[fic] [star trek] [gen] Graduate Vulcan for Fun and Profit [1/2]
Title: Graduate Vulcan for Fun and Profit
Author: Meg / lazulisong
Beta(s): Sami, Jen, tamamiya ymfaery flamebyrd and the usual poor unsuspecting bastards on AIM.
Artist: chosenfire28
Fanmixer: brillingspoons
Series: STXI
Character/Pairing(s): Jim, Bones, Spock, Uhura, Vulcan OC Dude
Rating: PG 13 because of Jim's potty mouth
Word Count: 15600ish
Warnings: (if applicable) Vulcan OC Dude (I don't think he's too obnoxious, though), Jim's Awesome Childhood
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.
Author's Note(s): See after notes, too many spoilers. This is actually partly a story about my home city (shut up), and all the locations mentioned are real.
Summary: It really does take a village to raise a Jim.
Link to Fic: http://lazulisong.livejournal.com/1071739.html
Link to Art: The awesome poster of awesome
Link to Mix: Twirl Like a Little Girl
Podfic!: http://templemarker.livejournal.com/17920.html
one
"Mr Kirk," says the poor bastard assigned to teach Basic Principles of Vulcan. Jim wonders what he did. Teaching human cadets to say "My name is Bob" in Vulcan has to be the worst thing that one Vulcan could think of to do to another. "A word with you in my office."
Jim grimaces but stands up. "Yes, Commander Sakel," he says.
In his office, Sakel moves unhurriedly to the synthesizer and makes two cups of Vulcan tea, the type that tastes like limestone-infused grass and cinnamon. Jim sits uncomfortably on the chair in front of the desk and allows Sakel to put the tea in front of him. Sakel sits down behind the desk and takes a long sip of the tea. Jim reluctantly takes a sip of his as well, and discovers that Sakel has kindly added sugar to his cup. It's still beyond foul, but at least it's sweet and foul, and so just that more bearable. Sakel sets down his cup, steeples his hands together and pins Jim with a look like a laser. "It is logical to leave off your pin if you fear being recognized as a member of the Kelvin's crew," he says. "Failing to ascertain the teacher of Basic Principles of Vulcan strikes me as less illogical than foolish. I will allow that to be due to the lateness of your entry to the Academy and the dearth of teachers of Vulcan." He's speaking in formal Vulcan, like he always does to Jim. "Please elucidate your logic in registering for a class intended for speakers of Terran Standard with no experience in xenolinguistics or Vulcan grammar."
Jim slumps down in his chair a little and flips open his collar to display the tiny pin, dull mourning black, that matches Sakel's and marks them as members of one of the smallest groups in Starfleet -- crew and passengers from the last voyage of the Kelvin. "There was nothing else," tries Jim. Sakel gives him a really scary eyebrow. Jim says, in formal Vulcan, "It is illogical to take a course that I would have no interest in." Sakel keeps waiting, and Jim admits, "It would also be illogical to spend the time to explain how I knew Vulcan, and the other core languages were full, sir."
"I will allow part of your logic to stand," says Sakel. "However, I believe that you are not speaking the entire truth."
"Negative, sir," says Jim, cursing Vulcans heartily. He drops into Standard again. "Frankly speaking, sir, if Starfleet knew I could speak Vulcan --"
"And Klingon, and Tellarite, and Andorian," murmurs Sakel gently. Bastard. Klingon totally doesn't count, because all Jim can do is start a bar fight in it. Not that starting a bar fight in Klingon is very difficult. It's like basic Standard. Excuse me, where is the rest room? Excuse me, your father sucks dick on discount bulk rates. Nearly the same thing.
"If they knew," finishes Jim loudly, "I'd be put in Communications and I'm going to be in Command."
Sakel takes another sip of his tea, and thinks. "Your logic stands," he says finally. "Although it should be acknowledged that being in Communications will not logically preclude you from being a captain. Very well, Cadet, I will, as they say, 'strike a deal'."
Jim tries not to tense up, but deep in his monkey hind brain he knows that he's not going to like this 'deal' and that the alternative is going to be deeply unpleasant.
"I will allow you to stay in Basic Principles of Vulcan, and I will even teach you to simulate a Terran accent --" this was a huge favor, Jim knows, because Sakel hates Terran accents with as much venom as any vegan pacifist could hate anything, "-- and in return, you will agree to do all the work assigned, as assigned."
"And if I don't?" says Jim, deeply wary.
"Then I will go to the department head and tell them, I believe the term is, 'a touching story' about the bond among us all, the last of the Kelvin crew, and your language sets." Sakel doesn't even have the grace to look smug about cornering Jim like this.
Jim groans. It's bad enough getting hopeful little memos from Pike and professors who have seen his test scores about potential and honors tracks and testing out of the better part of two years of classes. If they find out he's any good at languages, he'll be flung into communications or diplomacy whether he likes it or not. And he's not going to put it past Sakel to unleash the rest of Jim's terrifying aunties and uncles from the Kelvin on him. "Your logic humbles me, uncle," he says reluctantly. "I accept your terms."
Sakel actually looks faintly pleased for a second, which makes Jim kind of want to go hide under a bed.
two
It was delta shift, Sakel remembered later, and a very quiet one. The Oregon was making a slow trip from Delta Vega back to Earth, not exactly looking for trouble, but there if there should be any. Everything had been so quiet that Sakel was working on his Vulcan grammar. He considered the merits of writing to Amanda Grayson and asking her opinion on some translations, but regretfully decided that it would not be logical, in the current stage of his researches, to solicit her opinion.
He only looked up from his work when the computer flashed a notice that the captain had a message for the crew. "Attention all hands," said the computer in Captain Ayres' voice. "We are being directed off course to meet up with the USS Potemkin. We will be receiving survivors from an emergency on Tarsus IV. The hospital ship Columba will also rendezvous with us at approximately 2100 ship's time. Ayres out." There was a silence for a minute and then lists of duties began to scroll across the screen, along with a general debriefing of the situation at hand, and a list of who they expected to receive on board. Sakel scanned through it quickly, but without much interest, until a name flashed out at him.
Kirk, James T, Terran, male, age 12.
It was illogical to hurry down to where they would beam aboard the refugees. They would not arrive for hours yet, and Sakel had no real relationship to the boy. "Computer, subspace communication, immediate delivery to Lt Winona Kirk. Start. Greetings, Lieutenant. This is Sakel of Vulcan, who served with you and your husband on the Kelvin. I am aboard the ship that your son is being transferred to. Do you wish for me to take responsibility of him until you arrive? End. Send. Alert when reply received."
"Acknowledged," said the computer.
Sakel went to his work station.
The reply, when it came, was short but grateful. Lt Kirk apologized deeply for the trouble he offered to put himself to but had no choice, as she was on the opposite side of the galaxy, other than accept his offer thankfully. Notice of this was being sent to applicable authorities by subspace radio and would be copied to James' information file, Sakel's data account and Captain Ayres.
When the child arrived, Sakel was deeply affected by the thinness of his frame -- the child was at least fifteen kilograms below his ideal weight, and even his hair hung, limp and coarse, over his too-thin face. It was clear that he had not had access to anything near enough nutrition for months, and he was among the healthiest of the survivors. The ones who were still in critical condition were being transfered to the Columba so Potemkin could return to the planet to start the grim, necessary job of shifting through evidence and decently burying or burning what they could. From what Sakel overheard, some of the rescuers thought that a planet-killer bomb would scarely suffice to cleanse the planet of the horrors there. One of the engineers spoke of wandering spirits.
Sakel had no opinion on the matter, having not seen it himself, but the Vulcan members of the Potemkin's crew were fighting hard to keep their control over their logic.
He was more concerned with the child. The child - Jim - was nearly unresponsive at first, although he consented to eat if food was placed in front of him and slept if escorted to a bed and ordered to do so. In all other things he was a feral wild thing, who would not speak to any but the other survivors. Even so, there was something tenacious and bright-spirited about him. It was like he was determined to live out of sheer desire to prove that he could not be broken.
three
The next day in class Sakel says, "The information in your PADDs requires updating. Please ready for data transfer." He repeats himself in Vulcan.
Jim watches in numb horror as the menu of his PADD suddenly sprouts a second syllabus in Vulcan, and, at guess, thirty texts named things like ORIGINAL SOURCES OF VULCAN CULTURE and THE INTERPLANETARY SOCIETY OF LITERATURE: THE YEAR IN REVIEW and PATHS OF KNOWLEDGE: TERRAN AND VULCAN LOGIC and, naturally, THE DIALECTS OF SURAK, IN THE ORIGINAL FORM. There's also a note, verging on smug, from Sakel, saying that if he's lost any of the material that he's sent him over the years, Sakel can resend to Jim's data account.
He taps open both syllabi and discovers that he is supposed to write "My name is __________. My hobbies are ________, _______, and ________. I joined Starfleet because ___________.When I graduate I hope to be posted at _______________. (EXTRA) My reason for learning Vulcan is _____________." in Simplified Vulcan, and (from the other syllabus) ten pages about the difference between Simplified and Standard Vulcan, and what it means in terms of Vulcan culture, interplanetary politics and relations, and why (Jim mentally translates) Simplified Vulcan is a bunch of horse shit that most Communications people desperately want to light on fire and dance widdershins around, not that Jim blames them. In formal, academic Vulcan.
"He's really dumping it on us," says a tiny girl with antenna next to him. Her voice is slightly hysterical, like she's just jumped in the water and it was about fifty feet deeper than she expected. "The textbook doesn't even start Vulcan letters until three chapters in!"
"Standard transliteration is acceptable," says Sakel, looming up behind them. "If you are unsure of your ability to write in Vulcan characters." A meaningful pause. "For this assignment."
Jim wonders if it's possible to kill a Vulcan with the sheer power of hate in your heart.
four
The child's physical condition improved, but as it did, his mental condition worsened. Sakel was not surprised. The body prioritized itself over mere psychic health - no good a healthy mind starving itself in a sick body. Jim began to withdraw more and more. Sakel was content to watch and wait for a few days, but then he witnessed Jim throwing his food across the room, and running out.
The nurse stood helplessly. "I just - we were just talking about his supplement," she said.
"I will attend to him," he said, bowing slightly in apology as he left the room. He stopped by a synthesizer long enough to request a meal bar and something resembling a chocolate bar, and then requested Jim's location from the ship's computer.
As he entered the observation deck, he saw Jim huddled up against the side of the transparent screen that displayed the stars. The lights were low. The Oregon was at warp and the stars shone eerie blue and red as they sped by.
"Jim," said Sakel.
The small figure curled more closely into itself. Sakel was struck by the way that Jim was pressed up against the transparent viewing window, as if he was trying to get closer to the stars. It was a moment's fancy, but the impression stayed with him. How strange that this child should turn to the stars for comfort.
"I am sorry to intrude on you," said Sakel, in a calm quiet voice, "but I have brought you food, and I would be obliged if you would eat it." He waited for a second. "It is illogical to refuse to follow the doctor's program."
Jim uncurled the slightest bit. "I don't like the supplement," he said.
"It does not look appetizing," agreed Sakel. "But you have been eating it for a week without complaint. May I inquire what has brought you to this change of behavior?"
Jim was quiet for a minute. "The nurses and the others - they're always talking to me like I don't understand the treatment or what happened," he said.
"That is discourteous of them," said Sakel, wondering again at the illogical behavior of humans. Obviously the child was intelligent and tough, else he would not have survived.
"They treat me like a little kid," said Jim. His voice broke resentfully, and he scrubbed his forearm against his eyes.
Sakel gave this the consideration that it deserved. Of course Jim felt emotionally about it, but it was truth to him, and Sakel was too old to not acknowledge it. "There is truth in your statement," he said. "Your age, combined with the emotional impact of these events, are very apt to make the humans of the crew treat you as a child in need of protection."
Jim drew his breath as if to speak, but Sakel held his hand up to stop him. "There is nothing wrong, in logic, with their actions."
Jim's eyes flashed with anger.
"They are not fully taking into account the fact that you are not entirely a child any more," said Sakel, before Jim could speak. "What you have been through -- the responsibilities you took on yourself -- have made you more than a child."
Jim watched him carefully.
"I propose to treat you as a rational being capable of rational thought," said Sakel plainly. "I do not propose to 'baby' you, or treat you as a mature adult. I also do not propose to treat you 'kindly', although I believe that you and I are capable of treating each other with kindness."
"Why?" said Jim.
"It is illogical to allow you to suffer, or to waste effort that you so clearly will reject out of hand," said Sakel. "And I owe your family life-debt, which I mean to pay to you in place of your father." He stopped for a minute, looking at the sullen cast of Jim's mouth. "We are kin of a sort, you and I," he said, more gently. "We were of the same ship, and we must help each other."
"I was born on the shuttle," said Jim. It was a logical statement. Sakel was pleased.
"Before your birth you were considered part of the crew," said Sakel. "Illogically, granted, but it pleased the crew very much to consider you so."
"A mascot," said Jim.
"A talisman," corrected Sakel. He could tell that Jim did not understand, but he knew that was also not relevant. Perhaps he would learn in time, but it was a lesson he must learn himself. "I know it is hard to continue with the treatments. If it is acceptable, perhaps we may make a trade. If you follow your treatments, I will give you lessons in whatever you wish to know." He knew that Terran adults might offer something else -- but Jim had no desire for food, pushed aside games impatiently, and was the son of George and Winona Kirk.
Jim thought carefully. Sakel was struck by a memory of seeing one or the other of Jim's parents with that focused, slight frown on their face. "Anything?"
"Within my own ability to teach and the bounds of logic," said Sakel.
Jim nodded. "I want to learn Vulcan."
Sakel lifted his eyebrow. "Explain your logic."
"Over on - over there," said Jim, carefully avoiding the name of Tarsus IV, "He - they made me learn a lot of math and stuff. Like a display. But he - they didn't think languages were any good."
"Your logic is sound," said Sakel. Something primitive and illogical in him wanted to savage Kodos for what he had done to the people entrusted to him - to this child. He forced it down. That was not logical. It would do Jim or the other survivors no good. The only thing, in logic, to be done was to help those who remained. "In return, I request that you follow the doctor's programs and talk to the counselors." He looked at Jim again. He wanted to say, If you give up he will win, do you understand that?, but it was not his place. Jim would reason that out for himself, or he would not. It was not Sakel's place to force him to that conclusion.
five
Somehow or another, word has invisibly gotten out that Jim really has returned to the all-encompassing downy wings of Starfleet, and is here to be tenderly brooded into a beautiful graduate of officer's training. (That is a terrible metaphor, even in Jim's head, but he lets it be. It really is like being surrounded by motherly hens. Or cows with a new calf in the herd.)
Word has also gotten out that Jim was not going to put up with that bullshit any more than he usually does, so Jim is instead forced to deal with Kelvin people lurking around the edges of his life, like helpful brownies or something. It turns out that Pike's assistant was a yeoman on the Last Trip, and the god damn RA of Jim's god damn dorm was the son of someone who died. Pike's yeoman offers to get him into the interesting math classes without fucking around with the pre-reqs, and the RA drops by with cookies from his dad and a note from same, inviting him to make himself at home for Sunday dinner, which Jim is kind of forced to accept.
Jim's magical beepy allergy wand has a fit when he waves it over the cookies, but the cute cadets on the quad are suitably grateful for them.
Jim spends a lot of time with Leonard McCoy, who could not give less of a shit about Jim's parents if he tried for a week. He's more interested in what Jim has or has not eaten lately, what that rash is and how Jim got it, or if Jim is going to die a horrible, tragic death by BLT. Jim seriously cannot let him get the food during cramming sessions any more; it was not his fault that he had absently eaten a peanut M&M that was stuck in with the others. McCoy had, after the initial panic, spent an enjoyable day perched beside Jim's bedside like a vulture, clutching a PADD and saying things like, "What about rye? Have y'all been tested for rye allergy?" or "How in hell can you be allergic to the anti-allergy hypos? I been practicin' for five years and studyin' for ten before that, and I never met anybody allergic to the anti-allergy hypos. Neither did my father, or his father or --"
"Shut up, McCoy," begs Jim. He hurts like hell and he's miserably itchy all over.
McCoy thinks it's something to do with radiation exposure just after he was born. Jim thinks he's spent his entire life being a pincushion for creepily fascinated allergists, and he's done with that bullshit. McCoy sighs sadly, waving goodbye to his beautiful research paper, and takes about a pint of Jim's blood to figure out what he can do with him. Jim would feel guiltier about the effort McCoy is putting in this but it's clear that McCoy is enjoying himself. And it's just as clear that McCoy enjoys nothing, not even getting drunk, so Jim can't make himself care about it.
"I'm not at all sure about the ingredient list on that candy you wanted," says McCoy, attempting to feed Jim something made of rice flour and non-fat sweetener-free coating, which Jim frankly suspects of being carob. "When was the last time you got your profile updated?"
"I'm not going to go on a BRAT diet just to make you feel better," says Jim, exasperated. He fucking hates bananas and he's actually not that down with apple sauce, plain rice or dry toast, either -- all of which he has lived on one time or another. "Give me the real candy!"
Jim honestly can't tell if McCoy is just lonely for his daughter or if being a country doctor is just that ingrained in him. He has a sort of shrine set up on the wall behind his desk, all holos and voice recordings and scribbly drawings of something with what might be a stethoscope and McCoy's side part holding hands with a smaller figure with curls and a skirt, with I lOev YoU daDDy!!! on the bottom. It had taken Jim a minute to realize that the larger figure was supposed to be McCoy. In Jim's defense, it's smiling, and the closest McCoy has ever come to a smile is the expression of deep satisfaction at Jim's pain he gets when Jim is cowering away from yet another god damn hypo.
"What about lactose?" demands McCoy.
Jim throws a pillow at him.
It's probably just as well that McCoy is such a fucking mother hen, though; the thought of him finding out about Jim's tiny, easily managed tendency to forget to eat is almost as good as the sign in Klingon on his mirror, reminding him that it's at least two thousand calories a day or back to the special peanut butter for him. Jim has no idea why he saved it all these years, but it does remind him to eat. There's a rumor going around that one of the other guys -- not that they've stayed in touch, exactly -- has to have a special synthesizer in his house so he'll eat correctly instead of binging and purging. He and Jim got off pretty light; of the ten or twelve kids in his group that made it off the planet, three died of complications, four have committed suicide and one girl is in a quiet room with a flower garden attached, and on her good days she gets to fingerpaint. She had been strongly empathic, though -- they reckoned the overflow of emotions had just sort of burned her brain out, like wiping a memory chip with a magnet. Jim tries to visit her as often as he can.
six
The lessons began right away. Sakel began, as usual, by pointing at something, telling Jim the name, and having Jim repeat it back at him, and correcting him as needed. Other parts of speech he taught Jim as they came up. By the end of the first day Jim was speaking in halting, still accented Vulcan. Sakel produced some elementary texts of logic to familiarize Jim with the written language. Vulcan, for all of the outward elaborateness of the script, was much more logical than English characters. Of the Terran languages, it was much more closely aligned to the languages like Korean, where each character stood for a logical symbol.
By the second day, Jim was addressing him nearly correctly and reading the first texts to him out loud. Sakel put up his eyebrow but said nothing. It was clear that there was something besides Jim's undoubted intelligence at work. He must get the child tested for psi-ability, if he could arrange it. Lt Kirk might object, however, and it was also possible that the trauma Jim had suffered had taught his mind a short, sharp lesson about hiding any unusual abilities. Sakel doubted that a test administered when Jim was so deeply wary would produce any conclusive results. He would mention it to Jim's mother, and leave the decision to her. Still, it would be illogical to leave Jim without any shields, especially if he was an empath-type psi-talent.
"Jim," he said on the third day, "I wish for you to answer me with truth. You may also refuse to answer, but I request that you not lie to me."
Jim looked up from his PADD, his eyes wary.
"Do you sometimes have the sensation that you can feel the thoughts and emotions of others?"
Jim's face slammed closed. Ah, thought Sakel. "Why?"
"Because if you do, I can teach you to block it out," said Sakel.
Jim hesitated. "I don't want to be weird," he said, and Sakel understood he was really saying that he feared what would happen if other people knew of it. Humans were strange about psi-ability, even now.
"Your father was sensitive to others," said Sakel, watching Jim closely. "I taught him, a little, how to stop it."
Jim's eyes dropped down to the PADD. "Sometimes," he started, and then looked up. "If people are mad or something,I get headaches. Did Dad do that too?"
"Yes," said Sakel.
There was not enough time to teach Jim all he needed to know, but Sakel put aside the feeling of impatience and concentrated on what he could teach him, and quickly. It was easiest to do it through the vehicle of the lessons in Vulcan. Paying attention to something was the first and most effective defense against the thoughts of others; a mind focused could not be disturbed. He taught Jim the first rudiments of shielding himself against others: a mental skin folding over the inner, delicate workings of Jim's mind. Sakel could not rush through any of it, no matter how much he wished to do so. Jim was too fragile, too young, to sustain a mind-meld that might have taught it more quickly and easily; it was like a glass drop, a thing held together by will but likely to shatter at the wrong touch.
It was not illogical to wish to protect a young being. It was the most logical thing in nature. Sakel simply could not understand how Kodos, how anybody, could harm a child. Could harm this child.
seven
Sakel loads work on Jim like Jim is his TA and has nothing better to do with his life than study the history of Vulcan verbs, translate bits of Surak into Standard, and then, because Sakel's a mean, mean son of a bitch, defend his translation in formal Vulcan. He varies this by making Jim memorize and recite huge chunks of Vulcan poetry, with the correct intonation and accent, and when Jim complains he doesn't actually give a shit about Bugger the son of Clusterfuck the son of Snafu, makes him write an essay about matriarchal lines in Vulcan tradition. (Girls are scary, do not piss them off or you will not reproduce. Jim could have told him that without reading descent lines of psi-talents until his eyes bled, but whatever.)
Just for shits, as far as Jim can tell, he teaches him the Standard accent that makes Vulcan ears bleed with pain, the one that makes them forgive you because you're trying so hard, and the educated one that might make a Vulcan take you mildly seriously. Then it's on to different dialects of Vulcan and why you don't talk like this in polite company and why this accent makes Vulcans think you're upper class, even if you're really, really not. As a chaser, he adds in Romulan and how it differs from Vulcan, and how S'Fuckhead basically rewrote it from the first few grunts the first proto-Vulcans made. (Which is actually kind of interesting, but Jim would rather live on plomeek soup than admit it.)
Plus Jim has to do all the Basic Principles of Vulcan classwork, and somehow or another his classmates have the idea that he's pretty reliable about glottal stops and ingressive consonants, so he's tutoring a couple of them on the side.
During this, Jim is testing out of all the basic classes, a lot of the intermediate classes and a significant minority of the advanced ones, drinking with Bones, flirting with everything with a nervous system, and, in general, having the time of his life. It seriously scares the fuck out of him if he thinks about it too hard, so he doesn't.
"Now," says Sakel, "we will discuss your thesis."
"Oh come on!" howls Jim. Or rather he says calmly, "Professor, I do not understand the logic of your statement" in Vulcan, because Jim is secretly as scared of Sakel now as he was when he was a tiny, angry child. He's pretty sure Sakel would find his fright illogical at best, but Sakel is just one of those people that make you want to sit straight up just by walking past the room.
"All work as assigned," Sakel reminds him, and Jim groans.
"What logical use is a thesis that I will not publish?" he argues.
"Cadet Kirk, your insistence on secrecy over your mastery of languages continues to baffle me, more than the normal behavior of your species," says Sakel, in his most pokery way. "Even you must admit that knowing multiple languages is a skill that benefits the captain of a starship almost as much as knowing how to fix a warp core. Perhaps more so." He considers Jim for a minute.
Jim can't really give him an answer. The fact is, he learned pretty early on that it was stupid, stupid, stupid to be good at everything, at the level he could be. It's a one way trip to being beaten up on the playground and talked to by ladies in friendly printed coveralls and your mother getting the tight pinched look on her face again. And even now that he can deal with the bullies and tell the psychologists to go to hell and his mother is in a place where he never has to see that look on her face, he knows in some deep part of him that you should never reveal how smart you are. It's better to be underestimated.
"I just don't," he says.
Sakel looks at him for a long minute and Jim knows he's thinking about when Jim hadn't hid his intelligence, before he knew what being better and brighter could mean.
"There has been one other human that has attained this level of mastery of the Vulcan language, and she is an ambassador's wife." Sakel stares at him pointedly.
Jim kind of just has to gape at him for a second. "Are you saying I should let everybody know I know Vulcan so I can marry up?"
"That is illogical," says Sakel primly. "I merely mean to point out that it is a rare accomplishment, and one you should take satisfaction in."
"Oh my God, you have some sort of Vulcan crush on this woman!" howls Jim, even more horrified than he was a second ago.
"Amanda Grayson is young enough to be my granddaughter," says Sakel, which is totally not a denial.
"How old are you, anyway?" says Jim. Sakel's kind of gray around the edges, but as far as Jim knows, that defines every Vulcan from the age of about eighty until 'older than God'.
"Old enough to make my own choices," says Sakel.
eight
By long tradition, the Oregon had her home 'berth' and registry in Portland, Oregon Province of the United Continent of the Americas, and by a tradition nearly as long, her crew declined, with sincere thanks, to disembark any place but at Portland. If she happened to not be in sync with Portland, they would reluctantly shuttle down and beam to Portland from the ground, but they did not consider themselves 'home' until they stepped out of the transporter at Portland Galactic. The Fleet sometimes complained about this, but not very loudly, since some of the upper brass was nearly as picky about landing only at San Francisco Fleet.
Oregon's crew felt that she liked best to set her crew down at her home port. Most of them came from the area approximating the old borders of Oregon State, and those that did not had adopted it as their home, with all the wrangling over football (Sakel liked to sit in the room while a thing called 'the Civil War' was broadcast over holo, and watch otherwise perfectly rational beings revert suddenly to their warlike heritage, all the while politely passing each other the 'beer and chips'), polite sneering over the alleged merits of San Francisco, and real good will and reserve that it entailed. An Oregonian, in his experience, was more willing to grant a favor than suffer one to be given to them. They were really almost Vulcan.
Jim stood next to Sakel in the transporter room, staring as the first group of passengers were sent down to Portland Galactic. His eyes were wide and curious, with no trace of the fear some children had of beaming. His skin was clearer now and he had begun to gain healthy flesh again. It would be a long time before he regained his health completely, but Sakel thought there was reason to believe that the long term physical effects of his experience would be minimal.
It was the month that Terrans called 'June', and the weather board announced that it was clear with a 70% chance of rain in the next twenty-four hours -- no, it told a lie, it was raining now. Welcome to Portland, and please enjoy our Rose Festival. Sakel smiled slightly. He was pleased at the prospect of rain. It was such a novelty to him, even as old as he was. Actual water falling from the actual sky -- how fascinating and illogical! Even more wonderful to him was the way his friends would complain loudly and cheerfully about it, all the while scorning, as unworthy of them, such things as umbrellas and raincoats. At most they wore hooded over-shirts or light jackets with hoods -- and those that did allow themselves the use of umbrellas or galoshes only did so if they were somehow decorative. Sakel himself was dressed warmly. Perversely he enjoyed the bracing temperatures of Portland, but not enough to make himself ill.
"What's the Rose Festival?" said Jim suddenly. He was very quiet, for a Terran child. Sakel hoped that the psychologists could help him. He remembered Jim's energy from before this.
"Portland prides itself on the amount and variety of roses within the city," explained Sakel. "They hold a festival every year to celebrate them." He looked down at Jim. "There is a sort of fair, as well," he said. "With many rides and special foods, as well as a parade. I had planned to attend the main parade."
"Aren't parades illogical?" said Jim, with a flash of wit.
"They are, however, very interesting," said Sakel, placidly. "Come, we must find our lodgings."
They took the light-rail train from the port to the city center. Sakel never traveled illogically burdened with luggage and Jim had nothing but the clothes he wore and one change of clothing, and a data PADD that one of the crew members had given him. It was simple enough to allow the scanners to examine Sakel's single bag and Jim's backpack. When they reached the center of the city, Sakel led Jim to Pioneer Courthouse Square, to see if the flower display had been set up. (Illogic upon illogic, a display of flowers just for a week!) Sakel looked upon the square, and saw that the square was full of flowers. Despite the misting rain, there were people sitting on the steps and eating street vendor food. There should be a vegan seller to the south -- ah, yes, across the square: VEGAN BELIEVIN' TRY OUR TOFU BURRITOS. Sakel had indeed tried them, and they were adequate for anybody's nutritional requirements.
Sakel stopped and ritually took a drink from the 'Benson Bubblers' at the corner of the street (surely not the original fountains, but so beloved an symbol that they remained, offering their water freely to all that thirsted). He meant to take Jim to Starfleet PDX in the morning, but in the meantime he was free to attempt to distract him. They were staying in the Starfleet barracks downtown, by the old city hall, so Sakel led them to the barracks on foot, and deposited their belongings in their tiny berth. Sakel tapped a request into the terminal, and the answer came back: Jim's parent was not expected to be able to meet him for two days, as she was in transit back to Terra. In lieu of other guardianship Jim was to stay with Sakel.
"Now," said Sakel, and smiled slightly, "let us expand our knowledge."
nine
Jim's always been as curious as a litter of barn kittens, so the next time he has a spare second between his classes and writing the outline of the thesis that he refuses to admit he's writing ("as an intellectual exercise merely, Cadet", his ass), he goes and looks up Amanda Grayson.
She's in her late forties, a beautiful woman still. She lives with her husband, the ambassador to Earth, on Vulcan. She has multiple PhDs -- one in education, one in computer programming, and a third in xenolinguistics -- and did major work on the Universal Translator. Also, somewhat bizarrely, she's a contributing consultant and sometimes guest star on Starship Sesame Street. Jim squints at the picture. Yes, that is Miss Amanda, who appeared to talk about how we all need talk to each other, no matter how we do it, on Starship Sesame Street when he was growing up. Jim may or may not have wished that Miss Amanda was his mommy, or at least his auntie, or possibly to marry her, when he was five. God.
Her husband is a handsome, rather stern looking man, who also has multiple PhDs. Apparently he spent close to fifty years on Earth, but if it's softened any of his Vulcan edges Jim can't tell by looking at the holo.
They have one son (just two PhDs, but he's only a couple of years older than Jim), who is referenced in an interplanetary journal of genetics, because some guys at the Vulcan Science Academy spent close to five years rewriting the Vulcan and human genetic codes into something that would make a hybrid able to be carried to term in a human womb and survive to adulthood. Jim's actually kind of impressed. He flips through the data quickly - it's not too interesting to him except for the part where they explain how they managed to get a copper-based blood system to behave itself with an iron-based one.
There's a recent family holo, where Ms Grayson's softer human features and the smile lurking in the corner of her mouth and her eyes are in stark contrast with her husband and son's expressions - or well, okay, complete lack thereof.
The son is in Starfleet, a commander who was last in space as XO to Pike.Which means, despite his preternaturally bland expression, he must be something of a badass, because Pike does not have a reputation of keeping his ship to the quiet areas of the galaxy. Right now he's teaching at SFA while they wait for the new ship to be completed. Jim studies his face thoughtfully and decides if the opportunity came up, he would add him to what Bones acidly refers to as "Jim's life list". He probably isn't that into humans, though - raised on Vulcan and with all signs of Vulcan control.
next
Author: Meg / lazulisong
Beta(s): Sami, Jen, tamamiya ymfaery flamebyrd and the usual poor unsuspecting bastards on AIM.
Artist: chosenfire28
Fanmixer: brillingspoons
Series: STXI
Character/Pairing(s): Jim, Bones, Spock, Uhura, Vulcan OC Dude
Rating: PG 13 because of Jim's potty mouth
Word Count: 15600ish
Warnings: (if applicable) Vulcan OC Dude (I don't think he's too obnoxious, though), Jim's Awesome Childhood
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.
Author's Note(s): See after notes, too many spoilers. This is actually partly a story about my home city (shut up), and all the locations mentioned are real.
Summary: It really does take a village to raise a Jim.
Link to Fic: http://lazulisong.livejournal.com/1071739.html
Link to Art: The awesome poster of awesome
Link to Mix: Twirl Like a Little Girl
Podfic!: http://templemarker.livejournal.com/17920.html
one
"Mr Kirk," says the poor bastard assigned to teach Basic Principles of Vulcan. Jim wonders what he did. Teaching human cadets to say "My name is Bob" in Vulcan has to be the worst thing that one Vulcan could think of to do to another. "A word with you in my office."
Jim grimaces but stands up. "Yes, Commander Sakel," he says.
In his office, Sakel moves unhurriedly to the synthesizer and makes two cups of Vulcan tea, the type that tastes like limestone-infused grass and cinnamon. Jim sits uncomfortably on the chair in front of the desk and allows Sakel to put the tea in front of him. Sakel sits down behind the desk and takes a long sip of the tea. Jim reluctantly takes a sip of his as well, and discovers that Sakel has kindly added sugar to his cup. It's still beyond foul, but at least it's sweet and foul, and so just that more bearable. Sakel sets down his cup, steeples his hands together and pins Jim with a look like a laser. "It is logical to leave off your pin if you fear being recognized as a member of the Kelvin's crew," he says. "Failing to ascertain the teacher of Basic Principles of Vulcan strikes me as less illogical than foolish. I will allow that to be due to the lateness of your entry to the Academy and the dearth of teachers of Vulcan." He's speaking in formal Vulcan, like he always does to Jim. "Please elucidate your logic in registering for a class intended for speakers of Terran Standard with no experience in xenolinguistics or Vulcan grammar."
Jim slumps down in his chair a little and flips open his collar to display the tiny pin, dull mourning black, that matches Sakel's and marks them as members of one of the smallest groups in Starfleet -- crew and passengers from the last voyage of the Kelvin. "There was nothing else," tries Jim. Sakel gives him a really scary eyebrow. Jim says, in formal Vulcan, "It is illogical to take a course that I would have no interest in." Sakel keeps waiting, and Jim admits, "It would also be illogical to spend the time to explain how I knew Vulcan, and the other core languages were full, sir."
"I will allow part of your logic to stand," says Sakel. "However, I believe that you are not speaking the entire truth."
"Negative, sir," says Jim, cursing Vulcans heartily. He drops into Standard again. "Frankly speaking, sir, if Starfleet knew I could speak Vulcan --"
"And Klingon, and Tellarite, and Andorian," murmurs Sakel gently. Bastard. Klingon totally doesn't count, because all Jim can do is start a bar fight in it. Not that starting a bar fight in Klingon is very difficult. It's like basic Standard. Excuse me, where is the rest room? Excuse me, your father sucks dick on discount bulk rates. Nearly the same thing.
"If they knew," finishes Jim loudly, "I'd be put in Communications and I'm going to be in Command."
Sakel takes another sip of his tea, and thinks. "Your logic stands," he says finally. "Although it should be acknowledged that being in Communications will not logically preclude you from being a captain. Very well, Cadet, I will, as they say, 'strike a deal'."
Jim tries not to tense up, but deep in his monkey hind brain he knows that he's not going to like this 'deal' and that the alternative is going to be deeply unpleasant.
"I will allow you to stay in Basic Principles of Vulcan, and I will even teach you to simulate a Terran accent --" this was a huge favor, Jim knows, because Sakel hates Terran accents with as much venom as any vegan pacifist could hate anything, "-- and in return, you will agree to do all the work assigned, as assigned."
"And if I don't?" says Jim, deeply wary.
"Then I will go to the department head and tell them, I believe the term is, 'a touching story' about the bond among us all, the last of the Kelvin crew, and your language sets." Sakel doesn't even have the grace to look smug about cornering Jim like this.
Jim groans. It's bad enough getting hopeful little memos from Pike and professors who have seen his test scores about potential and honors tracks and testing out of the better part of two years of classes. If they find out he's any good at languages, he'll be flung into communications or diplomacy whether he likes it or not. And he's not going to put it past Sakel to unleash the rest of Jim's terrifying aunties and uncles from the Kelvin on him. "Your logic humbles me, uncle," he says reluctantly. "I accept your terms."
Sakel actually looks faintly pleased for a second, which makes Jim kind of want to go hide under a bed.
two
It was delta shift, Sakel remembered later, and a very quiet one. The Oregon was making a slow trip from Delta Vega back to Earth, not exactly looking for trouble, but there if there should be any. Everything had been so quiet that Sakel was working on his Vulcan grammar. He considered the merits of writing to Amanda Grayson and asking her opinion on some translations, but regretfully decided that it would not be logical, in the current stage of his researches, to solicit her opinion.
He only looked up from his work when the computer flashed a notice that the captain had a message for the crew. "Attention all hands," said the computer in Captain Ayres' voice. "We are being directed off course to meet up with the USS Potemkin. We will be receiving survivors from an emergency on Tarsus IV. The hospital ship Columba will also rendezvous with us at approximately 2100 ship's time. Ayres out." There was a silence for a minute and then lists of duties began to scroll across the screen, along with a general debriefing of the situation at hand, and a list of who they expected to receive on board. Sakel scanned through it quickly, but without much interest, until a name flashed out at him.
Kirk, James T, Terran, male, age 12.
It was illogical to hurry down to where they would beam aboard the refugees. They would not arrive for hours yet, and Sakel had no real relationship to the boy. "Computer, subspace communication, immediate delivery to Lt Winona Kirk. Start. Greetings, Lieutenant. This is Sakel of Vulcan, who served with you and your husband on the Kelvin. I am aboard the ship that your son is being transferred to. Do you wish for me to take responsibility of him until you arrive? End. Send. Alert when reply received."
"Acknowledged," said the computer.
Sakel went to his work station.
The reply, when it came, was short but grateful. Lt Kirk apologized deeply for the trouble he offered to put himself to but had no choice, as she was on the opposite side of the galaxy, other than accept his offer thankfully. Notice of this was being sent to applicable authorities by subspace radio and would be copied to James' information file, Sakel's data account and Captain Ayres.
When the child arrived, Sakel was deeply affected by the thinness of his frame -- the child was at least fifteen kilograms below his ideal weight, and even his hair hung, limp and coarse, over his too-thin face. It was clear that he had not had access to anything near enough nutrition for months, and he was among the healthiest of the survivors. The ones who were still in critical condition were being transfered to the Columba so Potemkin could return to the planet to start the grim, necessary job of shifting through evidence and decently burying or burning what they could. From what Sakel overheard, some of the rescuers thought that a planet-killer bomb would scarely suffice to cleanse the planet of the horrors there. One of the engineers spoke of wandering spirits.
Sakel had no opinion on the matter, having not seen it himself, but the Vulcan members of the Potemkin's crew were fighting hard to keep their control over their logic.
He was more concerned with the child. The child - Jim - was nearly unresponsive at first, although he consented to eat if food was placed in front of him and slept if escorted to a bed and ordered to do so. In all other things he was a feral wild thing, who would not speak to any but the other survivors. Even so, there was something tenacious and bright-spirited about him. It was like he was determined to live out of sheer desire to prove that he could not be broken.
three
The next day in class Sakel says, "The information in your PADDs requires updating. Please ready for data transfer." He repeats himself in Vulcan.
Jim watches in numb horror as the menu of his PADD suddenly sprouts a second syllabus in Vulcan, and, at guess, thirty texts named things like ORIGINAL SOURCES OF VULCAN CULTURE and THE INTERPLANETARY SOCIETY OF LITERATURE: THE YEAR IN REVIEW and PATHS OF KNOWLEDGE: TERRAN AND VULCAN LOGIC and, naturally, THE DIALECTS OF SURAK, IN THE ORIGINAL FORM. There's also a note, verging on smug, from Sakel, saying that if he's lost any of the material that he's sent him over the years, Sakel can resend to Jim's data account.
He taps open both syllabi and discovers that he is supposed to write "My name is __________. My hobbies are ________, _______, and ________. I joined Starfleet because ___________.When I graduate I hope to be posted at _______________. (EXTRA) My reason for learning Vulcan is _____________." in Simplified Vulcan, and (from the other syllabus) ten pages about the difference between Simplified and Standard Vulcan, and what it means in terms of Vulcan culture, interplanetary politics and relations, and why (Jim mentally translates) Simplified Vulcan is a bunch of horse shit that most Communications people desperately want to light on fire and dance widdershins around, not that Jim blames them. In formal, academic Vulcan.
"He's really dumping it on us," says a tiny girl with antenna next to him. Her voice is slightly hysterical, like she's just jumped in the water and it was about fifty feet deeper than she expected. "The textbook doesn't even start Vulcan letters until three chapters in!"
"Standard transliteration is acceptable," says Sakel, looming up behind them. "If you are unsure of your ability to write in Vulcan characters." A meaningful pause. "For this assignment."
Jim wonders if it's possible to kill a Vulcan with the sheer power of hate in your heart.
four
The child's physical condition improved, but as it did, his mental condition worsened. Sakel was not surprised. The body prioritized itself over mere psychic health - no good a healthy mind starving itself in a sick body. Jim began to withdraw more and more. Sakel was content to watch and wait for a few days, but then he witnessed Jim throwing his food across the room, and running out.
The nurse stood helplessly. "I just - we were just talking about his supplement," she said.
"I will attend to him," he said, bowing slightly in apology as he left the room. He stopped by a synthesizer long enough to request a meal bar and something resembling a chocolate bar, and then requested Jim's location from the ship's computer.
As he entered the observation deck, he saw Jim huddled up against the side of the transparent screen that displayed the stars. The lights were low. The Oregon was at warp and the stars shone eerie blue and red as they sped by.
"Jim," said Sakel.
The small figure curled more closely into itself. Sakel was struck by the way that Jim was pressed up against the transparent viewing window, as if he was trying to get closer to the stars. It was a moment's fancy, but the impression stayed with him. How strange that this child should turn to the stars for comfort.
"I am sorry to intrude on you," said Sakel, in a calm quiet voice, "but I have brought you food, and I would be obliged if you would eat it." He waited for a second. "It is illogical to refuse to follow the doctor's program."
Jim uncurled the slightest bit. "I don't like the supplement," he said.
"It does not look appetizing," agreed Sakel. "But you have been eating it for a week without complaint. May I inquire what has brought you to this change of behavior?"
Jim was quiet for a minute. "The nurses and the others - they're always talking to me like I don't understand the treatment or what happened," he said.
"That is discourteous of them," said Sakel, wondering again at the illogical behavior of humans. Obviously the child was intelligent and tough, else he would not have survived.
"They treat me like a little kid," said Jim. His voice broke resentfully, and he scrubbed his forearm against his eyes.
Sakel gave this the consideration that it deserved. Of course Jim felt emotionally about it, but it was truth to him, and Sakel was too old to not acknowledge it. "There is truth in your statement," he said. "Your age, combined with the emotional impact of these events, are very apt to make the humans of the crew treat you as a child in need of protection."
Jim drew his breath as if to speak, but Sakel held his hand up to stop him. "There is nothing wrong, in logic, with their actions."
Jim's eyes flashed with anger.
"They are not fully taking into account the fact that you are not entirely a child any more," said Sakel, before Jim could speak. "What you have been through -- the responsibilities you took on yourself -- have made you more than a child."
Jim watched him carefully.
"I propose to treat you as a rational being capable of rational thought," said Sakel plainly. "I do not propose to 'baby' you, or treat you as a mature adult. I also do not propose to treat you 'kindly', although I believe that you and I are capable of treating each other with kindness."
"Why?" said Jim.
"It is illogical to allow you to suffer, or to waste effort that you so clearly will reject out of hand," said Sakel. "And I owe your family life-debt, which I mean to pay to you in place of your father." He stopped for a minute, looking at the sullen cast of Jim's mouth. "We are kin of a sort, you and I," he said, more gently. "We were of the same ship, and we must help each other."
"I was born on the shuttle," said Jim. It was a logical statement. Sakel was pleased.
"Before your birth you were considered part of the crew," said Sakel. "Illogically, granted, but it pleased the crew very much to consider you so."
"A mascot," said Jim.
"A talisman," corrected Sakel. He could tell that Jim did not understand, but he knew that was also not relevant. Perhaps he would learn in time, but it was a lesson he must learn himself. "I know it is hard to continue with the treatments. If it is acceptable, perhaps we may make a trade. If you follow your treatments, I will give you lessons in whatever you wish to know." He knew that Terran adults might offer something else -- but Jim had no desire for food, pushed aside games impatiently, and was the son of George and Winona Kirk.
Jim thought carefully. Sakel was struck by a memory of seeing one or the other of Jim's parents with that focused, slight frown on their face. "Anything?"
"Within my own ability to teach and the bounds of logic," said Sakel.
Jim nodded. "I want to learn Vulcan."
Sakel lifted his eyebrow. "Explain your logic."
"Over on - over there," said Jim, carefully avoiding the name of Tarsus IV, "He - they made me learn a lot of math and stuff. Like a display. But he - they didn't think languages were any good."
"Your logic is sound," said Sakel. Something primitive and illogical in him wanted to savage Kodos for what he had done to the people entrusted to him - to this child. He forced it down. That was not logical. It would do Jim or the other survivors no good. The only thing, in logic, to be done was to help those who remained. "In return, I request that you follow the doctor's programs and talk to the counselors." He looked at Jim again. He wanted to say, If you give up he will win, do you understand that?, but it was not his place. Jim would reason that out for himself, or he would not. It was not Sakel's place to force him to that conclusion.
five
Somehow or another, word has invisibly gotten out that Jim really has returned to the all-encompassing downy wings of Starfleet, and is here to be tenderly brooded into a beautiful graduate of officer's training. (That is a terrible metaphor, even in Jim's head, but he lets it be. It really is like being surrounded by motherly hens. Or cows with a new calf in the herd.)
Word has also gotten out that Jim was not going to put up with that bullshit any more than he usually does, so Jim is instead forced to deal with Kelvin people lurking around the edges of his life, like helpful brownies or something. It turns out that Pike's assistant was a yeoman on the Last Trip, and the god damn RA of Jim's god damn dorm was the son of someone who died. Pike's yeoman offers to get him into the interesting math classes without fucking around with the pre-reqs, and the RA drops by with cookies from his dad and a note from same, inviting him to make himself at home for Sunday dinner, which Jim is kind of forced to accept.
Jim's magical beepy allergy wand has a fit when he waves it over the cookies, but the cute cadets on the quad are suitably grateful for them.
Jim spends a lot of time with Leonard McCoy, who could not give less of a shit about Jim's parents if he tried for a week. He's more interested in what Jim has or has not eaten lately, what that rash is and how Jim got it, or if Jim is going to die a horrible, tragic death by BLT. Jim seriously cannot let him get the food during cramming sessions any more; it was not his fault that he had absently eaten a peanut M&M that was stuck in with the others. McCoy had, after the initial panic, spent an enjoyable day perched beside Jim's bedside like a vulture, clutching a PADD and saying things like, "What about rye? Have y'all been tested for rye allergy?" or "How in hell can you be allergic to the anti-allergy hypos? I been practicin' for five years and studyin' for ten before that, and I never met anybody allergic to the anti-allergy hypos. Neither did my father, or his father or --"
"Shut up, McCoy," begs Jim. He hurts like hell and he's miserably itchy all over.
McCoy thinks it's something to do with radiation exposure just after he was born. Jim thinks he's spent his entire life being a pincushion for creepily fascinated allergists, and he's done with that bullshit. McCoy sighs sadly, waving goodbye to his beautiful research paper, and takes about a pint of Jim's blood to figure out what he can do with him. Jim would feel guiltier about the effort McCoy is putting in this but it's clear that McCoy is enjoying himself. And it's just as clear that McCoy enjoys nothing, not even getting drunk, so Jim can't make himself care about it.
"I'm not at all sure about the ingredient list on that candy you wanted," says McCoy, attempting to feed Jim something made of rice flour and non-fat sweetener-free coating, which Jim frankly suspects of being carob. "When was the last time you got your profile updated?"
"I'm not going to go on a BRAT diet just to make you feel better," says Jim, exasperated. He fucking hates bananas and he's actually not that down with apple sauce, plain rice or dry toast, either -- all of which he has lived on one time or another. "Give me the real candy!"
Jim honestly can't tell if McCoy is just lonely for his daughter or if being a country doctor is just that ingrained in him. He has a sort of shrine set up on the wall behind his desk, all holos and voice recordings and scribbly drawings of something with what might be a stethoscope and McCoy's side part holding hands with a smaller figure with curls and a skirt, with I lOev YoU daDDy!!! on the bottom. It had taken Jim a minute to realize that the larger figure was supposed to be McCoy. In Jim's defense, it's smiling, and the closest McCoy has ever come to a smile is the expression of deep satisfaction at Jim's pain he gets when Jim is cowering away from yet another god damn hypo.
"What about lactose?" demands McCoy.
Jim throws a pillow at him.
It's probably just as well that McCoy is such a fucking mother hen, though; the thought of him finding out about Jim's tiny, easily managed tendency to forget to eat is almost as good as the sign in Klingon on his mirror, reminding him that it's at least two thousand calories a day or back to the special peanut butter for him. Jim has no idea why he saved it all these years, but it does remind him to eat. There's a rumor going around that one of the other guys -- not that they've stayed in touch, exactly -- has to have a special synthesizer in his house so he'll eat correctly instead of binging and purging. He and Jim got off pretty light; of the ten or twelve kids in his group that made it off the planet, three died of complications, four have committed suicide and one girl is in a quiet room with a flower garden attached, and on her good days she gets to fingerpaint. She had been strongly empathic, though -- they reckoned the overflow of emotions had just sort of burned her brain out, like wiping a memory chip with a magnet. Jim tries to visit her as often as he can.
six
The lessons began right away. Sakel began, as usual, by pointing at something, telling Jim the name, and having Jim repeat it back at him, and correcting him as needed. Other parts of speech he taught Jim as they came up. By the end of the first day Jim was speaking in halting, still accented Vulcan. Sakel produced some elementary texts of logic to familiarize Jim with the written language. Vulcan, for all of the outward elaborateness of the script, was much more logical than English characters. Of the Terran languages, it was much more closely aligned to the languages like Korean, where each character stood for a logical symbol.
By the second day, Jim was addressing him nearly correctly and reading the first texts to him out loud. Sakel put up his eyebrow but said nothing. It was clear that there was something besides Jim's undoubted intelligence at work. He must get the child tested for psi-ability, if he could arrange it. Lt Kirk might object, however, and it was also possible that the trauma Jim had suffered had taught his mind a short, sharp lesson about hiding any unusual abilities. Sakel doubted that a test administered when Jim was so deeply wary would produce any conclusive results. He would mention it to Jim's mother, and leave the decision to her. Still, it would be illogical to leave Jim without any shields, especially if he was an empath-type psi-talent.
"Jim," he said on the third day, "I wish for you to answer me with truth. You may also refuse to answer, but I request that you not lie to me."
Jim looked up from his PADD, his eyes wary.
"Do you sometimes have the sensation that you can feel the thoughts and emotions of others?"
Jim's face slammed closed. Ah, thought Sakel. "Why?"
"Because if you do, I can teach you to block it out," said Sakel.
Jim hesitated. "I don't want to be weird," he said, and Sakel understood he was really saying that he feared what would happen if other people knew of it. Humans were strange about psi-ability, even now.
"Your father was sensitive to others," said Sakel, watching Jim closely. "I taught him, a little, how to stop it."
Jim's eyes dropped down to the PADD. "Sometimes," he started, and then looked up. "If people are mad or something,I get headaches. Did Dad do that too?"
"Yes," said Sakel.
There was not enough time to teach Jim all he needed to know, but Sakel put aside the feeling of impatience and concentrated on what he could teach him, and quickly. It was easiest to do it through the vehicle of the lessons in Vulcan. Paying attention to something was the first and most effective defense against the thoughts of others; a mind focused could not be disturbed. He taught Jim the first rudiments of shielding himself against others: a mental skin folding over the inner, delicate workings of Jim's mind. Sakel could not rush through any of it, no matter how much he wished to do so. Jim was too fragile, too young, to sustain a mind-meld that might have taught it more quickly and easily; it was like a glass drop, a thing held together by will but likely to shatter at the wrong touch.
It was not illogical to wish to protect a young being. It was the most logical thing in nature. Sakel simply could not understand how Kodos, how anybody, could harm a child. Could harm this child.
seven
Sakel loads work on Jim like Jim is his TA and has nothing better to do with his life than study the history of Vulcan verbs, translate bits of Surak into Standard, and then, because Sakel's a mean, mean son of a bitch, defend his translation in formal Vulcan. He varies this by making Jim memorize and recite huge chunks of Vulcan poetry, with the correct intonation and accent, and when Jim complains he doesn't actually give a shit about Bugger the son of Clusterfuck the son of Snafu, makes him write an essay about matriarchal lines in Vulcan tradition. (Girls are scary, do not piss them off or you will not reproduce. Jim could have told him that without reading descent lines of psi-talents until his eyes bled, but whatever.)
Just for shits, as far as Jim can tell, he teaches him the Standard accent that makes Vulcan ears bleed with pain, the one that makes them forgive you because you're trying so hard, and the educated one that might make a Vulcan take you mildly seriously. Then it's on to different dialects of Vulcan and why you don't talk like this in polite company and why this accent makes Vulcans think you're upper class, even if you're really, really not. As a chaser, he adds in Romulan and how it differs from Vulcan, and how S'Fuckhead basically rewrote it from the first few grunts the first proto-Vulcans made. (Which is actually kind of interesting, but Jim would rather live on plomeek soup than admit it.)
Plus Jim has to do all the Basic Principles of Vulcan classwork, and somehow or another his classmates have the idea that he's pretty reliable about glottal stops and ingressive consonants, so he's tutoring a couple of them on the side.
During this, Jim is testing out of all the basic classes, a lot of the intermediate classes and a significant minority of the advanced ones, drinking with Bones, flirting with everything with a nervous system, and, in general, having the time of his life. It seriously scares the fuck out of him if he thinks about it too hard, so he doesn't.
"Now," says Sakel, "we will discuss your thesis."
"Oh come on!" howls Jim. Or rather he says calmly, "Professor, I do not understand the logic of your statement" in Vulcan, because Jim is secretly as scared of Sakel now as he was when he was a tiny, angry child. He's pretty sure Sakel would find his fright illogical at best, but Sakel is just one of those people that make you want to sit straight up just by walking past the room.
"All work as assigned," Sakel reminds him, and Jim groans.
"What logical use is a thesis that I will not publish?" he argues.
"Cadet Kirk, your insistence on secrecy over your mastery of languages continues to baffle me, more than the normal behavior of your species," says Sakel, in his most pokery way. "Even you must admit that knowing multiple languages is a skill that benefits the captain of a starship almost as much as knowing how to fix a warp core. Perhaps more so." He considers Jim for a minute.
Jim can't really give him an answer. The fact is, he learned pretty early on that it was stupid, stupid, stupid to be good at everything, at the level he could be. It's a one way trip to being beaten up on the playground and talked to by ladies in friendly printed coveralls and your mother getting the tight pinched look on her face again. And even now that he can deal with the bullies and tell the psychologists to go to hell and his mother is in a place where he never has to see that look on her face, he knows in some deep part of him that you should never reveal how smart you are. It's better to be underestimated.
"I just don't," he says.
Sakel looks at him for a long minute and Jim knows he's thinking about when Jim hadn't hid his intelligence, before he knew what being better and brighter could mean.
"There has been one other human that has attained this level of mastery of the Vulcan language, and she is an ambassador's wife." Sakel stares at him pointedly.
Jim kind of just has to gape at him for a second. "Are you saying I should let everybody know I know Vulcan so I can marry up?"
"That is illogical," says Sakel primly. "I merely mean to point out that it is a rare accomplishment, and one you should take satisfaction in."
"Oh my God, you have some sort of Vulcan crush on this woman!" howls Jim, even more horrified than he was a second ago.
"Amanda Grayson is young enough to be my granddaughter," says Sakel, which is totally not a denial.
"How old are you, anyway?" says Jim. Sakel's kind of gray around the edges, but as far as Jim knows, that defines every Vulcan from the age of about eighty until 'older than God'.
"Old enough to make my own choices," says Sakel.
eight
By long tradition, the Oregon had her home 'berth' and registry in Portland, Oregon Province of the United Continent of the Americas, and by a tradition nearly as long, her crew declined, with sincere thanks, to disembark any place but at Portland. If she happened to not be in sync with Portland, they would reluctantly shuttle down and beam to Portland from the ground, but they did not consider themselves 'home' until they stepped out of the transporter at Portland Galactic. The Fleet sometimes complained about this, but not very loudly, since some of the upper brass was nearly as picky about landing only at San Francisco Fleet.
Oregon's crew felt that she liked best to set her crew down at her home port. Most of them came from the area approximating the old borders of Oregon State, and those that did not had adopted it as their home, with all the wrangling over football (Sakel liked to sit in the room while a thing called 'the Civil War' was broadcast over holo, and watch otherwise perfectly rational beings revert suddenly to their warlike heritage, all the while politely passing each other the 'beer and chips'), polite sneering over the alleged merits of San Francisco, and real good will and reserve that it entailed. An Oregonian, in his experience, was more willing to grant a favor than suffer one to be given to them. They were really almost Vulcan.
Jim stood next to Sakel in the transporter room, staring as the first group of passengers were sent down to Portland Galactic. His eyes were wide and curious, with no trace of the fear some children had of beaming. His skin was clearer now and he had begun to gain healthy flesh again. It would be a long time before he regained his health completely, but Sakel thought there was reason to believe that the long term physical effects of his experience would be minimal.
It was the month that Terrans called 'June', and the weather board announced that it was clear with a 70% chance of rain in the next twenty-four hours -- no, it told a lie, it was raining now. Welcome to Portland, and please enjoy our Rose Festival. Sakel smiled slightly. He was pleased at the prospect of rain. It was such a novelty to him, even as old as he was. Actual water falling from the actual sky -- how fascinating and illogical! Even more wonderful to him was the way his friends would complain loudly and cheerfully about it, all the while scorning, as unworthy of them, such things as umbrellas and raincoats. At most they wore hooded over-shirts or light jackets with hoods -- and those that did allow themselves the use of umbrellas or galoshes only did so if they were somehow decorative. Sakel himself was dressed warmly. Perversely he enjoyed the bracing temperatures of Portland, but not enough to make himself ill.
"What's the Rose Festival?" said Jim suddenly. He was very quiet, for a Terran child. Sakel hoped that the psychologists could help him. He remembered Jim's energy from before this.
"Portland prides itself on the amount and variety of roses within the city," explained Sakel. "They hold a festival every year to celebrate them." He looked down at Jim. "There is a sort of fair, as well," he said. "With many rides and special foods, as well as a parade. I had planned to attend the main parade."
"Aren't parades illogical?" said Jim, with a flash of wit.
"They are, however, very interesting," said Sakel, placidly. "Come, we must find our lodgings."
They took the light-rail train from the port to the city center. Sakel never traveled illogically burdened with luggage and Jim had nothing but the clothes he wore and one change of clothing, and a data PADD that one of the crew members had given him. It was simple enough to allow the scanners to examine Sakel's single bag and Jim's backpack. When they reached the center of the city, Sakel led Jim to Pioneer Courthouse Square, to see if the flower display had been set up. (Illogic upon illogic, a display of flowers just for a week!) Sakel looked upon the square, and saw that the square was full of flowers. Despite the misting rain, there were people sitting on the steps and eating street vendor food. There should be a vegan seller to the south -- ah, yes, across the square: VEGAN BELIEVIN' TRY OUR TOFU BURRITOS. Sakel had indeed tried them, and they were adequate for anybody's nutritional requirements.
Sakel stopped and ritually took a drink from the 'Benson Bubblers' at the corner of the street (surely not the original fountains, but so beloved an symbol that they remained, offering their water freely to all that thirsted). He meant to take Jim to Starfleet PDX in the morning, but in the meantime he was free to attempt to distract him. They were staying in the Starfleet barracks downtown, by the old city hall, so Sakel led them to the barracks on foot, and deposited their belongings in their tiny berth. Sakel tapped a request into the terminal, and the answer came back: Jim's parent was not expected to be able to meet him for two days, as she was in transit back to Terra. In lieu of other guardianship Jim was to stay with Sakel.
"Now," said Sakel, and smiled slightly, "let us expand our knowledge."
nine
Jim's always been as curious as a litter of barn kittens, so the next time he has a spare second between his classes and writing the outline of the thesis that he refuses to admit he's writing ("as an intellectual exercise merely, Cadet", his ass), he goes and looks up Amanda Grayson.
She's in her late forties, a beautiful woman still. She lives with her husband, the ambassador to Earth, on Vulcan. She has multiple PhDs -- one in education, one in computer programming, and a third in xenolinguistics -- and did major work on the Universal Translator. Also, somewhat bizarrely, she's a contributing consultant and sometimes guest star on Starship Sesame Street. Jim squints at the picture. Yes, that is Miss Amanda, who appeared to talk about how we all need talk to each other, no matter how we do it, on Starship Sesame Street when he was growing up. Jim may or may not have wished that Miss Amanda was his mommy, or at least his auntie, or possibly to marry her, when he was five. God.
Her husband is a handsome, rather stern looking man, who also has multiple PhDs. Apparently he spent close to fifty years on Earth, but if it's softened any of his Vulcan edges Jim can't tell by looking at the holo.
They have one son (just two PhDs, but he's only a couple of years older than Jim), who is referenced in an interplanetary journal of genetics, because some guys at the Vulcan Science Academy spent close to five years rewriting the Vulcan and human genetic codes into something that would make a hybrid able to be carried to term in a human womb and survive to adulthood. Jim's actually kind of impressed. He flips through the data quickly - it's not too interesting to him except for the part where they explain how they managed to get a copper-based blood system to behave itself with an iron-based one.
There's a recent family holo, where Ms Grayson's softer human features and the smile lurking in the corner of her mouth and her eyes are in stark contrast with her husband and son's expressions - or well, okay, complete lack thereof.
The son is in Starfleet, a commander who was last in space as XO to Pike.Which means, despite his preternaturally bland expression, he must be something of a badass, because Pike does not have a reputation of keeping his ship to the quiet areas of the galaxy. Right now he's teaching at SFA while they wait for the new ship to be completed. Jim studies his face thoughtfully and decides if the opportunity came up, he would add him to what Bones acidly refers to as "Jim's life list". He probably isn't that into humans, though - raised on Vulcan and with all signs of Vulcan control.
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