Fic: The Ruling Passion (Spock/Uhura, misc. others, R)
Title: The Ruling Passion
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Spock/Uhura, with Kirk, McCoy, and various book canon characters as side players
Word Count: 9593
Prompt: For tielan at ladies1st: Uhura being awesome, clever, showing her smarts. Something to do with language, whether sassing back or using word-play; I'd love if she got to wield a weapon or take physical action, but it's not absolutely necessary.
Warnings: Some violence/gore, semi-explicit sex (warning policy in profile)
Kinks: Uh, plot?
Summary: A Starfleet officer must be prepared to go above and beyond the call of duty to aid those in need. When rumors of a slave uprising on one of the Romulan homeworlds are heard by the Federation, Lieutenant Uhura is prepared to assist. Of course, rebellions never go as neatly as planned, as she is about to find out.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: This story ended up with far more plot than I ever expected. Much mangling of all Trek canons except STXI was involved, as was a lot of research at Memory Alpha & Beta. My resource for Romulan language and culture was the Central Institute of the Romulan Language.
I.
[Encrypted Dispatch]
JAMES T. KIRK, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701
You are ordered to abort present mission (Dispatch 474498203341 SD 2260.24) and immediately rendezvous with a Starfleet agent on neutral trade vessel Emimi Momed in system 114 Trianguli, specific coordinates attached and encrypted. Once assembled you will grant a capable officer fluent in all Romulan dialects control of operation. Officer will depart on Emimi Momed and you will return to current position at Alpha Centauri V to await further orders. Officer is granted unusual breadth of discretion (SFR Vol 12444 Section 39.0 F) for the duration of this operation. Specific instructions attached and encrypted.
CHRISTOPHER PIKE, Admiral, Starfleet Headquarters San Francisco
[End Dispatch]
II.
Nyota lets her fingers dance over the delicate points of her upturned eyebrows, ghosting her thumbs along the pointed pinnae of her ears. The Romulan woman staring back at her looks tense, scared, but her mouth is set in a firm line and her eyes are steady and determined. She can see the faces of Kirk and Spock in the reflection, somber and stoic, until of course Kirk breaks into a grin and lets out a slow whistle.
"Damn, Lieutenant," he says. "Hobgoblin looks good on you."
She rather thinks Spock rolls his eyes at that - he tolerates that kind of mockery only from McCoy, she knows - but she musters up a laugh regardless. "I thought you only used that term to insult Vulcans, Captain. I'm a Romulan now."
"In all but blood," McCoy says as he enters the room, over the swish of the surgical bay door sliding shut. "Hemochromic tagging's too difficult a procedure to do on a starship, even if we were notified weeks in advance. Don't go getting into fights, otherwise your cover's blown."
"I don't know," she replies, and turns away from the mirror. "It might surprise them if I bleed red all over the floor."
"It would certainly have the element of surprise, but it is not a strategy I would recommend," Spock says dryly. He is looking everywhere but at her; she wonders if her new face disorients him, reminds him of people he's left behind on Vulcan Beta - or perhaps of his former bondmate, lost in the devastation of Nero's attack. Three years ago, now; that should be enough time to have recovered from the snapped bond, fragile and untended as it was to begin with. Which in turn makes her wonder -
"Do I have any telepathic skills?" she asks McCoy, turning to face him fully. "I remember reading that this surgery involves some tinkering with the brain's nerves and processes - I could use it to communicate with the agent in situations where speaking wouldn't be a good idea."
"Too complex," grunts McCoy. He's shuffling around Sickbay, reorganizing drawers and labeling hyposprays; a nurse's duty, but she's noticed that he's far too anal about the running of his Sickbay to allow anyone else to do the job. "I can't think of a doctor who could do it. And even if I managed to make you a telepath, there's no guarantee I'd be able to reattach the nerves when it's time for you to go back to human."
"Regardless, Vulcan telepathy does not function in such a manner, and it has effectively been bred out of Romulan physiology," Spock interjects, standing with his arms crossed, shoulders stiff like they get when he's stressed and (usually successfully) attempting not to show it. "Doctor, if you would please inform the lieutenant of the emergency measure we have discussed previously - "
"Yeah, Spock, I know. Stop badgering me. Okay, Uhura," he rummages for a moment, then produces three hyposprays filled with a clear liquid. They look strangely ominous. "This isn't standard operating procedure, but this isn't exactly a standard mission. These contain fifteen cc's of bromoline, a neuroparalytic specifically designed for use on vulcanoid species." Nyota turns the sprays over in her hands; the liquid has a faint sheen to it, glimmering in the artificial lights. "Shoot one of these into a Romulan attacker and he'll been down for at least six hours."
"Helpful," she murmurs, and tucks them into the hidden pocket of her skirt.
There's a low beep from the comm system, and Kirk moves from his slouched position against the wall to answer it.
"Kirk here," he says.
The beta shift comms officer chimes in musical tones, "Emimi Momed has entered the system and is hailing us, sir."
"Okay, Lihwa. Acknowledge their hail and tell them we'll beam 'em aboard for a briefing in five minutes."
"Emimi Momed acknowledges, sir."
Kirk looks at Nyota, who gazes back steadily. It's almost time, and her nerves are buzzing in anticipation and worry. She has no idea what's going to happen, why she's had to go through surgery, who is waiting for her aboard the Emimi Momed. Silently, she curses Starfleet and the damn bureaucracy for their secrecy.
"To your ready room, Captain?" she asks, and feels the corners of her mouth twitch. A nervous tic, she always smiles when she's stressed.
"Guess so, Lieutenant. Spock, you come too. See you, Bones."
The corridors between Sickbay and Kirk's quarters seem too short; Nyota doesn't have the time to compose herself she requires. Spock is a calming presence at her side, matching his strides to hers. She wishes he could come with her - he could pass for a Romulan as well as she, after all.
But no. His face is too familiar; Romulan spies would recognize it from Federation newscasts. This is one mission Nyota Uhura will have to undertake alone.
. . .
There is a Romulan woman waiting for them in Kirk's ready room.
Beside Nyota, Spock tenses; he moves infinitesimally closer to her, and while she'd usually take offense at his implication that she needs protection, she understands his motive. Trust in Romulans hardly comes easily for him anymore, if it ever did.
She rises gracefully as they enter. She moves like a cat, elegant and restrained.
"Shaoi-kon, Captain," she says in accented Standard, inclining her head toward Kirk. "Commander Spock. And our Romulan agent, I presume?"
"Lieutenant Uhura," Nyota says warily. "And you are?"
"Was wondering that myself," Kirk adds. "Are you Federation?"
"I am Arrhae ir-Mnaeha t'Lhoell," she says, the Romulan syllables rolling fluidly off her tongue. "Also known as Lieutenant Terise Haleakala-LoBrutto, formerly human, now Romulan by knife and blood."
"You have been working as an undercover agent in Romulan territory?" Spock asks. She nods in reply, and Spock lapses into thoughtful silence.
"And you work as a servant?" Nyota asks, careful to keep her voice neutral. She's unsure how effective a spy masquerading as a servant would actually be. "Your name - Arrhae - it derives from the root word aerreh, right? I thought that was a name reserved for the lower castes."
"I am the head of household in House Lhoell." She lifts her head challengingly and stares at Nyota, who meets her gaze with equanimity. "You would be surprised what nobles are willing to say in front of servants."
"True," Nyota says, her mind working rapidly. The head of household isn't a role to be laughed at, if she remembers her Romulan history correctly; they see to the ins and outs of the running of the establishment, hiring servants, monitoring their performance and propriety, and managing finances. Arrhae - Lieutenant LoBrutto - whoever she is, she's right; her position is prime for gathering information about Romulan society. Teaches Nyota to judge before thinking. "But what can I do to help you?"
Kirk sits, and gestures for them all to do so as the Romulan speaks.
"There have been rumors floating around the Federation for years about a slave race on the dark side of ch'Havran," she explains.
"The planet Remus," Spock translates, presumably for Kirk's benefit, although Nyota privately thinks he speaks enough Romulan to understand that much. "Have you found verification for these rumors?"
"Yes." LoBrutto sits back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "There are whispers of an uprising, the slaves rallying against the overseers in the dilithium mines. It's understandable - my sources tell me the situation there is deplorable."
"A sad story, but what do we have to do with it?" This from Kirk, lounging in his chair, eyeing her musingly. There's a pause, while LoBrutto gazes at all of them with equanimity, until something finally clicks in Nyota's mind.
"You want me to go persuade the slaves - the Remans, I suppose - to side with the Federation," Nyota says, blinking, amazed. "You want me to - what? Plant the seeds of revolution?"
"A touch overdramatic, but essentially, yes," LoBrutto shrugs.
"For what reason can you not carry out this task?" Spock asks, his tone entirely colorless. LoBrutto looks at Nyota, inviting her to answer.
"It needs to be someone unrecognizable," Nyota supplies. "Someone who can't get any of the established spies in trouble."
"Someone expendable," Spock says flatly.
"Yes," LoBrutto says. Her bluntness is unexpected, and Nyota bites hard on her inner cheek, needing some way to get the tension out. "But that's not all. The slaves need to know that your Federation is serious about this - serious about standing beside them. The Federation needs to prove that they will take risks for the slaves. Lieutenant Uhura will be a symbol of that risk. A sacrificial lamb, as I believe the Terran phrase goes."
You are Terran, Nyota wants to shout at her. You're human, dammit! But she knows better; she's seen psych profiles of deep-cover agents, those who have gone native, as clearly LoBrutto has done.
Kirk shifts in his chair, and blurts,
"So we send Uhura in, she goes and persuades the Remans to side with the Federation - with what army, by the way? I don't exactly think a slave race will have the weapons to take over - and then what? How do we get her out?"
"That's my job," LoBrutto says. "If all goes as planned. Otherwise, I can't risk it." She reaches into her Romulan-style singlet, and extracts a yellow data cube, sliding it across the table to Nyota. "This contains the particulars of your mission. I should tell you that it's optional; this goes rather above and beyond the call of duty. Look it over and meet with me in the morning. I need to be back on ch'Rihan by this time tomorrow."
Nyota accepts the cube with numb fingers. "All right."
LoBrutto rises from her chair. "With your permission, Captain, I'll return to my ship."
"Permission granted," he says coolly.
As soon as the door slides shut, both he and Spock turn to Nyota.
"I do not believe it would be wise for you to embark on this mission - " Spock begins.
"Seriously, Uhura, this is stupid, it's not worth the risk - " snaps Kirk.
She waits until they've finished talking over each other, a verbal catastrophe that sounds like a shuttle crash, and holds up the cube. "I think we should watch this before I make a decision one way or the other, okay?" She slides the cube into the small slot in the back of the computer, and quickly decrypts the standard protective codes used to prevent access to the data. A low hum fills the room as the computer reads the information.
"Translated from High Rihan: Romulan Computer Library, Classified Section," the computer intones. "Article: Reman species."
An image projects suddenly on the slim screen, and Nyota exhales sharply; the being pictured looks vaguely vulcanoid, with pointed ears and slanted eye sockets, but it's hairless, skin a sallow blue, creased and blackened like old rubber. Hideous.
"It is theorized that Remans share the same genetic ancestors as Romulans and Vulcans. However, in the course of the past several thousand years, they have evolved through means both natural and surgical to survive in the extreme climate of the dark side of Remus, which does not rotate on its axis."
The computer continues, new images and occasional spurts of video flashing on the screen, and Nyota grows colder and colder. The abuse is horrific, described in the measured tones of the computer: the dilithium mines are dark, freezing pits full of chemicals and disease-causing dust; there are clips of Remans impaled by fallen stalactites, of Remans crouched in huddled groups in the deepest caves as they slowly succumb to frostbite, of Remans glaring in deadened hate at the person recording their suffering.
"Some researchers say that Remans do not only have superior strength to other vulcanoid species, as a result of their extremophile adaptations, but that they retain the psionic qualities of their Vulcan forebears. This is, however, conjecture, and should not be taken as fact until further research has been completed. End article."
The screen blinks off. Spock is terribly still. Nyota struggles with her emotions.
Breathe, she tells herself. Don't make hasty decisions - for of course her immediate reaction is to help these people, however she can - be rational, think it through. Make a pros and cons list, that's a good idea.
"Well," Kirk says at last. "Now I see the cherry on top of the sundae of good press Starfleet'd get if we went through with this mission."
"Indeed," Spock agrees, steepling his fingers. "A workforce predisposed against the Romulan Empire, with superior strength and Vulcan telepathy, would be a formidable opponent."
"And if we succeed - if I succeed - the Federation would get both the loyalty of the Remans as well as the accolades for being the worthy liberators. It's all politics," Nyota realizes. Her hands curl into fists, her nails biting at her palms. She hates these sort of games, especially when she's the pawn.
"It is a logical strategy," Spock says. It's not a compliment to the Federation.
"Uhura, what do you think?"
She glances up at Kirk, who's watching her with unreadable eyes. "What do I think?" She considers for a long moment, but it's too much all at once; she needs to think, alone, where she can talk it out to herself and debate it. "I think that I need time to think. With your permission, Captain, I'll tell you in the morning."
He nods, and she stands and exits the room, keeping her pace stately until she rounds the corner and breaks into a brisk walk until she reaches the door to her quarters. Her mind is buzzing; she feels off-kilter in her body, as if the combination of this information and her new features have thrown her equilibrium off entirely. Maybe it's just fear, because she thinks she already knows what her answer is going to be.
She's stroking the unfamiliar angles of her ears as she ponders. Stop it, she snaps to herself, jerking her hand away, and types in her serial number on the lock pad. The door swishes open, a grounding sound, and she steps into her room.
To think.
. . .
Spock waits the entirety of delta shift before he seeks her out. She hears him enter their quarters, her senses enhanced by the Vulcan incense she's burning in an attempt to seek an even emotional keel. To seek rationality. She's a big believer in that.
He kneels at her side, joining her on the floor, and she sinks into the rhythm of their synchronous breathing. Steady, soothing, calm; she can function fine on her own, as a matter of pride, but his presence at her side bolsters her.
"Nyota," he says. She shifts slightly in his direction, opens her eyes. He is grave and solemn. "You have made your decision."
It isn't a question. "Yes."
"It will be dangerous."
"Yes."
"I would prefer it if you did not go."
"I know." She takes his hand, strokes her fingers across his in a Vulcan kiss, willing him to comprehend her logic. "It's my duty as a Starfleet officer. I have to go." She can't explain more, can't vocalize the way the sight of their suffering made her tremble in a place deep within her chest, or the way the violence of their existence spoke to a primal place inside her she didn't know she had. No, she can't explain it, but she can hope he listens anyway.
He exhales through his nose. "I understand."
They sit in silence a moment, his hand still in hers. It's good, quiet. She can imagine them sitting like this at the end of their mission, ten years after that, and longer, when they are both old.
Eventually, Spock speaks. "I will remove you from gamma shift. You require rest before you depart."
"Thank you." He moves to stand, but she catches his hand. "Stay with me? You're not on duty now."
He looks at her impassively. "You are planning to sleep on the floor?"
She grins at him, and this time it's not her nervous twitch. "No, the bed. I'd like you to be in it, though."
Spock grips her arms and pulls her to her feet, pressing her close with one hand on the small of her back. She leans her forehead against his, and he shuts his eyes, leaning into her embrace.
"Nyota," he says, a benediction, or maybe a plea. She strokes the curve of his ears, runs her nails through the short hairs at the back of his neck, mapping him out with her fingers in case - well. Just in case.
"Spock," she whispers.
. . .
The next morning, she dresses in her Romulan singlet, tucks the bromoline sprays in an inner pocket, levels a challenging stare at her altered reflection, and boards the Emimi Momed.
III.
"So, Lieutenant," Nyota says, moving restlessly around the cockpit of the Momed. It's small and cramped, but she can't sit still. "Do you prefer to be called Terise or Arrhae?"
The Romulan woman glances at her, an eyebrow arched, and replies in Low Rihan. "We're in Romulan space now. I think you should call me Arrhae." She makes a few minute adjustments to the controls, and adds, "You move like a Rihanha." A woman of honor, Nyota mentally translates. "You're a good choice for this mission."
She flashes Nyota a sliver of a smile. "The disguise suits you."
Arrhae programs coordinates into the computer and sets the helm to autopilot, swinging around in her chair to face Nyota, who pauses in her wanderings to meet the woman's stare.
"So," Nyota says finally. "What's the plan, Arrhae? I'm assuming there is one, or at least more of one than me parachuting in and inciting a rebellion."
"No, not really. The particulars are left up to you." She gives Nyota a narrow, calculating look, which does not exactly fill the human woman with warmth. "I hope you remember your Academy field training. You'll need it."
Silence falls again. Arrhae is staring out the viewscreen into unfiltered otherspace, a sight which always makes Nyota dizzy, so she rummages around the shuttle until she finds a blank PADD to take notes on. Preparation is key to any successful mission; Nyota can still hear the slightly neurotic field sergeant yelling that in her face, and she intends to take that sergeant's advice. So. A list must be made. She has questions to be answered - about her identity as a Romulan, about the languages and dialects spoken by the Remans, about the terrain of the planet itself, not to mention what weapons she can be expected to have at her disposal and whether or not there will be much Reman resistance to her proposal of alliance. Intellectually, Nyota knows that an entire species cannot be united for one cause; no matter how difficult it is for her to grasp emotionally, there will always be those who would rather stay captive, where at least they have security.
When she looks up, after about half-an-hour, Arrhae is studying her, an inscrutable expression on her face. Brushing it off, Nyota says briskly, "I have some questions that need answering before I beam down to the planet. Will you help me?"
"That's my job."
Could have fooled me, Nyota wants to say. Instead, she begins, "Firstly, I need a name. An identity, a reason to be on the planet. I don't suppose you have one for me?"
"I do, as a matter of fact." Arrhae steeples her fingers and looks at Nyota thoughtfully in a weird gesture that reminds Nyota instantly of Spock, lecturing in the Academy. "Your name is Saeihr i-Fhuokha t'Jeiai, a former household servant at the s'Jeiai country estate. You were dismissed because of your temper - I hope you're a skilled actress, for you don't strike me as the violent type - but any able body is too valuable for the family to sell; instead, you've been transferred to the s'Jeiai mines, where it's expected you'll work hard and do yourself honor in an attempt to regain the position you lost. Is that all clear?"
"Crystal." Nyota looks down at her notes, but before she continues, she wants to ask one thing. "I'm wondering - did you make up that name after you met me, or before?"
"Before. Names are important in Rihannsu culture; you are Saeihr because you are a beacon that will burn bright like a star, and you are i-Fhuokha because you bring a message of revolution to the Reman people. Is this a problem?"
"No, not at all." She bends her head and asks another question, about the specific idiosyncrasies of the Reman language, but in her head she's marveling over the coincidence. Saehir, just like her own given name, means star. She can only hope it's a good omen.
. . .
Mnhei'sahe is the sort of word any linguist would love, especially a polyglot like Nyota. It's a word with multiple meanings, depending on the context, and the depth of these meanings is nearly impossible to decrypt. Some call it honor, while others translate its component parts literally into the phrase "ruling passion"; Nyota knows it's not so elementary. It's the backbone of Romulan society, their highest law, and nothing that important can be simple. She's spent years of her life studying Romulans, their culture and language - she even wrote her thesis paper on the nomenclature of Romulan society, and the importance of fourth-names, the names that you keep secret for only the Elements to whisper. She wonders what Arrhae's is, if she has one. If she, Nyota, has one, without realizing it. A name that comes from the true essence of her self/soul, the name that she will answer to in the afterlife, if there is one.
No. Concentrate. Nyota frowns without opening her eyes, clasps her hands tighter, focuses on the flow of energy through her body and out her fingertips, meditating. No incense, but it's silent in the ship except for the whirring of the instruments and the level breathing of Arrhae. She's managed to meditate in the mess hall, for God's sake, and if that isn't total chaos, she doesn't know what is. Breathe. Relax. No point in getting all jittery; that won't help her when push comes to shove. Getting in the right mindset, that of a Romulan - a Rihanha - will.
So. Mnhei'sahe. There is an old saying she's found in ancient Rihannsu texts that, translated, says simply "mnhei'sahe hurts". It means, she supposes, the same thing that she meant when she told Spock her duty was to take this mission. It means that no matter what her wants and desires are, or those of her lover or her captain, she must do what she knows is right. She could die, freeing the slaves; she knows this. It hurts. But it is right that she at least tries, so she must. Mnhei'sahe.
"You may carry off from an army its commander, but you can never force the humblest man of virtue from his mnhei'sahe," Arrhae says quietly, and Nyota's eyes open. They feel sticky, like she's been sleeping for too long, and she realizes abruptly that she must have dozed off.
"I was thinking out loud," she says, blinking several times to clear her head, standing and stretching her tensed muscles. "Sorry about that. What did you say?"
"A quote from Nnerhin tr'Liemha, one of our greatest generals," Arrhae says. "You are humble, and you are human, but, I think, you possess great mnhei'sahe. It will serve you well in life."
"Thank you," Nyota says. For some reason, she's truly touched, even though her feelings for the other woman are lukewarm at best. The joy of acceptance, maybe; she needs to walk and talk like a Rihanha, so it's rewarding to be called one by someone who has mastered the art of impersonation.
"You are welcome," Arrhae replies, and she actually smiles. It falls away quickly, though, as she turns to the controls, and the burst of warmth Nyota feels in her chest shrinks rapidly as she recalls her mission.
"We're nearly there?"
"We are in orbit around ch'Havran," Arrhae says. She hesitates a moment, and then says in a rush, "Should you get into trouble before you can carry out your mission, try to contact me or Vaeben tr'Lhoell, my lord. He is Rihannsu, but works for the Federation's interests." She looks down at her hands, her face creased with worry. Or maybe Nyota's projecting; she can't tell. "We will do our best to get you out of there, once the mission is complete - but there's no guarantee. You may need to save yourself."
"I can do that," Nyota says. It's a reassurance spoken for herself as much as for Arrhae.
"Step onto the transporter pad," Arrhae tells her. Nyota obeys, her muscles buzzing like they do when she's been running full-bore up an incline.
"Good luck, Saehir." Nyota gives a nod in return, and sets her shoulders. The last she sees of the Emimi Momed is Arrhae turning to the comm and giving the order to transport; then both ship and woman dissolve in a red haze, and Nyota dematerializes, planet-bound.
IV.
It's been three days since she came to the mines. Only three days, and Nyota can't feel her limbs. This isn't unusual, since the mines are kept at standards that barely suit the extremophile Remans, but she has to keep moving, keep walking, and her feet are numb like they aren't even there. She stumbles, throws a hand out to brace herself on the stone walls of the tunnel, and bites back a yell as her cold hand meets the beyond-frozen stone, instantly stinging, then settling into a low throbbing ache that she can feel up to her shoulder, sinking into the joints. Behind her, one of the Remans mutters something to his mining partner; their language is only tangentially related to Low Rihan, and she can only decipher the gist when they speak slowly. She's tried speaking to them in all Romulan dialects she can think of, and other derivatives of their mother Vulcan tongue, and it's been unsuccessful; they either don't understand her, or - worse - they're ignoring her purposefully. Either way, it doesn't bode well for her mission. And how is she supposed to start a rebellion if she can't even ask anyone's goddamn name?
Her body hurts, and she wants to cry. But no. Keep walking, Nyota, she tells herself, and slowly managed to trudge forward another few steps. She is so damn tired. Her feet tangle beneath her, and she falls hard on her knees. No! she cries, maybe in her head, maybe out loud. No, no, don't bleed, dammit, don't you dare give yourself away -
The cold seeps into her muscles and her bones, and she can't get up, just can't. Frostbite, she thinks, probably in advanced stages. Stupid, stupid, should've waited for the hemochromic tagging, make my body temperature run hotter. She looks at her hands, wonders for a moment why they're tan and hairy instead of smooth and brown, then remembers the animal-skin gloves she's wearing, to protect her hands from the cold. Ironic, that.
There's someone moving around behind her, two someones, if her ears tell her correctly, and she knows she should move in case one of them is the overseer, a bitter-voiced Romulan demoted to guard duty after she displeased her lord with some paltry mistake. Before she can take the breath she needs to make herself stand up - if her legs aren't actually frozen to the ground - someone kneels behind her, wraps long arms around her torso, and picks her entire body up with no trouble at all.
Remans have superior strength compared to other vulcanoid species, the Enterprise's computer chimes sweetly in her head.
The Reman carrying her shifts so she's thrown over his shoulder; the other one looks at her for a moment with black eyes, then presses a hand against Nyota's face, almost in the meld positions she knows so well from Spock, but slightly skewed. It's strange, unlike what she's experienced before with any meld, as if it's working from her skin inward rather than from her mind out. But it helps; it dulls the throb and the pain, and makes Nyota slump against her savior, and then the dullness spreads to her head and even though she is trying desperately to speak, to stay awake, anything, she stills drifts away, clawing at the Reman's back.
. . .
Nyota wakes, and she's warm. It's not anywhere near comfortable levels yet, but she isn't numb, she can feel her cheeks and nose, and while she's a bit groggy, it's nothing like that slow-moving dullness that had knocked her out before. She opens her eyes.
She's in the fortified cavern where they sleep, everything covered in a light sheen of dilithium dust. Here, at least, they run industrial-size heaters, but everyone still curls up close together for warmth in their sleep. Like now; there's a warm body curved around her back, almost spooning her.
"Awake?" a voice asks her, speaking the spiky syllables of Low Rihan slowly and searchingly, as if pulling it from memory banks where it's been stored and nearly forgotten. "You're awake?"
"Yes," she whispers back, and rolls over to face the speaker, careful not to dislodge her blankets. A Reman, yes, and there's another behind him, propped up on his elbow and watching her warily. Another man, the one who initiated the strange almost-meld. "Thank you for saving me, since that's what I think you did."
"You're not Rihannsu, are you?" he asks, cutting straight to the point. Nyota blinks hard, calculating the risks, then answers slowly.
"I am. My name is Saeihr i-Fhuokha t'Jeiai - "
"No, it's not," interrupts the other one, his tone considerably sharper. "We are slaves, not idiots. Your blood runs red, and your mind is like none I've touched before. Who are you?"
"Like none you've touched before? You said she was safe!" hisses the first Reman, the one lying next to her. Nyota realizes with a jolt of surprise that she can understand his language; maybe the meld sparked the right neurons and helped her make the connections she was missing before. "If she's no Rihanha, then what - "
"She is safe," the other snaps. "I didn't sense any scheming in her mind. But she's not Rihannsu."
They both turn their gazes to her, and Nyota shudders at the intensity. No matter; she wriggles to a seated position, clasps the blankets around her, and says, "Fine, then. No, I'm not Rihannsu. But I assure you, I mean you no harm."
After a long pause, the more sedate Reman speaks, addressing her formally, without the use of her first name. "Ir-Fhuokha t'Jeiai, we understand." He cranes his head to look at his friend pointedly, then turns back to her and continues. "You are a child of ch'Havran now, and so we consider you one of us. We won't pressure you about your past; it's your business."
"Even if you really want to?" Nyota asks, smothering an almost-delirious smile. She likes him, this calm Reman, and she thinks she may like his partner if the man stops glaring at her. "What are your names?"
"Vrkok," he says, and the other bobs his head and introduced himself as Kruvek. The terse conversation over, all three of them settle into a prone position, pressed close together; Nyota sees Kruvek drape an arm around Vrkok's torso possessively. Smiling, she turns her face into her blankets, and considers her mission. She instinctively trusts these two; they're intelligent, compassionate - they saved her, after all - and, perhaps most importantly, they don't sound pleased with their current situation, not if the distasteful ring Kruvek's voice had when he called himself a slave is any indication. They would be ideal instigators for a riot, or a revolution. And then, maybe, when it's over, she could help them escape, let them be one of the first to break free of the Romulan's claws, take them somewhere in Federation space where they could live together peacefully -
Stop it, you hopeless romantic, she scolds herself. This isn't the time to daydream - she needs to plan ahead, think about her immediate future.
Of course, the immediate future isn't going to happen immediately; she has a full night to go before she can put any plan into action. So to hell with it. Where would they go? Their ability to withstand drastic environments makes them prime candidates for the less savory (read: blistering desert) parts of Vulcan Beta, but taking them from one hell to put them in another seems cruel. Betazed, maybe? Their population is thin, and the species as a whole is known for being welcoming and understanding. Yes, Betazed would work; somewhere by the seas…
. . .
In the morning, and the mornings that follow, there is no time for dreaming. Nyota has a job to do.
Over the next few days, she carefully cultivates her plan, dropping hints to her new friends about her true origins, about the concept of revolts.
"There's been rioting in the s'Khellian mines," Vrkok tells her once, speaking in a low, hoarse whisper, "and some around here have been thinking about it, but what will that gain us? We have nowhere to go, nothing to achieve but turbulence and eventual death."
"You could appeal to the United Federation of Planets," she whispers back. The syllables of the Reman tongue come easily to her, now, courtesy of Kruvek's meld, just as she had suspected. ("It was a favor, don't think I hand out gifts like that lightly," he told her with a sniff, and Nyota just laughed at his haughty persona and kept on digging.) "They're known to be sympathetic to freedom fighters, and any thorn in the Rihannsu's collective side is a boon on their part."
Vrkok doesn't say anything for a long time, and Nyota resigns herself to not getting an answer out of him. As they pack crystallized dilithium into one of the vast, automatic carts that moves throughout the tunnels, he finally says, "I don't think your Federation would care about us."
She doesn't miss his use of the possessive adjective; he knows about her, or at least suspects. That, exacerbated by the fact that he hasn't told anyone, finally spurs her into action, and none too soon; she doesn't know how long Arrhae and her lord are going to hang around ch'Havran, but she doesn't have the feeling it will be much longer. She needs to act now.
So, as she, Vrkok, and Kruvek huddle close, eating the reconstituted stew that serves for dinner six days out of seven, she says to them, pitching her voice low and serious, "I have something to tell you."
When she finishes her account, Kruvek grabs her by the wrist, hard enough to bruise.
"Do you mean it, Saeihr? Your Federation will help us?"
"You're valuable to them," she says bluntly. "Ch'Havran is valuable, and the Rihannsu presence here is limited; if you could organize all the slaves, get them to revolt, you could easily take the planet. The Federation would swoop in and support you, and with our technology - " mainly gleaned from the Jellyfish and the remains of the Narada, " - the Klingons won't dare interfere."
"And then the Federation will have - what is the phrase you used? A foot through the door in this sector of space," Vrkok muses, his stew going unattended. "It would be dangerous."
"But through the mind-touch we can do it," says Kruvek. His black eyes are shining; Nyota realizes suddenly and with a pang that he's probably about her age, or even younger. Idealistic, just like she was. Is. "With effort, we can spread the message to all the clans in the mine, and further with their assistance."
"How soon?" asks Vrkok, his voice gone even quieter. "How much time do we have to amass the forces needed to take down the Rihannsu?"
"No idea," Nyota admits. "I have to get out of here probably within a week, or else I may never get out. But the Federation will back you regardless - "
"I don't trust the Federation," Kruvek snaps. "I trust you."
"He is right," Vrkok says. "You're our only proof that this story is even true." He pauses for a moment, considering. "Kruvek, you and your fellow mind-adepts, can you incapacitate the guards on this hall for a few hours tonight?"
"We've done it before," he replies after a pause. "I see no reason why we can't do it again. Let me alert them."
"What do you have in mind?" Nyota asks Vrkok as Kruvek goes glassy-eyed and still, a disconcerting sight. "Are you going to tell them about me?"
"No, Saeihr," he says, with a ghost of a smile on his haggard grey face. "You are."
"What?" she asks, horrified, even though this is precisely what she had intended to do. The idea still appalls her, though; what if there are dissenters in the crowd? What if she's attacked? She knew when she took the mission that it could end in her death, but staring it in the face - death coming in the form of a swiftly-thrown piece of jagged dilithium smacking her in the head, or the crushing grip of a pro-Rihannsu Reman with quadruple the strength of a human - that's something different entirely.
"The second hour," Kruvek interjects suddenly, blinking once and turning his gaze on the both of them. "We have arranged it to be done at the second hour." He smirks at Nyota, and for the first time she can see hints of his Vulcan ancestry in his face; he has that same air of superciliousness that some more irritating Vulcans do. She rolls her eyes at him, but the impact is lessened as he adds, "That gives you ten hours to prepare, Arrain t'Jeiai."
"Hope that's enough," she mutters, and attacks her stew with renewed vigor.
. . .
In the end, she never gets to deliver her speech.
She rests briefly and not well, tossing and turning into the dead of ch'Havran's night, sinking into a light, unsettled sleep, filled with dreams of Romulan warbirds burning like omens in the night, against a backdrop of unfamiliar constellations. A bad sign, those dreams; she isn't one prone to nightmares. Later, she'll berate herself, thinking I should have known, for her dreams are narrated by a Reman, and she sees them standing straight-backed at her side, bending their heads to look at the sky few of them have seen before; Kruvek's mind-touch, drawing her into the hive mind created by the unusual psionic talents of the Remans.
Right now, though, she doesn't know that, and when she wakes to screams and the sound of blaster fire, she's confused and disoriented and has no idea what's going on.
"Vrkok?" she says, and then, as panic starts to pulse through her veins, she yells, "Vrkok? Kruvek? What's going on?"
"Saeihr!" A shout: Kruvek, wending his way through the crowd, panic clearly etched on his face. "Saeihr, it's started, the riots have started. Call in your Federation, now. We have no time, the Rihannsu are coming from ch'Rihan!"
"I can't," she says, dumb with shock, "I can't, there's no time, I can't get to them in time."
"They will kill us!" he shouts in her face. "You stupid human, does that mean nothing to you?"
The rage in his voice is what jolts her into action. She shakes her head, hard, and suddenly that same neurotic sergeant pops into her head. Preparation is key! And she's prepared, she has a way out, a way to communicate with Enterprise and therefore Starfleet -
"Arrhae t'Lhoell!" she says, raising her voice to be heard over the rioting. "I need Arrhae t'Lhoell, or her lord - " she wracks her brain, "Vaeben tr'Lhoell! They're my contacts, they're the only way I can alert Starfleet - "
A weapon, she needs a weapon, too. Seizing Kruvek by the arm, she screams, "Get a blaster, find Vrkok, and meet me by the far exit!" In case he doesn't hear, she mimes a gun and points to the exit in question, assuming he'll find Vrkok on his own.
"Go!" he screeches in reply, and she does, ducking and weaving through the mass of bodies. She's running off adrenaline, her body thrumming and alert; the cold of the hall has been replaced by heat, the scorch of blaster fire and melting dilithium.
Something hits her hard in the back, just above her kidney, and her vision wavers for a moment and she goes down, hard, catching herself with her hands and shredding the upper layers of skin on her palms. Blood wells up in the crevices, and she has a brief, hysterical flashback of Spock saying tartly, "Bleeding on the floor is not a strategy I recommend."
So much for that, dear, she thinks, and laughs, which is broken off when a foot kicks her in the side. She rolls with the blow, just as she learned at the Academy, and lands on her back, staring into the contorted face of an unknown Reman woman, ready to stomp on her sternum.
"Stop!" she shrieks in the Reman tongue, flinging her hands up to guard her face. "I'm on your side, I'm one of you! Stop!"
The Reman pauses, seems to calculate for a moment, then dismisses Nyota, spinning around and plunging back into the mêlée. Nyota drags herself to her feet - crawling is not a good idea, here where she would be trampled before she could make it ten meters - and, seeing the back of a Romulan guard turned to her, goes for the blaster on his hip. Maybe it's her sheer audacity that throws the guard off balance, but she manages to wrest the blaster out of the holster and fall back into the crowd. He comes after her, howling in rage; she angles the blaster toward him and presses the trigger, effectively disintegrating his midsection. As the rest of him caves in on itself, Nyota detaches; the spray of green blood and the guts dripping onto the floor suddenly seem fake, like she's in a hologame. What do you do in a hologame? You aim, shoot, and hope to God you survive, preferably with enough points to beat the highest score.
She does, oh God, she does, and she has the presence of mind to adjust the setting on the blaster to a lower intensity so she doesn't necessarily kill everyone she shoots; just incapacitates them, taking out a kneecap or an elbow, trying her best to avoid Remans but sometimes she just can't, they go for her throat and she instinctively shoots to protect herself, always scanning the crowd for either Kruvek or Vrkok. No time to go for the bromoline hypos, that would make her vulnerable, taking her concentration off the crowd - her enemies.
In her strange, detached state, she almost misses the telltale blue-white shimmering of Federation transporters at the very exit she's aiming for. There's only a shout to guide her - "Uhura!", undoubtedly Kirk - and then the feel of Spock's probing mind, reaching out to her. It shocks her out of her point-and-shoot fugue, although she's still not altogether herself, and she whips herself around, making her way straight to them. Arrhae is with them, too, and she's the only one who doesn't react when Nyota flings herself before them - Kirk's jaw literally drops at the sight of her, hard eyes in an angular face made even more drastic by the pointed eyebrows and ears, and Spock's entire body tenses at the sight of the incidental burns that lacerate her side and cheek. Nyota doesn't feel them; she's riding the battle high, and it's infinitely better and also infinitely worse than she ever thought it'd be.
"Riots started ahead of schedule," she says matter-of-factly, and wipes a trickle of red blood out of her eye. "Captain, we need help down here."
"Shit!" he says, and unholsters his phaser, cradling his communicator in his other hand. "Shit, goddamn, we do. Kirk to Enterprise!"
"Sulu here," the communicator replies. "What the hell is going on down there, Captain?"
"Set ship phasers to stun, to fire on my orders, and tell Scotty four to beam up," he snaps authoritatively. "Energize!"
"Saeihr!" The cry comes from the crowd, and Nyota whirls around to see Kruvek, one arm wrapped around Vrkok's waist, supporting him as green-grey blood clots on his skull. She reaches out a hand, and they disappear into particles as the transporters take her away.
The last thing she hears, before the toll the past two weeks have taken on her body hits her hard and suddenly, making her knees buckle and her body collapse against Spock, is Kirk, speaking into the shipwide comm system, saying "Mr. Sulu, fire all phasers."
. . .
Her eyes open blearily onto Sickbay. It's quiet, the lights dimmed; ship's night. She wants Spock, but he's not there; probably taking care of things planetside. Nyota allows herself a little moan; she hurts everywhere.
"You look better as a Rihanha than as a human," Arrhae says from her bedside. "I may be biased, though."
"Whass go'n' on?" Nyota asks, and frowns at herself. Her lips don't seem to be following the instructions from her brain. She eases herself up onto an elbow, peering at Arrhae.
"Lay back down," the other woman says sharply, making a fluttery gesture with her hands. Nyota thinks she's rather uncomfortable in the role of nursemaid. "Your Doctor McCoy will yell at me if you move."
"He does that," Nyota agrees, and follows Arrhae's advice. It seems like a good idea, after all. "You didn't tell me - what's going on?" The rubbery lip issue is fading rapidly; she's somewhat coherent now. Drugs leaving her system, maybe.
"The Federation has stepped in with its usual delicacy," Arrhae says dryly. "The Enterprise stunned nearly the entire dark side of the planet, and diplomats with phasers were sufficient to tame the others. There is nothing more persuasive than politicians with access to weaponry," she adds darkly.
"Vrkok and Kruvek," Nyota says. "Are they okay?"
"Kruvek is the one who alerted my lord and I? Yes. They're being treated for minor injuries on the planet."
Nyota wants to sleep. She is warm and when she lays her head on the pillow, her ears don't feel strange anymore. Sleep. Sounds good.
"You have done honor to yourself," Arrhae is saying, "you have the mnhei'sahe of a true Rihana warrior," and that makes Nyota feel good. She's accomplished things, done something for the betterment of a people, or at least she hopes so. Too much to ask? Maybe. Doesn't matter.
She sleeps.
V.
[Encrypted dispatch]
CHRISTOPHER PIKE, Admiral, Starfleet Headquarters San Francisco
Mission Report: Dispatch 4800321856102202 SD 2260.89
Mission successfully completed by Nyota Uhura, Lieutenant. Due to her quick thinking and influence with prominent figures of Reman social system, Federation control has been established over Remus; Reman people currently petitioning for admittance. Advise immediate acceptance; these people aren't pleasant when angry. Commendations granted to Lt. Uhura for going above and beyond the call of duty, endurance and bravery, and excellence in battle. Advise promotion to Lieutenant-Commander. Romulans have been temporarily dealt with; negotiations are underway. A complete report to follow when in Federation space.
JAMES T. KIRK, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701
[End dispatch]
VI.
She doesn't really have it in her to meditate, despite the incense burning and her current position, lotus-legged on the floor. Exhaustion is not something unfamiliar to her, but she's never felt it this completely, enveloping what feels like every cell of her body, and every emotion possible, too. She feels wrung dry and weak-muscled. Of course, that's typical when being released from Sickbay.
She wonders how Vrkok and Kruvek are doing.
She wishes Spock would come see her.
As if she'd said it straight to his face, the door swishes open and he is there, framed by the bright lights of the corridor.
"May I enter?" he asks formally.
"Yes," she says. "Of course."
He steps in, and the door shuts, leaving them both doused in the half-light of their shared quarters. Spock hesitates a moment, then drops to his knees before her, bringing himself to her eye level. She meets his gaze, and tries to smile at him. It isn't a very successful attempt.
"Nyota," he says. That's all he can really get out, and it's enough; he opens his arms and lets her fall into them. He's solid, familiar, the spiced scent of his soap warm and comforting, and she nuzzles against his neck, pressing her cheek against his rapid pulse. He's so hot, his body temperature many degrees above hers. She'll never take warmth for granted again.
His hand brushes her face lightly as he strokes back her hair, and she senses a gleam of his emotions, felt as always during these incidental touches as if they're seen from under a pane of glass. Relief so visceral it deadens the remnants of the panic and anger he'd felt before, seeing her cut up and bloodied in the riots. She folds her hand around his, rests her head on his shoulder, and exhales slowly. They sit like this, in mutual comfort, for a long while.
"Thanks for rescuing me," she says eventually.
"I believe that given time, you would have rescued yourself," he says. "Nevertheless, you are welcome."
"Yes, I could have," she agrees, tone thoughtful. She's more aware, now, of her limits and abilities than she was before; she's done things that she hadn't thought she could do without flinching. She killed people two days ago, maybe as many as a dozen. And looking back at herself, that cool detached mind she can barely accept as hers, she knows she could kill a dozen more, if it meant she would save herself. Maybe she should feel bad about that, but she doesn't, except for a pulsing grief deep in her throat for the families of the deceased. And that's good, it means she still has compassion, as well as the tenacity of a survivor. "I really could have."
She pulls away from his arms, and Spock lets her, observing her carefully.
"I need to shower," she thinks out loud, and rises, giving Spock a wan smile. "Join me?"
"Of course, Nyota," he replies, and she thinks for a moment about how often they say those two words to each other. Of course, Nyota; of course, Spock. And they know that those words will be the answer to their questions; they've been together too long to not understand each other's little tells and twitches that make up their body language. But of course (again, those words!), there's no harm in being polite and asking. It's a very Vulcan thing to do.
Spock paces behind her on the way to the shower, a movement she recognizes from his gait when they're on away missions, aware and controlled, like he's waiting for something to pounce. He must think her so fragile, with her human bones and human blood.
"You know," she tells him, as he programs the pad on the door with his clearance code, activating the shower, "I'm not going to have a breakdown or anything. I'm fine. I'm just - " she pauses, searching for the right word, " - tired."
"I know," Spock says. "The water is running, if you would like to enter."
That's sweet of him; he doesn't like bathing in water, and avoids joining her whenever she chooses to do so. He follows her under the shower spray, and she's glad of it, turning to face him as soon as it's steamed up a bit, sliding her hands up his shoulders to cup the base of his skull.
"Nyota?" he questions, slightly confused. "I was unsure if physical advances would be welcomed at this time - "
She kisses him, which she thinks is answer enough. He's restrained, for a moment, as he always is, then deepens the kiss, one hand placed on the small of her back to tug her hips closer to his, the other cupping her jawline, smoothing along her collarbone, stroking her skin with an almost worshipful delicacy, and it's so good, his touch, to have him there before her, real and hot with rivulets of water dripping out of his hair and into his eyes. When his hand steals from its position on her back to brush his knuckles against the dark curls at the juncture of her thighs, she lets out a breath that almost whistles into a moan, and leans back against the metal tiles of the wall, arching her hips towards him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he supports her, bracing himself against the wall; she buries her face in the curve of his shoulder, gasping in pleasure, and moves with him under the hot spray.
. . .
Now, she's wrapped in a fluffy blue towel, an indulgence Spock likes to refer to as impractical when the sonic shower can get her dryer faster, but she likes it nonetheless. There are three PADDs spread over the desk where she's sitting: one with her bare-bones notes on the Reman language, one blank and ready to contain the first draft of her linguistic analysis, and one a personal message from a Saeihr i-Fhuokha t'Jeiai to two Reman expatriates currently living on Earth. She taps "send" with a stylus, and watches the message disappear from her screen. It'll take a day and a half to reach Earth from their current location; by the time Kruvek or Vrkok writes back, the distance will be much longer. Such are the perils of living on a starship.
Spock is meditating, hair still slicked back from their shower. He's loose-limbed and calm, a state she rarely sees him in. Nyota watches him for a moment, a half-smile on her lips, then turns back to her notes. Time to study him later; right now, Lieutenant Uhura has work to do.
. . .
Translations:
Aerreh: Worth.
Shaoi-kon: Formal greeting to an equal.
Saihr: Star.
Fhuokha: Messenger.
Arrain: Centurion, the Romulan equivalent of Lieutenant.
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Spock/Uhura, with Kirk, McCoy, and various book canon characters as side players
Word Count: 9593
Prompt: For tielan at ladies1st: Uhura being awesome, clever, showing her smarts. Something to do with language, whether sassing back or using word-play; I'd love if she got to wield a weapon or take physical action, but it's not absolutely necessary.
Warnings: Some violence/gore, semi-explicit sex (warning policy in profile)
Kinks: Uh, plot?
Summary: A Starfleet officer must be prepared to go above and beyond the call of duty to aid those in need. When rumors of a slave uprising on one of the Romulan homeworlds are heard by the Federation, Lieutenant Uhura is prepared to assist. Of course, rebellions never go as neatly as planned, as she is about to find out.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: This story ended up with far more plot than I ever expected. Much mangling of all Trek canons except STXI was involved, as was a lot of research at Memory Alpha & Beta. My resource for Romulan language and culture was the Central Institute of the Romulan Language.
I.
[Encrypted Dispatch]
JAMES T. KIRK, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701
You are ordered to abort present mission (Dispatch 474498203341 SD 2260.24) and immediately rendezvous with a Starfleet agent on neutral trade vessel Emimi Momed in system 114 Trianguli, specific coordinates attached and encrypted. Once assembled you will grant a capable officer fluent in all Romulan dialects control of operation. Officer will depart on Emimi Momed and you will return to current position at Alpha Centauri V to await further orders. Officer is granted unusual breadth of discretion (SFR Vol 12444 Section 39.0 F) for the duration of this operation. Specific instructions attached and encrypted.
CHRISTOPHER PIKE, Admiral, Starfleet Headquarters San Francisco
[End Dispatch]
II.
Nyota lets her fingers dance over the delicate points of her upturned eyebrows, ghosting her thumbs along the pointed pinnae of her ears. The Romulan woman staring back at her looks tense, scared, but her mouth is set in a firm line and her eyes are steady and determined. She can see the faces of Kirk and Spock in the reflection, somber and stoic, until of course Kirk breaks into a grin and lets out a slow whistle.
"Damn, Lieutenant," he says. "Hobgoblin looks good on you."
She rather thinks Spock rolls his eyes at that - he tolerates that kind of mockery only from McCoy, she knows - but she musters up a laugh regardless. "I thought you only used that term to insult Vulcans, Captain. I'm a Romulan now."
"In all but blood," McCoy says as he enters the room, over the swish of the surgical bay door sliding shut. "Hemochromic tagging's too difficult a procedure to do on a starship, even if we were notified weeks in advance. Don't go getting into fights, otherwise your cover's blown."
"I don't know," she replies, and turns away from the mirror. "It might surprise them if I bleed red all over the floor."
"It would certainly have the element of surprise, but it is not a strategy I would recommend," Spock says dryly. He is looking everywhere but at her; she wonders if her new face disorients him, reminds him of people he's left behind on Vulcan Beta - or perhaps of his former bondmate, lost in the devastation of Nero's attack. Three years ago, now; that should be enough time to have recovered from the snapped bond, fragile and untended as it was to begin with. Which in turn makes her wonder -
"Do I have any telepathic skills?" she asks McCoy, turning to face him fully. "I remember reading that this surgery involves some tinkering with the brain's nerves and processes - I could use it to communicate with the agent in situations where speaking wouldn't be a good idea."
"Too complex," grunts McCoy. He's shuffling around Sickbay, reorganizing drawers and labeling hyposprays; a nurse's duty, but she's noticed that he's far too anal about the running of his Sickbay to allow anyone else to do the job. "I can't think of a doctor who could do it. And even if I managed to make you a telepath, there's no guarantee I'd be able to reattach the nerves when it's time for you to go back to human."
"Regardless, Vulcan telepathy does not function in such a manner, and it has effectively been bred out of Romulan physiology," Spock interjects, standing with his arms crossed, shoulders stiff like they get when he's stressed and (usually successfully) attempting not to show it. "Doctor, if you would please inform the lieutenant of the emergency measure we have discussed previously - "
"Yeah, Spock, I know. Stop badgering me. Okay, Uhura," he rummages for a moment, then produces three hyposprays filled with a clear liquid. They look strangely ominous. "This isn't standard operating procedure, but this isn't exactly a standard mission. These contain fifteen cc's of bromoline, a neuroparalytic specifically designed for use on vulcanoid species." Nyota turns the sprays over in her hands; the liquid has a faint sheen to it, glimmering in the artificial lights. "Shoot one of these into a Romulan attacker and he'll been down for at least six hours."
"Helpful," she murmurs, and tucks them into the hidden pocket of her skirt.
There's a low beep from the comm system, and Kirk moves from his slouched position against the wall to answer it.
"Kirk here," he says.
The beta shift comms officer chimes in musical tones, "Emimi Momed has entered the system and is hailing us, sir."
"Okay, Lihwa. Acknowledge their hail and tell them we'll beam 'em aboard for a briefing in five minutes."
"Emimi Momed acknowledges, sir."
Kirk looks at Nyota, who gazes back steadily. It's almost time, and her nerves are buzzing in anticipation and worry. She has no idea what's going to happen, why she's had to go through surgery, who is waiting for her aboard the Emimi Momed. Silently, she curses Starfleet and the damn bureaucracy for their secrecy.
"To your ready room, Captain?" she asks, and feels the corners of her mouth twitch. A nervous tic, she always smiles when she's stressed.
"Guess so, Lieutenant. Spock, you come too. See you, Bones."
The corridors between Sickbay and Kirk's quarters seem too short; Nyota doesn't have the time to compose herself she requires. Spock is a calming presence at her side, matching his strides to hers. She wishes he could come with her - he could pass for a Romulan as well as she, after all.
But no. His face is too familiar; Romulan spies would recognize it from Federation newscasts. This is one mission Nyota Uhura will have to undertake alone.
. . .
There is a Romulan woman waiting for them in Kirk's ready room.
Beside Nyota, Spock tenses; he moves infinitesimally closer to her, and while she'd usually take offense at his implication that she needs protection, she understands his motive. Trust in Romulans hardly comes easily for him anymore, if it ever did.
She rises gracefully as they enter. She moves like a cat, elegant and restrained.
"Shaoi-kon, Captain," she says in accented Standard, inclining her head toward Kirk. "Commander Spock. And our Romulan agent, I presume?"
"Lieutenant Uhura," Nyota says warily. "And you are?"
"Was wondering that myself," Kirk adds. "Are you Federation?"
"I am Arrhae ir-Mnaeha t'Lhoell," she says, the Romulan syllables rolling fluidly off her tongue. "Also known as Lieutenant Terise Haleakala-LoBrutto, formerly human, now Romulan by knife and blood."
"You have been working as an undercover agent in Romulan territory?" Spock asks. She nods in reply, and Spock lapses into thoughtful silence.
"And you work as a servant?" Nyota asks, careful to keep her voice neutral. She's unsure how effective a spy masquerading as a servant would actually be. "Your name - Arrhae - it derives from the root word aerreh, right? I thought that was a name reserved for the lower castes."
"I am the head of household in House Lhoell." She lifts her head challengingly and stares at Nyota, who meets her gaze with equanimity. "You would be surprised what nobles are willing to say in front of servants."
"True," Nyota says, her mind working rapidly. The head of household isn't a role to be laughed at, if she remembers her Romulan history correctly; they see to the ins and outs of the running of the establishment, hiring servants, monitoring their performance and propriety, and managing finances. Arrhae - Lieutenant LoBrutto - whoever she is, she's right; her position is prime for gathering information about Romulan society. Teaches Nyota to judge before thinking. "But what can I do to help you?"
Kirk sits, and gestures for them all to do so as the Romulan speaks.
"There have been rumors floating around the Federation for years about a slave race on the dark side of ch'Havran," she explains.
"The planet Remus," Spock translates, presumably for Kirk's benefit, although Nyota privately thinks he speaks enough Romulan to understand that much. "Have you found verification for these rumors?"
"Yes." LoBrutto sits back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "There are whispers of an uprising, the slaves rallying against the overseers in the dilithium mines. It's understandable - my sources tell me the situation there is deplorable."
"A sad story, but what do we have to do with it?" This from Kirk, lounging in his chair, eyeing her musingly. There's a pause, while LoBrutto gazes at all of them with equanimity, until something finally clicks in Nyota's mind.
"You want me to go persuade the slaves - the Remans, I suppose - to side with the Federation," Nyota says, blinking, amazed. "You want me to - what? Plant the seeds of revolution?"
"A touch overdramatic, but essentially, yes," LoBrutto shrugs.
"For what reason can you not carry out this task?" Spock asks, his tone entirely colorless. LoBrutto looks at Nyota, inviting her to answer.
"It needs to be someone unrecognizable," Nyota supplies. "Someone who can't get any of the established spies in trouble."
"Someone expendable," Spock says flatly.
"Yes," LoBrutto says. Her bluntness is unexpected, and Nyota bites hard on her inner cheek, needing some way to get the tension out. "But that's not all. The slaves need to know that your Federation is serious about this - serious about standing beside them. The Federation needs to prove that they will take risks for the slaves. Lieutenant Uhura will be a symbol of that risk. A sacrificial lamb, as I believe the Terran phrase goes."
You are Terran, Nyota wants to shout at her. You're human, dammit! But she knows better; she's seen psych profiles of deep-cover agents, those who have gone native, as clearly LoBrutto has done.
Kirk shifts in his chair, and blurts,
"So we send Uhura in, she goes and persuades the Remans to side with the Federation - with what army, by the way? I don't exactly think a slave race will have the weapons to take over - and then what? How do we get her out?"
"That's my job," LoBrutto says. "If all goes as planned. Otherwise, I can't risk it." She reaches into her Romulan-style singlet, and extracts a yellow data cube, sliding it across the table to Nyota. "This contains the particulars of your mission. I should tell you that it's optional; this goes rather above and beyond the call of duty. Look it over and meet with me in the morning. I need to be back on ch'Rihan by this time tomorrow."
Nyota accepts the cube with numb fingers. "All right."
LoBrutto rises from her chair. "With your permission, Captain, I'll return to my ship."
"Permission granted," he says coolly.
As soon as the door slides shut, both he and Spock turn to Nyota.
"I do not believe it would be wise for you to embark on this mission - " Spock begins.
"Seriously, Uhura, this is stupid, it's not worth the risk - " snaps Kirk.
She waits until they've finished talking over each other, a verbal catastrophe that sounds like a shuttle crash, and holds up the cube. "I think we should watch this before I make a decision one way or the other, okay?" She slides the cube into the small slot in the back of the computer, and quickly decrypts the standard protective codes used to prevent access to the data. A low hum fills the room as the computer reads the information.
"Translated from High Rihan: Romulan Computer Library, Classified Section," the computer intones. "Article: Reman species."
An image projects suddenly on the slim screen, and Nyota exhales sharply; the being pictured looks vaguely vulcanoid, with pointed ears and slanted eye sockets, but it's hairless, skin a sallow blue, creased and blackened like old rubber. Hideous.
"It is theorized that Remans share the same genetic ancestors as Romulans and Vulcans. However, in the course of the past several thousand years, they have evolved through means both natural and surgical to survive in the extreme climate of the dark side of Remus, which does not rotate on its axis."
The computer continues, new images and occasional spurts of video flashing on the screen, and Nyota grows colder and colder. The abuse is horrific, described in the measured tones of the computer: the dilithium mines are dark, freezing pits full of chemicals and disease-causing dust; there are clips of Remans impaled by fallen stalactites, of Remans crouched in huddled groups in the deepest caves as they slowly succumb to frostbite, of Remans glaring in deadened hate at the person recording their suffering.
"Some researchers say that Remans do not only have superior strength to other vulcanoid species, as a result of their extremophile adaptations, but that they retain the psionic qualities of their Vulcan forebears. This is, however, conjecture, and should not be taken as fact until further research has been completed. End article."
The screen blinks off. Spock is terribly still. Nyota struggles with her emotions.
Breathe, she tells herself. Don't make hasty decisions - for of course her immediate reaction is to help these people, however she can - be rational, think it through. Make a pros and cons list, that's a good idea.
"Well," Kirk says at last. "Now I see the cherry on top of the sundae of good press Starfleet'd get if we went through with this mission."
"Indeed," Spock agrees, steepling his fingers. "A workforce predisposed against the Romulan Empire, with superior strength and Vulcan telepathy, would be a formidable opponent."
"And if we succeed - if I succeed - the Federation would get both the loyalty of the Remans as well as the accolades for being the worthy liberators. It's all politics," Nyota realizes. Her hands curl into fists, her nails biting at her palms. She hates these sort of games, especially when she's the pawn.
"It is a logical strategy," Spock says. It's not a compliment to the Federation.
"Uhura, what do you think?"
She glances up at Kirk, who's watching her with unreadable eyes. "What do I think?" She considers for a long moment, but it's too much all at once; she needs to think, alone, where she can talk it out to herself and debate it. "I think that I need time to think. With your permission, Captain, I'll tell you in the morning."
He nods, and she stands and exits the room, keeping her pace stately until she rounds the corner and breaks into a brisk walk until she reaches the door to her quarters. Her mind is buzzing; she feels off-kilter in her body, as if the combination of this information and her new features have thrown her equilibrium off entirely. Maybe it's just fear, because she thinks she already knows what her answer is going to be.
She's stroking the unfamiliar angles of her ears as she ponders. Stop it, she snaps to herself, jerking her hand away, and types in her serial number on the lock pad. The door swishes open, a grounding sound, and she steps into her room.
To think.
. . .
Spock waits the entirety of delta shift before he seeks her out. She hears him enter their quarters, her senses enhanced by the Vulcan incense she's burning in an attempt to seek an even emotional keel. To seek rationality. She's a big believer in that.
He kneels at her side, joining her on the floor, and she sinks into the rhythm of their synchronous breathing. Steady, soothing, calm; she can function fine on her own, as a matter of pride, but his presence at her side bolsters her.
"Nyota," he says. She shifts slightly in his direction, opens her eyes. He is grave and solemn. "You have made your decision."
It isn't a question. "Yes."
"It will be dangerous."
"Yes."
"I would prefer it if you did not go."
"I know." She takes his hand, strokes her fingers across his in a Vulcan kiss, willing him to comprehend her logic. "It's my duty as a Starfleet officer. I have to go." She can't explain more, can't vocalize the way the sight of their suffering made her tremble in a place deep within her chest, or the way the violence of their existence spoke to a primal place inside her she didn't know she had. No, she can't explain it, but she can hope he listens anyway.
He exhales through his nose. "I understand."
They sit in silence a moment, his hand still in hers. It's good, quiet. She can imagine them sitting like this at the end of their mission, ten years after that, and longer, when they are both old.
Eventually, Spock speaks. "I will remove you from gamma shift. You require rest before you depart."
"Thank you." He moves to stand, but she catches his hand. "Stay with me? You're not on duty now."
He looks at her impassively. "You are planning to sleep on the floor?"
She grins at him, and this time it's not her nervous twitch. "No, the bed. I'd like you to be in it, though."
Spock grips her arms and pulls her to her feet, pressing her close with one hand on the small of her back. She leans her forehead against his, and he shuts his eyes, leaning into her embrace.
"Nyota," he says, a benediction, or maybe a plea. She strokes the curve of his ears, runs her nails through the short hairs at the back of his neck, mapping him out with her fingers in case - well. Just in case.
"Spock," she whispers.
. . .
The next morning, she dresses in her Romulan singlet, tucks the bromoline sprays in an inner pocket, levels a challenging stare at her altered reflection, and boards the Emimi Momed.
III.
"So, Lieutenant," Nyota says, moving restlessly around the cockpit of the Momed. It's small and cramped, but she can't sit still. "Do you prefer to be called Terise or Arrhae?"
The Romulan woman glances at her, an eyebrow arched, and replies in Low Rihan. "We're in Romulan space now. I think you should call me Arrhae." She makes a few minute adjustments to the controls, and adds, "You move like a Rihanha." A woman of honor, Nyota mentally translates. "You're a good choice for this mission."
She flashes Nyota a sliver of a smile. "The disguise suits you."
Arrhae programs coordinates into the computer and sets the helm to autopilot, swinging around in her chair to face Nyota, who pauses in her wanderings to meet the woman's stare.
"So," Nyota says finally. "What's the plan, Arrhae? I'm assuming there is one, or at least more of one than me parachuting in and inciting a rebellion."
"No, not really. The particulars are left up to you." She gives Nyota a narrow, calculating look, which does not exactly fill the human woman with warmth. "I hope you remember your Academy field training. You'll need it."
Silence falls again. Arrhae is staring out the viewscreen into unfiltered otherspace, a sight which always makes Nyota dizzy, so she rummages around the shuttle until she finds a blank PADD to take notes on. Preparation is key to any successful mission; Nyota can still hear the slightly neurotic field sergeant yelling that in her face, and she intends to take that sergeant's advice. So. A list must be made. She has questions to be answered - about her identity as a Romulan, about the languages and dialects spoken by the Remans, about the terrain of the planet itself, not to mention what weapons she can be expected to have at her disposal and whether or not there will be much Reman resistance to her proposal of alliance. Intellectually, Nyota knows that an entire species cannot be united for one cause; no matter how difficult it is for her to grasp emotionally, there will always be those who would rather stay captive, where at least they have security.
When she looks up, after about half-an-hour, Arrhae is studying her, an inscrutable expression on her face. Brushing it off, Nyota says briskly, "I have some questions that need answering before I beam down to the planet. Will you help me?"
"That's my job."
Could have fooled me, Nyota wants to say. Instead, she begins, "Firstly, I need a name. An identity, a reason to be on the planet. I don't suppose you have one for me?"
"I do, as a matter of fact." Arrhae steeples her fingers and looks at Nyota thoughtfully in a weird gesture that reminds Nyota instantly of Spock, lecturing in the Academy. "Your name is Saeihr i-Fhuokha t'Jeiai, a former household servant at the s'Jeiai country estate. You were dismissed because of your temper - I hope you're a skilled actress, for you don't strike me as the violent type - but any able body is too valuable for the family to sell; instead, you've been transferred to the s'Jeiai mines, where it's expected you'll work hard and do yourself honor in an attempt to regain the position you lost. Is that all clear?"
"Crystal." Nyota looks down at her notes, but before she continues, she wants to ask one thing. "I'm wondering - did you make up that name after you met me, or before?"
"Before. Names are important in Rihannsu culture; you are Saeihr because you are a beacon that will burn bright like a star, and you are i-Fhuokha because you bring a message of revolution to the Reman people. Is this a problem?"
"No, not at all." She bends her head and asks another question, about the specific idiosyncrasies of the Reman language, but in her head she's marveling over the coincidence. Saehir, just like her own given name, means star. She can only hope it's a good omen.
. . .
Mnhei'sahe is the sort of word any linguist would love, especially a polyglot like Nyota. It's a word with multiple meanings, depending on the context, and the depth of these meanings is nearly impossible to decrypt. Some call it honor, while others translate its component parts literally into the phrase "ruling passion"; Nyota knows it's not so elementary. It's the backbone of Romulan society, their highest law, and nothing that important can be simple. She's spent years of her life studying Romulans, their culture and language - she even wrote her thesis paper on the nomenclature of Romulan society, and the importance of fourth-names, the names that you keep secret for only the Elements to whisper. She wonders what Arrhae's is, if she has one. If she, Nyota, has one, without realizing it. A name that comes from the true essence of her self/soul, the name that she will answer to in the afterlife, if there is one.
No. Concentrate. Nyota frowns without opening her eyes, clasps her hands tighter, focuses on the flow of energy through her body and out her fingertips, meditating. No incense, but it's silent in the ship except for the whirring of the instruments and the level breathing of Arrhae. She's managed to meditate in the mess hall, for God's sake, and if that isn't total chaos, she doesn't know what is. Breathe. Relax. No point in getting all jittery; that won't help her when push comes to shove. Getting in the right mindset, that of a Romulan - a Rihanha - will.
So. Mnhei'sahe. There is an old saying she's found in ancient Rihannsu texts that, translated, says simply "mnhei'sahe hurts". It means, she supposes, the same thing that she meant when she told Spock her duty was to take this mission. It means that no matter what her wants and desires are, or those of her lover or her captain, she must do what she knows is right. She could die, freeing the slaves; she knows this. It hurts. But it is right that she at least tries, so she must. Mnhei'sahe.
"You may carry off from an army its commander, but you can never force the humblest man of virtue from his mnhei'sahe," Arrhae says quietly, and Nyota's eyes open. They feel sticky, like she's been sleeping for too long, and she realizes abruptly that she must have dozed off.
"I was thinking out loud," she says, blinking several times to clear her head, standing and stretching her tensed muscles. "Sorry about that. What did you say?"
"A quote from Nnerhin tr'Liemha, one of our greatest generals," Arrhae says. "You are humble, and you are human, but, I think, you possess great mnhei'sahe. It will serve you well in life."
"Thank you," Nyota says. For some reason, she's truly touched, even though her feelings for the other woman are lukewarm at best. The joy of acceptance, maybe; she needs to walk and talk like a Rihanha, so it's rewarding to be called one by someone who has mastered the art of impersonation.
"You are welcome," Arrhae replies, and she actually smiles. It falls away quickly, though, as she turns to the controls, and the burst of warmth Nyota feels in her chest shrinks rapidly as she recalls her mission.
"We're nearly there?"
"We are in orbit around ch'Havran," Arrhae says. She hesitates a moment, and then says in a rush, "Should you get into trouble before you can carry out your mission, try to contact me or Vaeben tr'Lhoell, my lord. He is Rihannsu, but works for the Federation's interests." She looks down at her hands, her face creased with worry. Or maybe Nyota's projecting; she can't tell. "We will do our best to get you out of there, once the mission is complete - but there's no guarantee. You may need to save yourself."
"I can do that," Nyota says. It's a reassurance spoken for herself as much as for Arrhae.
"Step onto the transporter pad," Arrhae tells her. Nyota obeys, her muscles buzzing like they do when she's been running full-bore up an incline.
"Good luck, Saehir." Nyota gives a nod in return, and sets her shoulders. The last she sees of the Emimi Momed is Arrhae turning to the comm and giving the order to transport; then both ship and woman dissolve in a red haze, and Nyota dematerializes, planet-bound.
IV.
It's been three days since she came to the mines. Only three days, and Nyota can't feel her limbs. This isn't unusual, since the mines are kept at standards that barely suit the extremophile Remans, but she has to keep moving, keep walking, and her feet are numb like they aren't even there. She stumbles, throws a hand out to brace herself on the stone walls of the tunnel, and bites back a yell as her cold hand meets the beyond-frozen stone, instantly stinging, then settling into a low throbbing ache that she can feel up to her shoulder, sinking into the joints. Behind her, one of the Remans mutters something to his mining partner; their language is only tangentially related to Low Rihan, and she can only decipher the gist when they speak slowly. She's tried speaking to them in all Romulan dialects she can think of, and other derivatives of their mother Vulcan tongue, and it's been unsuccessful; they either don't understand her, or - worse - they're ignoring her purposefully. Either way, it doesn't bode well for her mission. And how is she supposed to start a rebellion if she can't even ask anyone's goddamn name?
Her body hurts, and she wants to cry. But no. Keep walking, Nyota, she tells herself, and slowly managed to trudge forward another few steps. She is so damn tired. Her feet tangle beneath her, and she falls hard on her knees. No! she cries, maybe in her head, maybe out loud. No, no, don't bleed, dammit, don't you dare give yourself away -
The cold seeps into her muscles and her bones, and she can't get up, just can't. Frostbite, she thinks, probably in advanced stages. Stupid, stupid, should've waited for the hemochromic tagging, make my body temperature run hotter. She looks at her hands, wonders for a moment why they're tan and hairy instead of smooth and brown, then remembers the animal-skin gloves she's wearing, to protect her hands from the cold. Ironic, that.
There's someone moving around behind her, two someones, if her ears tell her correctly, and she knows she should move in case one of them is the overseer, a bitter-voiced Romulan demoted to guard duty after she displeased her lord with some paltry mistake. Before she can take the breath she needs to make herself stand up - if her legs aren't actually frozen to the ground - someone kneels behind her, wraps long arms around her torso, and picks her entire body up with no trouble at all.
Remans have superior strength compared to other vulcanoid species, the Enterprise's computer chimes sweetly in her head.
The Reman carrying her shifts so she's thrown over his shoulder; the other one looks at her for a moment with black eyes, then presses a hand against Nyota's face, almost in the meld positions she knows so well from Spock, but slightly skewed. It's strange, unlike what she's experienced before with any meld, as if it's working from her skin inward rather than from her mind out. But it helps; it dulls the throb and the pain, and makes Nyota slump against her savior, and then the dullness spreads to her head and even though she is trying desperately to speak, to stay awake, anything, she stills drifts away, clawing at the Reman's back.
. . .
Nyota wakes, and she's warm. It's not anywhere near comfortable levels yet, but she isn't numb, she can feel her cheeks and nose, and while she's a bit groggy, it's nothing like that slow-moving dullness that had knocked her out before. She opens her eyes.
She's in the fortified cavern where they sleep, everything covered in a light sheen of dilithium dust. Here, at least, they run industrial-size heaters, but everyone still curls up close together for warmth in their sleep. Like now; there's a warm body curved around her back, almost spooning her.
"Awake?" a voice asks her, speaking the spiky syllables of Low Rihan slowly and searchingly, as if pulling it from memory banks where it's been stored and nearly forgotten. "You're awake?"
"Yes," she whispers back, and rolls over to face the speaker, careful not to dislodge her blankets. A Reman, yes, and there's another behind him, propped up on his elbow and watching her warily. Another man, the one who initiated the strange almost-meld. "Thank you for saving me, since that's what I think you did."
"You're not Rihannsu, are you?" he asks, cutting straight to the point. Nyota blinks hard, calculating the risks, then answers slowly.
"I am. My name is Saeihr i-Fhuokha t'Jeiai - "
"No, it's not," interrupts the other one, his tone considerably sharper. "We are slaves, not idiots. Your blood runs red, and your mind is like none I've touched before. Who are you?"
"Like none you've touched before? You said she was safe!" hisses the first Reman, the one lying next to her. Nyota realizes with a jolt of surprise that she can understand his language; maybe the meld sparked the right neurons and helped her make the connections she was missing before. "If she's no Rihanha, then what - "
"She is safe," the other snaps. "I didn't sense any scheming in her mind. But she's not Rihannsu."
They both turn their gazes to her, and Nyota shudders at the intensity. No matter; she wriggles to a seated position, clasps the blankets around her, and says, "Fine, then. No, I'm not Rihannsu. But I assure you, I mean you no harm."
After a long pause, the more sedate Reman speaks, addressing her formally, without the use of her first name. "Ir-Fhuokha t'Jeiai, we understand." He cranes his head to look at his friend pointedly, then turns back to her and continues. "You are a child of ch'Havran now, and so we consider you one of us. We won't pressure you about your past; it's your business."
"Even if you really want to?" Nyota asks, smothering an almost-delirious smile. She likes him, this calm Reman, and she thinks she may like his partner if the man stops glaring at her. "What are your names?"
"Vrkok," he says, and the other bobs his head and introduced himself as Kruvek. The terse conversation over, all three of them settle into a prone position, pressed close together; Nyota sees Kruvek drape an arm around Vrkok's torso possessively. Smiling, she turns her face into her blankets, and considers her mission. She instinctively trusts these two; they're intelligent, compassionate - they saved her, after all - and, perhaps most importantly, they don't sound pleased with their current situation, not if the distasteful ring Kruvek's voice had when he called himself a slave is any indication. They would be ideal instigators for a riot, or a revolution. And then, maybe, when it's over, she could help them escape, let them be one of the first to break free of the Romulan's claws, take them somewhere in Federation space where they could live together peacefully -
Stop it, you hopeless romantic, she scolds herself. This isn't the time to daydream - she needs to plan ahead, think about her immediate future.
Of course, the immediate future isn't going to happen immediately; she has a full night to go before she can put any plan into action. So to hell with it. Where would they go? Their ability to withstand drastic environments makes them prime candidates for the less savory (read: blistering desert) parts of Vulcan Beta, but taking them from one hell to put them in another seems cruel. Betazed, maybe? Their population is thin, and the species as a whole is known for being welcoming and understanding. Yes, Betazed would work; somewhere by the seas…
. . .
In the morning, and the mornings that follow, there is no time for dreaming. Nyota has a job to do.
Over the next few days, she carefully cultivates her plan, dropping hints to her new friends about her true origins, about the concept of revolts.
"There's been rioting in the s'Khellian mines," Vrkok tells her once, speaking in a low, hoarse whisper, "and some around here have been thinking about it, but what will that gain us? We have nowhere to go, nothing to achieve but turbulence and eventual death."
"You could appeal to the United Federation of Planets," she whispers back. The syllables of the Reman tongue come easily to her, now, courtesy of Kruvek's meld, just as she had suspected. ("It was a favor, don't think I hand out gifts like that lightly," he told her with a sniff, and Nyota just laughed at his haughty persona and kept on digging.) "They're known to be sympathetic to freedom fighters, and any thorn in the Rihannsu's collective side is a boon on their part."
Vrkok doesn't say anything for a long time, and Nyota resigns herself to not getting an answer out of him. As they pack crystallized dilithium into one of the vast, automatic carts that moves throughout the tunnels, he finally says, "I don't think your Federation would care about us."
She doesn't miss his use of the possessive adjective; he knows about her, or at least suspects. That, exacerbated by the fact that he hasn't told anyone, finally spurs her into action, and none too soon; she doesn't know how long Arrhae and her lord are going to hang around ch'Havran, but she doesn't have the feeling it will be much longer. She needs to act now.
So, as she, Vrkok, and Kruvek huddle close, eating the reconstituted stew that serves for dinner six days out of seven, she says to them, pitching her voice low and serious, "I have something to tell you."
When she finishes her account, Kruvek grabs her by the wrist, hard enough to bruise.
"Do you mean it, Saeihr? Your Federation will help us?"
"You're valuable to them," she says bluntly. "Ch'Havran is valuable, and the Rihannsu presence here is limited; if you could organize all the slaves, get them to revolt, you could easily take the planet. The Federation would swoop in and support you, and with our technology - " mainly gleaned from the Jellyfish and the remains of the Narada, " - the Klingons won't dare interfere."
"And then the Federation will have - what is the phrase you used? A foot through the door in this sector of space," Vrkok muses, his stew going unattended. "It would be dangerous."
"But through the mind-touch we can do it," says Kruvek. His black eyes are shining; Nyota realizes suddenly and with a pang that he's probably about her age, or even younger. Idealistic, just like she was. Is. "With effort, we can spread the message to all the clans in the mine, and further with their assistance."
"How soon?" asks Vrkok, his voice gone even quieter. "How much time do we have to amass the forces needed to take down the Rihannsu?"
"No idea," Nyota admits. "I have to get out of here probably within a week, or else I may never get out. But the Federation will back you regardless - "
"I don't trust the Federation," Kruvek snaps. "I trust you."
"He is right," Vrkok says. "You're our only proof that this story is even true." He pauses for a moment, considering. "Kruvek, you and your fellow mind-adepts, can you incapacitate the guards on this hall for a few hours tonight?"
"We've done it before," he replies after a pause. "I see no reason why we can't do it again. Let me alert them."
"What do you have in mind?" Nyota asks Vrkok as Kruvek goes glassy-eyed and still, a disconcerting sight. "Are you going to tell them about me?"
"No, Saeihr," he says, with a ghost of a smile on his haggard grey face. "You are."
"What?" she asks, horrified, even though this is precisely what she had intended to do. The idea still appalls her, though; what if there are dissenters in the crowd? What if she's attacked? She knew when she took the mission that it could end in her death, but staring it in the face - death coming in the form of a swiftly-thrown piece of jagged dilithium smacking her in the head, or the crushing grip of a pro-Rihannsu Reman with quadruple the strength of a human - that's something different entirely.
"The second hour," Kruvek interjects suddenly, blinking once and turning his gaze on the both of them. "We have arranged it to be done at the second hour." He smirks at Nyota, and for the first time she can see hints of his Vulcan ancestry in his face; he has that same air of superciliousness that some more irritating Vulcans do. She rolls her eyes at him, but the impact is lessened as he adds, "That gives you ten hours to prepare, Arrain t'Jeiai."
"Hope that's enough," she mutters, and attacks her stew with renewed vigor.
. . .
In the end, she never gets to deliver her speech.
She rests briefly and not well, tossing and turning into the dead of ch'Havran's night, sinking into a light, unsettled sleep, filled with dreams of Romulan warbirds burning like omens in the night, against a backdrop of unfamiliar constellations. A bad sign, those dreams; she isn't one prone to nightmares. Later, she'll berate herself, thinking I should have known, for her dreams are narrated by a Reman, and she sees them standing straight-backed at her side, bending their heads to look at the sky few of them have seen before; Kruvek's mind-touch, drawing her into the hive mind created by the unusual psionic talents of the Remans.
Right now, though, she doesn't know that, and when she wakes to screams and the sound of blaster fire, she's confused and disoriented and has no idea what's going on.
"Vrkok?" she says, and then, as panic starts to pulse through her veins, she yells, "Vrkok? Kruvek? What's going on?"
"Saeihr!" A shout: Kruvek, wending his way through the crowd, panic clearly etched on his face. "Saeihr, it's started, the riots have started. Call in your Federation, now. We have no time, the Rihannsu are coming from ch'Rihan!"
"I can't," she says, dumb with shock, "I can't, there's no time, I can't get to them in time."
"They will kill us!" he shouts in her face. "You stupid human, does that mean nothing to you?"
The rage in his voice is what jolts her into action. She shakes her head, hard, and suddenly that same neurotic sergeant pops into her head. Preparation is key! And she's prepared, she has a way out, a way to communicate with Enterprise and therefore Starfleet -
"Arrhae t'Lhoell!" she says, raising her voice to be heard over the rioting. "I need Arrhae t'Lhoell, or her lord - " she wracks her brain, "Vaeben tr'Lhoell! They're my contacts, they're the only way I can alert Starfleet - "
A weapon, she needs a weapon, too. Seizing Kruvek by the arm, she screams, "Get a blaster, find Vrkok, and meet me by the far exit!" In case he doesn't hear, she mimes a gun and points to the exit in question, assuming he'll find Vrkok on his own.
"Go!" he screeches in reply, and she does, ducking and weaving through the mass of bodies. She's running off adrenaline, her body thrumming and alert; the cold of the hall has been replaced by heat, the scorch of blaster fire and melting dilithium.
Something hits her hard in the back, just above her kidney, and her vision wavers for a moment and she goes down, hard, catching herself with her hands and shredding the upper layers of skin on her palms. Blood wells up in the crevices, and she has a brief, hysterical flashback of Spock saying tartly, "Bleeding on the floor is not a strategy I recommend."
So much for that, dear, she thinks, and laughs, which is broken off when a foot kicks her in the side. She rolls with the blow, just as she learned at the Academy, and lands on her back, staring into the contorted face of an unknown Reman woman, ready to stomp on her sternum.
"Stop!" she shrieks in the Reman tongue, flinging her hands up to guard her face. "I'm on your side, I'm one of you! Stop!"
The Reman pauses, seems to calculate for a moment, then dismisses Nyota, spinning around and plunging back into the mêlée. Nyota drags herself to her feet - crawling is not a good idea, here where she would be trampled before she could make it ten meters - and, seeing the back of a Romulan guard turned to her, goes for the blaster on his hip. Maybe it's her sheer audacity that throws the guard off balance, but she manages to wrest the blaster out of the holster and fall back into the crowd. He comes after her, howling in rage; she angles the blaster toward him and presses the trigger, effectively disintegrating his midsection. As the rest of him caves in on itself, Nyota detaches; the spray of green blood and the guts dripping onto the floor suddenly seem fake, like she's in a hologame. What do you do in a hologame? You aim, shoot, and hope to God you survive, preferably with enough points to beat the highest score.
She does, oh God, she does, and she has the presence of mind to adjust the setting on the blaster to a lower intensity so she doesn't necessarily kill everyone she shoots; just incapacitates them, taking out a kneecap or an elbow, trying her best to avoid Remans but sometimes she just can't, they go for her throat and she instinctively shoots to protect herself, always scanning the crowd for either Kruvek or Vrkok. No time to go for the bromoline hypos, that would make her vulnerable, taking her concentration off the crowd - her enemies.
In her strange, detached state, she almost misses the telltale blue-white shimmering of Federation transporters at the very exit she's aiming for. There's only a shout to guide her - "Uhura!", undoubtedly Kirk - and then the feel of Spock's probing mind, reaching out to her. It shocks her out of her point-and-shoot fugue, although she's still not altogether herself, and she whips herself around, making her way straight to them. Arrhae is with them, too, and she's the only one who doesn't react when Nyota flings herself before them - Kirk's jaw literally drops at the sight of her, hard eyes in an angular face made even more drastic by the pointed eyebrows and ears, and Spock's entire body tenses at the sight of the incidental burns that lacerate her side and cheek. Nyota doesn't feel them; she's riding the battle high, and it's infinitely better and also infinitely worse than she ever thought it'd be.
"Riots started ahead of schedule," she says matter-of-factly, and wipes a trickle of red blood out of her eye. "Captain, we need help down here."
"Shit!" he says, and unholsters his phaser, cradling his communicator in his other hand. "Shit, goddamn, we do. Kirk to Enterprise!"
"Sulu here," the communicator replies. "What the hell is going on down there, Captain?"
"Set ship phasers to stun, to fire on my orders, and tell Scotty four to beam up," he snaps authoritatively. "Energize!"
"Saeihr!" The cry comes from the crowd, and Nyota whirls around to see Kruvek, one arm wrapped around Vrkok's waist, supporting him as green-grey blood clots on his skull. She reaches out a hand, and they disappear into particles as the transporters take her away.
The last thing she hears, before the toll the past two weeks have taken on her body hits her hard and suddenly, making her knees buckle and her body collapse against Spock, is Kirk, speaking into the shipwide comm system, saying "Mr. Sulu, fire all phasers."
. . .
Her eyes open blearily onto Sickbay. It's quiet, the lights dimmed; ship's night. She wants Spock, but he's not there; probably taking care of things planetside. Nyota allows herself a little moan; she hurts everywhere.
"You look better as a Rihanha than as a human," Arrhae says from her bedside. "I may be biased, though."
"Whass go'n' on?" Nyota asks, and frowns at herself. Her lips don't seem to be following the instructions from her brain. She eases herself up onto an elbow, peering at Arrhae.
"Lay back down," the other woman says sharply, making a fluttery gesture with her hands. Nyota thinks she's rather uncomfortable in the role of nursemaid. "Your Doctor McCoy will yell at me if you move."
"He does that," Nyota agrees, and follows Arrhae's advice. It seems like a good idea, after all. "You didn't tell me - what's going on?" The rubbery lip issue is fading rapidly; she's somewhat coherent now. Drugs leaving her system, maybe.
"The Federation has stepped in with its usual delicacy," Arrhae says dryly. "The Enterprise stunned nearly the entire dark side of the planet, and diplomats with phasers were sufficient to tame the others. There is nothing more persuasive than politicians with access to weaponry," she adds darkly.
"Vrkok and Kruvek," Nyota says. "Are they okay?"
"Kruvek is the one who alerted my lord and I? Yes. They're being treated for minor injuries on the planet."
Nyota wants to sleep. She is warm and when she lays her head on the pillow, her ears don't feel strange anymore. Sleep. Sounds good.
"You have done honor to yourself," Arrhae is saying, "you have the mnhei'sahe of a true Rihana warrior," and that makes Nyota feel good. She's accomplished things, done something for the betterment of a people, or at least she hopes so. Too much to ask? Maybe. Doesn't matter.
She sleeps.
V.
[Encrypted dispatch]
CHRISTOPHER PIKE, Admiral, Starfleet Headquarters San Francisco
Mission Report: Dispatch 4800321856102202 SD 2260.89
Mission successfully completed by Nyota Uhura, Lieutenant. Due to her quick thinking and influence with prominent figures of Reman social system, Federation control has been established over Remus; Reman people currently petitioning for admittance. Advise immediate acceptance; these people aren't pleasant when angry. Commendations granted to Lt. Uhura for going above and beyond the call of duty, endurance and bravery, and excellence in battle. Advise promotion to Lieutenant-Commander. Romulans have been temporarily dealt with; negotiations are underway. A complete report to follow when in Federation space.
JAMES T. KIRK, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701
[End dispatch]
VI.
She doesn't really have it in her to meditate, despite the incense burning and her current position, lotus-legged on the floor. Exhaustion is not something unfamiliar to her, but she's never felt it this completely, enveloping what feels like every cell of her body, and every emotion possible, too. She feels wrung dry and weak-muscled. Of course, that's typical when being released from Sickbay.
She wonders how Vrkok and Kruvek are doing.
She wishes Spock would come see her.
As if she'd said it straight to his face, the door swishes open and he is there, framed by the bright lights of the corridor.
"May I enter?" he asks formally.
"Yes," she says. "Of course."
He steps in, and the door shuts, leaving them both doused in the half-light of their shared quarters. Spock hesitates a moment, then drops to his knees before her, bringing himself to her eye level. She meets his gaze, and tries to smile at him. It isn't a very successful attempt.
"Nyota," he says. That's all he can really get out, and it's enough; he opens his arms and lets her fall into them. He's solid, familiar, the spiced scent of his soap warm and comforting, and she nuzzles against his neck, pressing her cheek against his rapid pulse. He's so hot, his body temperature many degrees above hers. She'll never take warmth for granted again.
His hand brushes her face lightly as he strokes back her hair, and she senses a gleam of his emotions, felt as always during these incidental touches as if they're seen from under a pane of glass. Relief so visceral it deadens the remnants of the panic and anger he'd felt before, seeing her cut up and bloodied in the riots. She folds her hand around his, rests her head on his shoulder, and exhales slowly. They sit like this, in mutual comfort, for a long while.
"Thanks for rescuing me," she says eventually.
"I believe that given time, you would have rescued yourself," he says. "Nevertheless, you are welcome."
"Yes, I could have," she agrees, tone thoughtful. She's more aware, now, of her limits and abilities than she was before; she's done things that she hadn't thought she could do without flinching. She killed people two days ago, maybe as many as a dozen. And looking back at herself, that cool detached mind she can barely accept as hers, she knows she could kill a dozen more, if it meant she would save herself. Maybe she should feel bad about that, but she doesn't, except for a pulsing grief deep in her throat for the families of the deceased. And that's good, it means she still has compassion, as well as the tenacity of a survivor. "I really could have."
She pulls away from his arms, and Spock lets her, observing her carefully.
"I need to shower," she thinks out loud, and rises, giving Spock a wan smile. "Join me?"
"Of course, Nyota," he replies, and she thinks for a moment about how often they say those two words to each other. Of course, Nyota; of course, Spock. And they know that those words will be the answer to their questions; they've been together too long to not understand each other's little tells and twitches that make up their body language. But of course (again, those words!), there's no harm in being polite and asking. It's a very Vulcan thing to do.
Spock paces behind her on the way to the shower, a movement she recognizes from his gait when they're on away missions, aware and controlled, like he's waiting for something to pounce. He must think her so fragile, with her human bones and human blood.
"You know," she tells him, as he programs the pad on the door with his clearance code, activating the shower, "I'm not going to have a breakdown or anything. I'm fine. I'm just - " she pauses, searching for the right word, " - tired."
"I know," Spock says. "The water is running, if you would like to enter."
That's sweet of him; he doesn't like bathing in water, and avoids joining her whenever she chooses to do so. He follows her under the shower spray, and she's glad of it, turning to face him as soon as it's steamed up a bit, sliding her hands up his shoulders to cup the base of his skull.
"Nyota?" he questions, slightly confused. "I was unsure if physical advances would be welcomed at this time - "
She kisses him, which she thinks is answer enough. He's restrained, for a moment, as he always is, then deepens the kiss, one hand placed on the small of her back to tug her hips closer to his, the other cupping her jawline, smoothing along her collarbone, stroking her skin with an almost worshipful delicacy, and it's so good, his touch, to have him there before her, real and hot with rivulets of water dripping out of his hair and into his eyes. When his hand steals from its position on her back to brush his knuckles against the dark curls at the juncture of her thighs, she lets out a breath that almost whistles into a moan, and leans back against the metal tiles of the wall, arching her hips towards him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he supports her, bracing himself against the wall; she buries her face in the curve of his shoulder, gasping in pleasure, and moves with him under the hot spray.
. . .
Now, she's wrapped in a fluffy blue towel, an indulgence Spock likes to refer to as impractical when the sonic shower can get her dryer faster, but she likes it nonetheless. There are three PADDs spread over the desk where she's sitting: one with her bare-bones notes on the Reman language, one blank and ready to contain the first draft of her linguistic analysis, and one a personal message from a Saeihr i-Fhuokha t'Jeiai to two Reman expatriates currently living on Earth. She taps "send" with a stylus, and watches the message disappear from her screen. It'll take a day and a half to reach Earth from their current location; by the time Kruvek or Vrkok writes back, the distance will be much longer. Such are the perils of living on a starship.
Spock is meditating, hair still slicked back from their shower. He's loose-limbed and calm, a state she rarely sees him in. Nyota watches him for a moment, a half-smile on her lips, then turns back to her notes. Time to study him later; right now, Lieutenant Uhura has work to do.
. . .
Translations:
Aerreh: Worth.
Shaoi-kon: Formal greeting to an equal.
Saihr: Star.
Fhuokha: Messenger.
Arrain: Centurion, the Romulan equivalent of Lieutenant.