Fic: Everything Was Beautiful; Nothing Hurt, Chapter 2
Title: Everything Was Beautiful; Nothing Hurt... or Even More Kin and Even Less Kind
Chapter Title: Chapter 2: A Klingon Does Not Push Paper. He Manipulates Defeated Trees.
Author: katiemariie
Artist: tprillahfiction
Fanmixer: civilbloodshed
Beta(s): subluxate and avsioss
Link to Art: Art
Link to Mix: Fanmix
Word Count: 3.8k
When Uhura looked back on it, coming out as bi was a lot easier than coming out as a cyborg. Not to play the Oppression Olympics or anything, but telling your parents over dinner you’re the same sexuality as the vast majority of the planet pales in comparison to telling your colony’s inner circle that you’re a biomechanoid life-form that can control the weather and grow plants and mountains with the wink of an eye.
So, as the colony elites assembled in her temporary housing the day before the other colonists arrived, Uhura was sweating, which had the result of making the planet noticeably more humid. During her two month “quarantine,” Uhura had learned to separate her emotional state from the planet’s physical state, but she still had difficulty in times of extreme emotion. (When T’Pring visited her, Maltz counted five tidal waves that night. Uhura wasn’t the only one with a talented tongue.)
She waited for everyone to settle into their seats and for the babies to quiet (god, so many babies), and then began. As she told what ended up sounding like a superhero origin story, Uhura carefully watched the responses of her audience. Sybok, Chapel, and M’Benga’s parents gazed up at her encouragingly, while Maltz and Carol were both zoning out, bored to hear the story again. Elder Spock alternated looking guilty, sad, and hopeful, but that was nothing new. And T’Pring stood beside Uhura, looking just as fierce as usual.
As for the other, the ones who didn’t know before that night... Spock and M’Benga exchanged a series of looks that said, “If we didn’t like her, she would make an excellent specimen for dissection.” Sarek was impassive and more concerned with burping his baby than listening to Uhura. And McCoy had his “that ain’t logical”/“damn it, Jim, we have to do something” face on.
“Any questions?” Uhura asked when she got to the end of the story.
“Are you high?” McCoy asked. “Honestly, were you all baked when you beamed down here?”
Uhura decided to ignore him in favor of M’Benga, who had his hand raised. “Geoff?”
“Yeah, uh, how much of you is-what parts-physiologically, do you have-what systems-”
Spock interrupted him. “What I believe Geoffrey is trying to ask, do you have a robotic vagina?”
Uhura blinked slowly. “No. I do not robotic vagina. All of my skin tissue is Human. It’s only my muscles and my bones that have been fully replaced.”
Sybok raised his hand with a confused expression on his face. “Then wouldn’t your lady muscles be robotic?”
“Yes,” Uhura said between gritted teeth.
All the men in the room took a moment to consider how powerfully pleasurable her Kegel muscles could be. To quash their fantasies, Uhura picked up a plastic cup and crushed it with her bare hand, causing the men to instinctively gird their loins. Some of them even whimpered.
“I have a non-vagina related question,” Carol said.
“Shoot.”
“How does having the power to control a planet make you less vulnerable? It seems like it should be the other way around. The Federation and the other major powers have an even greater incentive to vivisect you and conquer the planet.”
“May I?” Elder Spock asked. Uhura nodded. “Lt. Uhura has learned to manipulate the planet’s atmosphere so that it performs as a defense screen. Nothing can pass through the defense screen or be beamed onto the planet without Uhura’s permission.”
“What about spies?” Maltz asked. “The Federation could easily infiltrate our society and discover our secret weapon.”
“That is precisely why this information shall never leave this room,” T’Pring said crossly.
In a flash, Maltz had drawn his phaser and was waving it around the room, pointing it at each Vulcan. “You will not erase my memories! I will kill all of you if I have to!”
“Whoa!” Sybok held his hands over his head. “No one is erasing anyone’s memories.”
This didn’t seem to comfort Maltz. “You dare to threaten a Klingon with death? You may be content to die for this secret, but I am not!”
“Who said anything about dying?” M’Benga asked, standing between Maltz and his children.
“You.” He pointed the phased at T’Pring. “She said-”
Carol sighed, putting her hand on Maltz’s arm. “It’s an expression. She meant that none of us will ever tell anyone who is not in this room right now about Uhura and the planet.”
“Oh.” Maltz holstered his weapon and sat down. “Why did you not simply say that?”
As everyone’s hearts slowed down, Sybok grumbled to Spock, “You know, at least when we don’t get Human idioms, it’s kind of cute and endearing.”
-
Former Bekk Worf did not like this place. He did not like these people. And he most certainly did not like his current assignment. Had he not been moments away from slicing his throat open with his bat’leth when he was offered this position, he most certainly would not have taken it. The offer itself was most deceptive: “Interim Head of State requires personal assistant for diplomatic affairs. Previous experience in advocacy and multilingualism required. Room and board will be provided.”
Ha! It was only in his state of desperation that he did not question the merits of the job offer. In his darkest hour, it seemed like manna from Sto-Vo-Kor. How foolish was he.
The “Interim Head of State” turned out to be a woman. Who had heard of such nonsense? And not only was she a female, she was a Vulcan. Imagine a son of the House of Mogh serving a Vulcan woman. Perhaps in a hundred years his grandson would join Starfleet. Such foolishness.
The “room and board” they spoke of? Temporary, prefabricated housing shipped in from Terra that he had to share with two scientists: another disgraced Klingon and a Human woman with yellow hair.
And on his first day, Worf’s participation in “diplomatic affairs” was limited to sitting at a table and providing the newly arrived settlers with name tags.
Yet, despite his complaining, Worf knew he had no one to blame but himself. If he had just looked up from his PADD, he would have seen the turbolift was not there, he would not have attempted to enter it, he would not have fallen to the bottom of the turboshaft, he would not have broken his spine, he would not have partial paralysis, he would be able to climb the stairs to his office everyday, he would still be a warrior in the courtroom. To fall into such weakness, such uselessness was a great dishonor to Klingons, but to fall so literally... His only recourse was Hegh bat, and he was so near it when that woman came offering a new world filled with “ramps” and “handrails” and “reasonable accommodations” and “physical therapy.” So it seemed that Worf may never again technically stand to face his enemies in battle, but he would go on to fight another another day.
He soon realized it would be the fight of his life.
When his precursor-the mate of T’Pring-described the colony’s settlers as a “diverse, multicultural group of subaltern peoples,” Worf spent the next three hours reviewing his Klingon-Federation Standard dictionary and still had very little understanding of what most of those words meant. On his first day, he had the misfortune of finding out.
These people-the settlers were so strange, bordering on nonsensical. All of them had no concept of honor, as if they all knew what the conventions of their societies were and purposefully behaved counter to them. There were Ferengi Marxist Feminists, Romulan pacifists, Andorian cripples (although Worf could not blame them for their parents not killing them when they were born crippled; he could blame them for that sickening look of kinship they gave him), Humans who could not hear yet refused surgery, and Vulcans descended from slaves.
Worse yet was all the race-mixing. It seemed that every other Vulcan he met was either married to a Human, two Humans, or an Andorian. Worf considered himself to be a modern Klingon; what two (or three) sentient beings did in the confines of their own bedrooms was none of his business, but many of them had children. What role in the galaxy could a Vulcan-Andorian hybrid have? Or a Human-Vulcan hybrid? (The answer to that appeared to be raising more mixed race children with your Human mate.)
It was a testament to the indomitable spirit of the Klingon warrior that Worf survived that first day where he was inundated with half the oddities of the universe. Yet the battle was not yet won. That evening there was to be a “town hall meeting” where several matters would be voted upon. As T’Pring’s aide, he would not only have to listen to what these people said, he would have to write it down.
The first order of business was establishing a common language. Everyone was in favor of their language being chosen, with the exception of the Vulcans, who agreed that their language was far too complex for the general public to learn. The stalemate was eventually broken by the Ferengi Womyn’s Collective, who presented a language of their own creation that promised to “rectify the kyriarchal nature of all known languages” and “dismantle linguistic hegemony.”
By the end of the night (which was also the beginning of the next morning), it was decided that the colony should have no formal alignment with any of the major powers in the galaxy, every citizen should have a specific community responsibility (for example, street sweeping), and resources would be pooled to purchase and assemble structures the colony needed, including a space dock. The Ferengi communist caucus had triumphed once again; the colony would have no formal currency and all decisions would be made through townhall meetings (the settlers were obviously masochists).
At long last, Worf was allowed to leave this strange people behind, roll up the ramp to his domicile, lift himself out of his chair-with-wheels, and into his bed. As he boldly thrust himself into sleep (Klingons did not “drift off” anywhere), Worf pondered how much longer he would have to deal with such dishonorable people. If he was sixteen years old that day, and he lived a normal lifespan (which the woman doctor assured him he would), he most only endure approximately 130 more years on this planet. He supposed over a century of torture was more honorable than suicide.
-
There were several things, McCoy believed, that a man should not face before his first cup of coffee. A Klingon knocking at his front door was one of them. “What?” he croaked, opening the door.
“Census,” Worf (or was it Maltz? No, definitely Worf. W as in Worf as in Wheelchair. Or was it W as in Worf as in White? And M as in Maltz as in Muscle Atrophy?) said, handing him a PADD.
“What the hell do we need a census for?” Jesus, they had only established their government last night. Could they hold off on the more annoying responsibilities of citizenship? Tomorrow, was he gonna get selected for jury duty?
“In order for citizens of Sha-Ka-Ree-” McCoy still can’t believe they chose such a sappy name. “-to obtain visas for other planets, Sha-Ka-Ree must be recognized as a sovereign planet. The first step to formal recognition is the completion of a planet-wide census provided by the Federation.” The Klingon explained this like he would rather be anywhere else in the galaxy. “As the people’s appointed ambassador, T’Pring requests you submit your household’s completed census to her office by the end of the day.” The Klingon nodded and left.
McCoy closed the door and stumbled back into the kitchen, where Sybok was brewing a pot of tea. “What did he want?” Sybok yawned. McCoy swore that man slept twice as much as any other Vulcan he’d met. “Hey, telekinesis takes a lot out of a person.”
“Don’t listen to my thoughts this early.”
“Don’t think so loud this early.” Sybok rifled through the cabinets. “Where did you put the-”
“Under the sink.” McCoy sat down at the table, resting his head in his arms.
“Thanks.” Sybok took out the sehlat food and poured some into Celie’s bowl. The sehlat eagerly chomped away at her kibble as the kettle whistled. Sybok brought it over to the table and sat down. “Tea?”
“As long as it’s none of your Vulcan junk.”
Sybok rolled his eyes and poured them both a cup. “What’s that?” He point to the census PADD in McCoy’s hand.
“Census. T’Pring wants it done by tonight.”
“I’ll do it. You go get something to eat.”
McCoy would normally feel guilty about foisting an undesirable chore like that on Sybok (for god’s sake, the man did do all of the cooking, and clothes mending, and sometimes he even made candles), but he knew Sybok wouldn’t have much to do until he acquired a client base or somebody died. (Sybok’s official community participation duty was “grief counseling,” which to those in the know meant he helped the deceased move on to the afterlife. Sybok would have preferred to be titled as “katric deliveryman,” but he knew most people wouldn’t buy that and would see him as getting one over on everyone else who were fulfilling their obligations to the community through actual work.)
McCoy got up from his chair, and gathered his breakfast: some yogurt from the fridge, a banana, a little bit of granola, and, of course, coffee. “You want anything?”
Sybok shook his head, absorbed by filling out the census.
McCoy got back in his and tucked into his breakfast, watching Sybok work that Vulcan he rarely saw outside of the bedroom.
“What’s a ‘caw-cass-ian?’” Sybok asked, looking up from his PADD.
“Caucasian? It means white Human.”
“Are you one of those?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s so strange. Humans have only one category of white people and so many for everyone else.”
“I guess that stems from anthropology. After Linnaeus, Europeans got a little obsessed with classifying the natural world-plants and animals, which included anyone who wasn’t white. I suppose that need to classify and study lives on in the census.”
“Your species is horrible.”
“What? You’re telling me Vulcans don’t have a million categories.”
“No. We just have the T’Pelih Vulcans and...” He trailed off.
“The normal Vulcans?” Gotcha.
Sybok’s cheeks flushed, and he went back to the census. McCoy chewed happily on his granola, glad to have shaken the smug off of one Vulcan today. And it was only breakfast. Sybok wrinkled his nose and set the PADD down. “You done?”
“I’m stuck.”
“On what?”
“Religion.”
“I’m agnostic. Culturally Southern Baptist.”
“I know. It wouldn’t let me put that down.”
“What? Let me see.” McCoy grabbed the PADD and looked it over. It had a long list of religions and one small fill in the blank for “other.” He tried picking agnostic and other, but it wouldn’t let him choose more than one. “The hell.”
“Told you. It wouldn’t let me enter mine in either. There wasn’t enough room in the ‘other’ box.”
“What were you gonna write?” For Vulcan’s most famous heretic, Sybok wasn’t particularly religious.
“‘After an experience with a powerful alien entity, I believe that there is no god or gods but rather several species of very powerful aliens. I know for a fact that when we die, we go to-’”
“Just put down ‘atheist.’”
“But I’m not an atheist. I believe in an afterlife; I’ve been there several times.” Sybok shook his head. “I’m going to complain about this.”
-
When Elder Spock awoke, Eva and Apple Pie still hadn’t gone to sleep and were focusing intently on a PADD. “Good morning.” He kissed Apple Pie on the mouth and Eva on her fingers. “What has captured your intention?”
“This fucking census,” Eva said in Spanish. “It’s terribly confusing.”
“Of course it is,” Apple Pie scoffed. “It was designed by the fascist bureaucrats at the Federation. It’s all black and white; no shades of meaning or identity.”
“Literally. It keeps telling me I’m white.”
“May I?” Spock plucked the PADD from their fingers, confident that the problem was merely a technological one. As artists, Eva and Apple Pie had very little understanding of such matters. They had once confessed to him that before he moved in, they would have to comm their son to reprogram their house’s climate control settings. Spock quickly looked over the census, finding that the fault lay solely in its designers. “This form is irredeemably fucked.” Spock set the PADD down. “It seems unduly preoccupied with whether or not either of you are ‘Hispanic/Latino.’”
“Yes,” Eva said. “And when I say that I am, it tells me I’m white.”
“At least you know how to answer the question,” Apple Pie grumbled. “What even qualifies as Latino? Is it language, ethnicity, colonial history? Or is it a category describing ethno-racial political identity? I am an African, who speaks Spanish because his homeland was colonized by Spain. Politically, my people and I have historically aligned ourselves with Africans rather than Latinos. What does this make me? These are complex, expansive questions that cannot be answered on a fucking census!” He continued his rant, “And on top of all of this, they will not allow me to claim you both as my spouses.”
Spock had noticed, but did not want to mention it in fear that Eva and Apple Pie would find no fault in it. He wrapped the anger he felt through their bond like a blanket, knowing that their inability to claim him was part of its cause.
-
Spock enjoyed nursing his children for not only the rush of euphoric neurotransmitters and vibrations along on the familial bond, but for what it allowed him to do. There had always been a hidden something in Spock that refused to show itself. He could remember being young, in that time before he was to put away childhood and take up logic, and learning at his father’s feet and being held tight by his mother. While he cherished those memories equally, when he turned seven, he knew which set he was supposed to value. He was a Vulcan male, not a Human female. As an adult, Spock only showed what he received from his mother to a select few: his siblings, his bondmate, and his children. Yet, the necessity of nursing his children in public forced Spock to widen that exclusive circle. Spock would do anything for Saavik and Valeris. They emboldened him.
(Spock was certain they knew-that they had always known, from the day they came aboard the Enterprise, crying for their mother-bond and latching onto his chest.)
This bliss of a morning feeding (which Spock could mentally separate from the dubious bliss of being awoken after a less than optimal night’s sleep) was soured by his other activity. Truly capable of multitasking, Spock found no reason why he shouldn’t fill out the census while nursing Saavik. Then he reached the first two questions for his portion: sex and species. Male or Female? Vulcan or Human?
Male or Female?
Vulcan or Human?
For the first time since he took the Kobayashi Maru, Spock did not know the correct answer.
-
Nyota cursed a blue streak in Swahili, slamming her PADD on the table.
T’Pring lifted an eyebrow. “That is uncharacteristically inarticulate of you.”
“The damn thing is broken.”
T’Pring picked up the PADD, inspecting it briefly before handing it back to Nyota. “It is in perfect working order.”
Nyota tapped on the screen. “It’s not responding to me.” She kept tapping harder and harder until her finger went through the PADD. “Fuck.” She pulled her finger back out. There was no blood.
“You don’t bleed.”
“Chapel says my hands have a reinforced biomechanoid interior.”
“That may be why the PADD does not function for you. It is designed to respond to Humanoid touch.”
Uhura laughed aloud. “I knew censuses could be racist, but not like that.”
-
What hurt was that Christine wouldn’t have know about it if she hadn’t needed something to read while eating her cereal. She grabbed the nearest PADD, hoping it would have something interesting on it and not one of Sarek’s mystery novels. (The motive in Vulcan murder mysteries was always the same: the murderer had rejected Surak.) It was telling of how badly she needed to read while eating cereal that she kept reading the PADD after she found out it was a census form-one that Sarek had already filled out.
When she got to Ainsley's portion, she was put off her cereal.
Species: Vulcan. Just Vulcan, like she didn’t even exist.
-
At the second town hall meeting in as many days, Worf thought he might have been wrong about the colonists. There were still as odd as before, but their righteous fury was unlike any he had seen on Qo’nos.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Uhura interpreted for a Deaf Human. While Uhura spoke evenly, the Deaf man’s gestures made it clear how he felt. “We don’t read Standard. Why the fuck would you give us a census in Standard?”
This righteous fury was unfortunately directed at Worf, whose first official duty was coordinating the census. “The PADD was equipped with assistive technologies.”
The Human waited for the translation, then went off again. “Fucking speakers and a screen reader. How is that helpful to me?”
“Your inability to hear is none of my concern.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, how are you not getting this? What if someone took away...” Uhura looked hesitant, as if she didn’t want to translate further. “...your wheelchair? What would you do then?”
Worf answered honestly. “Hegh bat.”
The Deaf Humans looked horrified as Uhura explained what that entailed. The man sat down. Mission accomplished.
“Are there any more complaints?”
The crowd was silent, seemingly fearing that Worf would kill himself then and there if they spoke.
T’Pring stood up. “I apologize for this grievous error, which also affected me. There was no section asking the ethnicity of Vulcans. As it is true for many of you, being T’Pelih is an important facet of my identity that should be counted in the census. Please submit any complaints and concerns you may have, and Worf and I will work to craft a census form that will accurately reflect the diversity of our population.”
After the meeting was dismissed and T’Pring relieved Worf, he was cornered by her brother-the strange one. “Hi. Are Wednesdays at four good for you?”
“Good for what?”
“You just talked about committing ritual suicide in front of the entire planet. That earns you a few counseling sessions.”
“With you?”
“Yeah.”
Every day fresh new horrors.
Previous Next
Chapter Title: Chapter 2: A Klingon Does Not Push Paper. He Manipulates Defeated Trees.
Author: katiemariie
Artist: tprillahfiction
Fanmixer: civilbloodshed
Beta(s): subluxate and avsioss
Link to Art: Art
Link to Mix: Fanmix
Word Count: 3.8k
When Uhura looked back on it, coming out as bi was a lot easier than coming out as a cyborg. Not to play the Oppression Olympics or anything, but telling your parents over dinner you’re the same sexuality as the vast majority of the planet pales in comparison to telling your colony’s inner circle that you’re a biomechanoid life-form that can control the weather and grow plants and mountains with the wink of an eye.
So, as the colony elites assembled in her temporary housing the day before the other colonists arrived, Uhura was sweating, which had the result of making the planet noticeably more humid. During her two month “quarantine,” Uhura had learned to separate her emotional state from the planet’s physical state, but she still had difficulty in times of extreme emotion. (When T’Pring visited her, Maltz counted five tidal waves that night. Uhura wasn’t the only one with a talented tongue.)
She waited for everyone to settle into their seats and for the babies to quiet (god, so many babies), and then began. As she told what ended up sounding like a superhero origin story, Uhura carefully watched the responses of her audience. Sybok, Chapel, and M’Benga’s parents gazed up at her encouragingly, while Maltz and Carol were both zoning out, bored to hear the story again. Elder Spock alternated looking guilty, sad, and hopeful, but that was nothing new. And T’Pring stood beside Uhura, looking just as fierce as usual.
As for the other, the ones who didn’t know before that night... Spock and M’Benga exchanged a series of looks that said, “If we didn’t like her, she would make an excellent specimen for dissection.” Sarek was impassive and more concerned with burping his baby than listening to Uhura. And McCoy had his “that ain’t logical”/“damn it, Jim, we have to do something” face on.
“Any questions?” Uhura asked when she got to the end of the story.
“Are you high?” McCoy asked. “Honestly, were you all baked when you beamed down here?”
Uhura decided to ignore him in favor of M’Benga, who had his hand raised. “Geoff?”
“Yeah, uh, how much of you is-what parts-physiologically, do you have-what systems-”
Spock interrupted him. “What I believe Geoffrey is trying to ask, do you have a robotic vagina?”
Uhura blinked slowly. “No. I do not robotic vagina. All of my skin tissue is Human. It’s only my muscles and my bones that have been fully replaced.”
Sybok raised his hand with a confused expression on his face. “Then wouldn’t your lady muscles be robotic?”
“Yes,” Uhura said between gritted teeth.
All the men in the room took a moment to consider how powerfully pleasurable her Kegel muscles could be. To quash their fantasies, Uhura picked up a plastic cup and crushed it with her bare hand, causing the men to instinctively gird their loins. Some of them even whimpered.
“I have a non-vagina related question,” Carol said.
“Shoot.”
“How does having the power to control a planet make you less vulnerable? It seems like it should be the other way around. The Federation and the other major powers have an even greater incentive to vivisect you and conquer the planet.”
“May I?” Elder Spock asked. Uhura nodded. “Lt. Uhura has learned to manipulate the planet’s atmosphere so that it performs as a defense screen. Nothing can pass through the defense screen or be beamed onto the planet without Uhura’s permission.”
“What about spies?” Maltz asked. “The Federation could easily infiltrate our society and discover our secret weapon.”
“That is precisely why this information shall never leave this room,” T’Pring said crossly.
In a flash, Maltz had drawn his phaser and was waving it around the room, pointing it at each Vulcan. “You will not erase my memories! I will kill all of you if I have to!”
“Whoa!” Sybok held his hands over his head. “No one is erasing anyone’s memories.”
This didn’t seem to comfort Maltz. “You dare to threaten a Klingon with death? You may be content to die for this secret, but I am not!”
“Who said anything about dying?” M’Benga asked, standing between Maltz and his children.
“You.” He pointed the phased at T’Pring. “She said-”
Carol sighed, putting her hand on Maltz’s arm. “It’s an expression. She meant that none of us will ever tell anyone who is not in this room right now about Uhura and the planet.”
“Oh.” Maltz holstered his weapon and sat down. “Why did you not simply say that?”
As everyone’s hearts slowed down, Sybok grumbled to Spock, “You know, at least when we don’t get Human idioms, it’s kind of cute and endearing.”
-
Former Bekk Worf did not like this place. He did not like these people. And he most certainly did not like his current assignment. Had he not been moments away from slicing his throat open with his bat’leth when he was offered this position, he most certainly would not have taken it. The offer itself was most deceptive: “Interim Head of State requires personal assistant for diplomatic affairs. Previous experience in advocacy and multilingualism required. Room and board will be provided.”
Ha! It was only in his state of desperation that he did not question the merits of the job offer. In his darkest hour, it seemed like manna from Sto-Vo-Kor. How foolish was he.
The “Interim Head of State” turned out to be a woman. Who had heard of such nonsense? And not only was she a female, she was a Vulcan. Imagine a son of the House of Mogh serving a Vulcan woman. Perhaps in a hundred years his grandson would join Starfleet. Such foolishness.
The “room and board” they spoke of? Temporary, prefabricated housing shipped in from Terra that he had to share with two scientists: another disgraced Klingon and a Human woman with yellow hair.
And on his first day, Worf’s participation in “diplomatic affairs” was limited to sitting at a table and providing the newly arrived settlers with name tags.
Yet, despite his complaining, Worf knew he had no one to blame but himself. If he had just looked up from his PADD, he would have seen the turbolift was not there, he would not have attempted to enter it, he would not have fallen to the bottom of the turboshaft, he would not have broken his spine, he would not have partial paralysis, he would be able to climb the stairs to his office everyday, he would still be a warrior in the courtroom. To fall into such weakness, such uselessness was a great dishonor to Klingons, but to fall so literally... His only recourse was Hegh bat, and he was so near it when that woman came offering a new world filled with “ramps” and “handrails” and “reasonable accommodations” and “physical therapy.” So it seemed that Worf may never again technically stand to face his enemies in battle, but he would go on to fight another another day.
He soon realized it would be the fight of his life.
When his precursor-the mate of T’Pring-described the colony’s settlers as a “diverse, multicultural group of subaltern peoples,” Worf spent the next three hours reviewing his Klingon-Federation Standard dictionary and still had very little understanding of what most of those words meant. On his first day, he had the misfortune of finding out.
These people-the settlers were so strange, bordering on nonsensical. All of them had no concept of honor, as if they all knew what the conventions of their societies were and purposefully behaved counter to them. There were Ferengi Marxist Feminists, Romulan pacifists, Andorian cripples (although Worf could not blame them for their parents not killing them when they were born crippled; he could blame them for that sickening look of kinship they gave him), Humans who could not hear yet refused surgery, and Vulcans descended from slaves.
Worse yet was all the race-mixing. It seemed that every other Vulcan he met was either married to a Human, two Humans, or an Andorian. Worf considered himself to be a modern Klingon; what two (or three) sentient beings did in the confines of their own bedrooms was none of his business, but many of them had children. What role in the galaxy could a Vulcan-Andorian hybrid have? Or a Human-Vulcan hybrid? (The answer to that appeared to be raising more mixed race children with your Human mate.)
It was a testament to the indomitable spirit of the Klingon warrior that Worf survived that first day where he was inundated with half the oddities of the universe. Yet the battle was not yet won. That evening there was to be a “town hall meeting” where several matters would be voted upon. As T’Pring’s aide, he would not only have to listen to what these people said, he would have to write it down.
The first order of business was establishing a common language. Everyone was in favor of their language being chosen, with the exception of the Vulcans, who agreed that their language was far too complex for the general public to learn. The stalemate was eventually broken by the Ferengi Womyn’s Collective, who presented a language of their own creation that promised to “rectify the kyriarchal nature of all known languages” and “dismantle linguistic hegemony.”
By the end of the night (which was also the beginning of the next morning), it was decided that the colony should have no formal alignment with any of the major powers in the galaxy, every citizen should have a specific community responsibility (for example, street sweeping), and resources would be pooled to purchase and assemble structures the colony needed, including a space dock. The Ferengi communist caucus had triumphed once again; the colony would have no formal currency and all decisions would be made through townhall meetings (the settlers were obviously masochists).
At long last, Worf was allowed to leave this strange people behind, roll up the ramp to his domicile, lift himself out of his chair-with-wheels, and into his bed. As he boldly thrust himself into sleep (Klingons did not “drift off” anywhere), Worf pondered how much longer he would have to deal with such dishonorable people. If he was sixteen years old that day, and he lived a normal lifespan (which the woman doctor assured him he would), he most only endure approximately 130 more years on this planet. He supposed over a century of torture was more honorable than suicide.
-
There were several things, McCoy believed, that a man should not face before his first cup of coffee. A Klingon knocking at his front door was one of them. “What?” he croaked, opening the door.
“Census,” Worf (or was it Maltz? No, definitely Worf. W as in Worf as in Wheelchair. Or was it W as in Worf as in White? And M as in Maltz as in Muscle Atrophy?) said, handing him a PADD.
“What the hell do we need a census for?” Jesus, they had only established their government last night. Could they hold off on the more annoying responsibilities of citizenship? Tomorrow, was he gonna get selected for jury duty?
“In order for citizens of Sha-Ka-Ree-” McCoy still can’t believe they chose such a sappy name. “-to obtain visas for other planets, Sha-Ka-Ree must be recognized as a sovereign planet. The first step to formal recognition is the completion of a planet-wide census provided by the Federation.” The Klingon explained this like he would rather be anywhere else in the galaxy. “As the people’s appointed ambassador, T’Pring requests you submit your household’s completed census to her office by the end of the day.” The Klingon nodded and left.
McCoy closed the door and stumbled back into the kitchen, where Sybok was brewing a pot of tea. “What did he want?” Sybok yawned. McCoy swore that man slept twice as much as any other Vulcan he’d met. “Hey, telekinesis takes a lot out of a person.”
“Don’t listen to my thoughts this early.”
“Don’t think so loud this early.” Sybok rifled through the cabinets. “Where did you put the-”
“Under the sink.” McCoy sat down at the table, resting his head in his arms.
“Thanks.” Sybok took out the sehlat food and poured some into Celie’s bowl. The sehlat eagerly chomped away at her kibble as the kettle whistled. Sybok brought it over to the table and sat down. “Tea?”
“As long as it’s none of your Vulcan junk.”
Sybok rolled his eyes and poured them both a cup. “What’s that?” He point to the census PADD in McCoy’s hand.
“Census. T’Pring wants it done by tonight.”
“I’ll do it. You go get something to eat.”
McCoy would normally feel guilty about foisting an undesirable chore like that on Sybok (for god’s sake, the man did do all of the cooking, and clothes mending, and sometimes he even made candles), but he knew Sybok wouldn’t have much to do until he acquired a client base or somebody died. (Sybok’s official community participation duty was “grief counseling,” which to those in the know meant he helped the deceased move on to the afterlife. Sybok would have preferred to be titled as “katric deliveryman,” but he knew most people wouldn’t buy that and would see him as getting one over on everyone else who were fulfilling their obligations to the community through actual work.)
McCoy got up from his chair, and gathered his breakfast: some yogurt from the fridge, a banana, a little bit of granola, and, of course, coffee. “You want anything?”
Sybok shook his head, absorbed by filling out the census.
McCoy got back in his and tucked into his breakfast, watching Sybok work that Vulcan he rarely saw outside of the bedroom.
“What’s a ‘caw-cass-ian?’” Sybok asked, looking up from his PADD.
“Caucasian? It means white Human.”
“Are you one of those?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s so strange. Humans have only one category of white people and so many for everyone else.”
“I guess that stems from anthropology. After Linnaeus, Europeans got a little obsessed with classifying the natural world-plants and animals, which included anyone who wasn’t white. I suppose that need to classify and study lives on in the census.”
“Your species is horrible.”
“What? You’re telling me Vulcans don’t have a million categories.”
“No. We just have the T’Pelih Vulcans and...” He trailed off.
“The normal Vulcans?” Gotcha.
Sybok’s cheeks flushed, and he went back to the census. McCoy chewed happily on his granola, glad to have shaken the smug off of one Vulcan today. And it was only breakfast. Sybok wrinkled his nose and set the PADD down. “You done?”
“I’m stuck.”
“On what?”
“Religion.”
“I’m agnostic. Culturally Southern Baptist.”
“I know. It wouldn’t let me put that down.”
“What? Let me see.” McCoy grabbed the PADD and looked it over. It had a long list of religions and one small fill in the blank for “other.” He tried picking agnostic and other, but it wouldn’t let him choose more than one. “The hell.”
“Told you. It wouldn’t let me enter mine in either. There wasn’t enough room in the ‘other’ box.”
“What were you gonna write?” For Vulcan’s most famous heretic, Sybok wasn’t particularly religious.
“‘After an experience with a powerful alien entity, I believe that there is no god or gods but rather several species of very powerful aliens. I know for a fact that when we die, we go to-’”
“Just put down ‘atheist.’”
“But I’m not an atheist. I believe in an afterlife; I’ve been there several times.” Sybok shook his head. “I’m going to complain about this.”
-
When Elder Spock awoke, Eva and Apple Pie still hadn’t gone to sleep and were focusing intently on a PADD. “Good morning.” He kissed Apple Pie on the mouth and Eva on her fingers. “What has captured your intention?”
“This fucking census,” Eva said in Spanish. “It’s terribly confusing.”
“Of course it is,” Apple Pie scoffed. “It was designed by the fascist bureaucrats at the Federation. It’s all black and white; no shades of meaning or identity.”
“Literally. It keeps telling me I’m white.”
“May I?” Spock plucked the PADD from their fingers, confident that the problem was merely a technological one. As artists, Eva and Apple Pie had very little understanding of such matters. They had once confessed to him that before he moved in, they would have to comm their son to reprogram their house’s climate control settings. Spock quickly looked over the census, finding that the fault lay solely in its designers. “This form is irredeemably fucked.” Spock set the PADD down. “It seems unduly preoccupied with whether or not either of you are ‘Hispanic/Latino.’”
“Yes,” Eva said. “And when I say that I am, it tells me I’m white.”
“At least you know how to answer the question,” Apple Pie grumbled. “What even qualifies as Latino? Is it language, ethnicity, colonial history? Or is it a category describing ethno-racial political identity? I am an African, who speaks Spanish because his homeland was colonized by Spain. Politically, my people and I have historically aligned ourselves with Africans rather than Latinos. What does this make me? These are complex, expansive questions that cannot be answered on a fucking census!” He continued his rant, “And on top of all of this, they will not allow me to claim you both as my spouses.”
Spock had noticed, but did not want to mention it in fear that Eva and Apple Pie would find no fault in it. He wrapped the anger he felt through their bond like a blanket, knowing that their inability to claim him was part of its cause.
-
Spock enjoyed nursing his children for not only the rush of euphoric neurotransmitters and vibrations along on the familial bond, but for what it allowed him to do. There had always been a hidden something in Spock that refused to show itself. He could remember being young, in that time before he was to put away childhood and take up logic, and learning at his father’s feet and being held tight by his mother. While he cherished those memories equally, when he turned seven, he knew which set he was supposed to value. He was a Vulcan male, not a Human female. As an adult, Spock only showed what he received from his mother to a select few: his siblings, his bondmate, and his children. Yet, the necessity of nursing his children in public forced Spock to widen that exclusive circle. Spock would do anything for Saavik and Valeris. They emboldened him.
(Spock was certain they knew-that they had always known, from the day they came aboard the Enterprise, crying for their mother-bond and latching onto his chest.)
This bliss of a morning feeding (which Spock could mentally separate from the dubious bliss of being awoken after a less than optimal night’s sleep) was soured by his other activity. Truly capable of multitasking, Spock found no reason why he shouldn’t fill out the census while nursing Saavik. Then he reached the first two questions for his portion: sex and species. Male or Female? Vulcan or Human?
Male or Female?
Vulcan or Human?
For the first time since he took the Kobayashi Maru, Spock did not know the correct answer.
-
Nyota cursed a blue streak in Swahili, slamming her PADD on the table.
T’Pring lifted an eyebrow. “That is uncharacteristically inarticulate of you.”
“The damn thing is broken.”
T’Pring picked up the PADD, inspecting it briefly before handing it back to Nyota. “It is in perfect working order.”
Nyota tapped on the screen. “It’s not responding to me.” She kept tapping harder and harder until her finger went through the PADD. “Fuck.” She pulled her finger back out. There was no blood.
“You don’t bleed.”
“Chapel says my hands have a reinforced biomechanoid interior.”
“That may be why the PADD does not function for you. It is designed to respond to Humanoid touch.”
Uhura laughed aloud. “I knew censuses could be racist, but not like that.”
-
What hurt was that Christine wouldn’t have know about it if she hadn’t needed something to read while eating her cereal. She grabbed the nearest PADD, hoping it would have something interesting on it and not one of Sarek’s mystery novels. (The motive in Vulcan murder mysteries was always the same: the murderer had rejected Surak.) It was telling of how badly she needed to read while eating cereal that she kept reading the PADD after she found out it was a census form-one that Sarek had already filled out.
When she got to Ainsley's portion, she was put off her cereal.
Species: Vulcan. Just Vulcan, like she didn’t even exist.
-
At the second town hall meeting in as many days, Worf thought he might have been wrong about the colonists. There were still as odd as before, but their righteous fury was unlike any he had seen on Qo’nos.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Uhura interpreted for a Deaf Human. While Uhura spoke evenly, the Deaf man’s gestures made it clear how he felt. “We don’t read Standard. Why the fuck would you give us a census in Standard?”
This righteous fury was unfortunately directed at Worf, whose first official duty was coordinating the census. “The PADD was equipped with assistive technologies.”
The Human waited for the translation, then went off again. “Fucking speakers and a screen reader. How is that helpful to me?”
“Your inability to hear is none of my concern.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, how are you not getting this? What if someone took away...” Uhura looked hesitant, as if she didn’t want to translate further. “...your wheelchair? What would you do then?”
Worf answered honestly. “Hegh bat.”
The Deaf Humans looked horrified as Uhura explained what that entailed. The man sat down. Mission accomplished.
“Are there any more complaints?”
The crowd was silent, seemingly fearing that Worf would kill himself then and there if they spoke.
T’Pring stood up. “I apologize for this grievous error, which also affected me. There was no section asking the ethnicity of Vulcans. As it is true for many of you, being T’Pelih is an important facet of my identity that should be counted in the census. Please submit any complaints and concerns you may have, and Worf and I will work to craft a census form that will accurately reflect the diversity of our population.”
After the meeting was dismissed and T’Pring relieved Worf, he was cornered by her brother-the strange one. “Hi. Are Wednesdays at four good for you?”
“Good for what?”
“You just talked about committing ritual suicide in front of the entire planet. That earns you a few counseling sessions.”
“With you?”
“Yeah.”
Every day fresh new horrors.
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