spock continues to read, “'A radix, or base, of sixteen is used, upon which the symbols zero to nine represent their respective values, and the characters A to F represent the values ten to fifteen. In employment of this system, it was often found that-”
"Okay, enough already!” shouts McCoy. “How about you just skip on to the juicy bits?"
Spock seems surprised. "You wish for me to read the first description of coitus in the work?"
“Aye. We cannae stay here all evening,” Scotty huffs, eyeing the clock on the wall.
The lounge had not been noisy before but it now goes perfectly, deep-space quiet. All eyes are on Spock as he flips to a page near the end of of his gigantic printout. Taking a deep breath, and assuming a dramatic tone he reads. "'The female's respiratory systems were elevated ten percent above resting level and heart rate was within the twelfth upper percentile in the distribution of cardiac activity for individuals of equivalent age, gender and mass undertaking similar or related activity.'”
"Why don't zyou just say she was breathing fest and her heart was pounding?" Chekov interjects.
Again, Spock counters. "Because, Ensign, that would lack the appropriate level of specificity required to make the point clear."
Chekov appears hurt but cheers up again when Sulu squeezes his hand under the table.
Spock continues. “'The male, suffering a disturbance of blood flow, is slightly impaired in cognitive function, but is nonetheless able to achieve required trajectory and oscillation, maintained over a period
considered adequate by societal standards for the accumulation of friction and pendulumic reciprocity in-”
“Dammit Spock! This this a sex scene, not an engineering manual. I'd be just about as likely to read it for kicks as Seventy-one Ways to Unblock Misfiring U-Bend Connectors.” The others nod in agreement, all looking sad, except for Jim who looks protective, and Scotty, who looks guilty.
“Do you not find the passage arousing, Doctor?”
“Hell no. And that cross-species panel of yours won't, either.”
For once, McCoy's griping seems to have gotten to the first officer, who appears diminished somehow. “Thank you all for your candid opinons. Now, if you will excuse me...”
A little panicked, Jim blocks his exit from the rec room. “Hey, Spock, don't take it too hard. I mean, well, it doesn't really matter, does it? There's only the honour of the thing, riding on this, right?”
A frosty pause.
“Not that honour isn't important of course! It's just that -”
“On the contrary Captain, the stakes involved are, in fact, significant. The loser must act as an unpaid squire in the household of the victor for two Vulcan, or one point four six standard years.”
Everyone's eyes widen. The Enterprise without Spock would unlikely make it through one point four six weeks.
“What?,” replies Jim, voicing what they were all thinking. And then: ” But if you win, you wouldn't want Stonn following you around for all that time, would you?”
“In the case of my victory I would waive the prize. However, I believe that Stonn is unlikely to do the same. Especially," he adds cryptically, "considering the content of his novel."
With discomfort now thick in the air, all officers suddenly take interest in their fingernails.
“I must now return to my writing," Spock adds. "Good evening.”
When the doors slide shut behind Spock. everyone bursts into chatter but McCoy, as ever, is the loudest. “Dammit, Jim you've got to do something!”
Jim looks more than a little anxious. “Okay, I'll, uh, ...have a word.”
*****
Kirk looks up at the rows and rows of seats above him, reaching almost to the vaulted ceiling of this enormous room. What a turnout. He didn't think there would be enough interest to fill the famous Hall of the Voice at Shi'Kahr, but the stands are brimming with Vulcans and foreign dignitaries of all kinds.
The panel is sitting at a long table, near the front. The head judge is an Orion clan-mother who, as McCoy takes great pleasure in pointing out, has probably seen and done everything everything under the sun -- and plenty of other stars, too. Kirk just thinks that she's looking hard-pressed to take this contest with the gravity that the Vulcans seem to be giving it. There's also an Andorian with twitchy antennae, a Ferengi, who even now is perusing his copy of Vulcan Love Slave, and four Vulcans who are studiously trying not to let on that the book even exists. Among them is T'Pau.
Sulu elbows Chekov in the ribs. "So this'll be decided by vote then?"
Chekov nods.
A hush descends over the audience as Stonn enters the speaking circle. Behind him, carried by a struggling T'Pring, is the novel itself. She heaves it onto the judges' table, bows to them, and takes her leave.
Another elbow. "Pasha -- Is he gonna read all of that?"
"Commender Spock hes told me they are only doing synopses and excerpts." he looks worried. "I hope he is right."
With a clear, sonorous voice, Stonn begins to explain the particulars of his 3625-page magnum opus. It is, of course, set in the time before Surak and features an amazingly handsome, talented, intelligent, desirable Vulcan prince named Stunn, who is seduced, and then in later chapters, cruelly betrayed, by a maverick half-breed explorer named Spik. It features 97 chapters of blank verse, the political treatises of at least 27 imaginary nations, and 112 sonnets (with suggested harp accompaniments in the appendix). Stonn's chosen excerpt is one such sonnet of a mere 12,000 words, in which Spik compares the beauty of Stunn's visage to a well-wired circuit-board.
As Stonn drones on, and on, and on, Kirk can see all the Vulcans sitting in rapt attention. T'Pau even nods approvingly. But the other judges are not won over; the Ferengi is staring blankly into space, the Andorian gets out what looks like her macramé and the Orion, cougar that she is, seems to have locked eyes with Chekov. A polite round of applause marks the inevitable, although long-delayed end.
Uhura, seated next to Jim, whispers: "It's Spock's turn now,"
There is a great deal of murmuring as Spock takes the stand. The Vulcans in the audience gaze suspiciously at the slim volume he sports. Undeterred, he launches into the synopsis: it is a modern-day romance set on Argo, which details the sexual awakening of an exiled Vulcan at the hands of his close friend, a devilishly attractive human male. The excerpt he begins to read is blisteringly hot: partially-clothed sex inside a nightclub, crossdressing encouraged.
The Ferengi puts down his book. The Andorian's antennae twitch so fast she nearly flies from her seat. The Orion takes out her silver-studded black leather notebook and starts taking notes. All the Vulcan judges are blushing furiously.
Spock is barely into the third page, however, when an objection is raised from the stands: "Plagarism! This is not your own work! A Vulcan could have no basis upon which to write such things."
Unruffled, Spock lifts an eyebrow. "I assure you that every word here is mine. As to basis, I cite personal experience, gathered in the last two point four months."
The buzz in the audience grows to a rumble. The Orion looks at Spock with noticeable interest. The Andorian nearly breaks an antenna in her excitement and the Ferengi has to close his mouth with his own hand. All of the Vulcans on the panel now have green cheeks and ear-tips, T'Pau included.
Spock continues, "Further, I maintain that the only logical outcome of this contest is that my work be voted superior, with reasoning as follows...
McCoy knows this is his cue. He stands, asks permission to approach the circle, and to the sound of a great hubbub from the crowd, pushes over a hospital-grade tricorder on a hoverpad. Smiling broadly, he returns to his seat.
There is continued muttering and a few raised voices as Spock looks carefully over the readouts.
Spock's measured baritone rolls throughout the vast chamber. "In this audience, since my portion of the reading has begun, there have been approximately seventeen hundred erections, twenty eight of them binary, one tri-fold. There have also been over nine thousands gasps, fifty-two hundred and seventy three engorged nipples, and six hundred and fifteen attempts at masturbation, over half of which resulted in orgasm."
There is an alarmed sort of rustle as everyone tries to get a little bit farther away from their neighbors.
"Furthermore there have been seventeen incidents of coitus as well as two successful self-fertilizations."
Spock uses the small device that looks like a salt shaker to scan the council table.
"In addition, the honored council member from Andor's g'niis has inflated, the honored council member from Orion is still taking notes, and . . . " and here he trails off, uncertain for the first time. He swallows once and then continues in Vulcan.
The audience explodes in heated discussion.
Uhura claps both hands to her mouth and doubles over, silently. McCoy leans across Jim, thinking Uhura's had some kind of seizure, but when he sees her eyes, realizes she is just trying to keep from causing a political incident by laughing too hard.
"What did he say?"
"He said," she gasps, her face wreathed with delight. "He said that . . . T'Pau . . .oh God, I can't even --"
"Spit it out, dammit!"
"He said, 'the honored representative from Vulcan has sticky panties'!"
Chekov, on Uhura's other side, suddenly goes as red as Scotty's engineering tunic.
"Order! Order!" The Orion has taken her gavel and is rapping it on the stone table. But since T'Pau has fainted and is being lifted onto a stretcher by several attendants, it is some time before order is restored.
"The assemblage will come to a vote."
Of course, with the statistics from both readings now projected on the walls of the chamber, the judge's vote is almost superfluous. It is abundantly clear the audience has already voted, with its nads, as it were. Vulcans, however, are nothing if not sticklers for the rules. The vote is duly taken and the ballots are counted. Spock's victory is sealed.
Jim is hard pressed to keep his hands to himself as the officers accompany Spock out of the hall. He thinks of maybe holding Spock's hand, but holds back wondering if it would make everyone think Spock is a slut.
They are striding, side by side, into the arid daylight. "Captain, you were correct."
"What's that, Spock?"
"About your advice to, as you said, 'write what I know'. It was indeed the appropriate measure."